Page 3 of Before You Say Goodbye

“That’s nice,” Autumn said. There was a franticness to their conversation now and Autumn suspected she and Bluebell hated conversational awkwardness with equal ferocity.

“Yeah.” Bluebell nodded. “We have a lot of fun.”

They stared at each other, passing understanding, reassurance and respect back and forth. Autumn wasn’t sure how she knew that was what they were doing — she’d never been able to do it before — but somehow she knew that they were. She felt inexplicably understood. Safe, even in their silence. Still,she would prefer it if they could carry on talking the way they had been before she’d accidentally revealed that her soul was unsettled. Luckily, her brand-new friend was on hand to distract her. To wrench her brain from a pit of torturous thoughts. To calm her fluttery guts with friendship.

“So,” Bluebell said, swirling her tea. “Tell me what you read.”

* * *

They talked about books, then bloggers, then books again. Jobs they’d done. Politics and the news. Once she was sure Bluebell had no plans to force her to talk about her choppy childhood and troubled teenage years, Autumn relaxed again. They tumbled effortlessly into new conversations, consumed with each other in that inexplicable way people sometimesjust were. They talked all through the morning, across lunchtime and all afternoon, until the early evening presented itself, cool, orange and pleasant.

There were no more awkward silences. In fact, Autumn and Bluebell found they were so desperate to chat they were constantly interrupting each other. They paused their conversation only half a dozen or so times so that Bluebell could skip enthusiastically to the counter and replenish their refreshments, insisting every time Autumn winced guiltily that it was no big deal, they’d square things up next time they were together. By the time the barista was packing up the café to close, Autumn had been pitching her positive traits for almost ten hours. Her independence, her drive, how well-read she was, plus how different she was from her family. She found that conversation surprisingly easy now.

“Ah,” Bluebell said. “I’m different, too. It makes me feel strange when people tell me that, because I’m not driven by a desire to be like or unlike anyone else — it’s just that I am. My family are all for it, though, so that helps.”

“Mine aren’t. They wish I was like them. They’d be happier if I’d stayed living in our town, met a boy, had a kid, and perhaps got a council house.”

“That’s because you make them uncomfortable. You make them realise they had a choice. Not much of a choice, mind you, because privilege is real, but it isn’t your fault you broke the mould and they should be proud of you.”

Autumn nodded. She was really glad they’d met. She’d given up an entire day of writing, something she never did for anyone, but she was so bewitched by her new friend she’d hardly noticed she’d done it. When Bluebell checked her watch, Autumn wondered if she could read minds.

“We’ve been here all day. Did I keep you from something?”

“Writing.” Autumn smiled. “Basically the only thing that matters to me.”

She expected Bluebell to take that as a joke — people usually thought writing was silly and pointless — but she didn’t.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said. “I appreciate you giving me your time. I’m having fun, though. Are you?”

Autumn nodded. Shewashaving fun. Bluebell paused to check her phone, read a text message, replied, then dropped it idly back into her bag.

“Do you want to go for dinner?” she asked. “I really want pad Thai.”

Autumn hesitated. She was tired and had been planning on an early night. At around this time yesterday, untempted by a night on the couch by herself, she’d headed out to look for a willing New Yorker to pound her against it. She’d chosen the third bar she’d passed, one she hadn’t been in before, and had spied a tall, dark-haired man sitting at the bar by himself. She’d noticed him right away. He looked unthreatening, like an elementary school teacher. Pretty eyes, nice hair, a sweet smile. She was afraid of him at first, not because she felt like he posedany physical threat to her, but because she already knew he was the type of man who heard wedding bells whenever he saw an attractive, well-presented female. Five foot six and slender, with thick dark hair cut just below her shoulders and deep green eyes, she was exactly the type of woman men like that liked. She could tell by the way he changed his posture when he saw her that he would have been looking for someone like the woman he thought she was for at least a little while.

“Thomas,” he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. He looked relieved and she knew he would have been working up the courage to introduce himself. Autumn didn’t have time for games. She already knew what she wanted from him. The worst thing he could do was decline her advances, though she already knew he wouldn’t. She introduced herself.

“Pretty name.” He nodded. “It suits you.”

She let him talk about himself for half an hour, then asked him if he’d like to come home with her. He said exactly what she thought he would say.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She ran her hand across his chest. “I’m sure.”

He tried to be gentle with her at first, but she steered him into rampant sex. He was a little too kissy for her liking, but his physique was good and he tried desperately to please her. He listened to her body and reacted to her praise. She rarely asked for much more from a lover.

But, in the morning, he did exactly as expected. He stroked her hair and tried to stare into her eyes. He told her that she was amazing. He said he felt a connection to her, something celestial, and he hoped she felt it too. He told her he was sure this was fate and he thought she might be ‘the one’.

Autumn tried hard not to openly cringe. She hated the idea of destiny. It implied you didn’t need to work hard for everything you had in your life, that good fortune fell from the sky. Itreduced everything anyone ever achieved to nothing more than a series of preordained events, instead of a mixture of hard work, unshakeable curiosity and fortunate coincidence.

“Thomas,” she said. “You’re lovely. Any woman would be lucky to have you. But I’m not looking for anything beyond what we had last night.”

She didn’t want him to spend all day thinking about her only to be disappointed when she ignored his calls. Perhaps he would turn up at her apartment, like so many before him, with flowers and a hopeful grin, and would need to be told in person that she wasn’t interested in seeing him again. Maybe he would cry, like some, or become violent, like some others.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’m just not ready,” she replied. At this point she wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready, but she refrained from telling him that.

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