Page 60 of Fall I Want
“It’s always the quiet ones,” she warns. “Always.”
“Mm. I’ll have to remember you said that.”
As I turn into the driveway, I scan in. The tall wrought-iron gate is exactly what I’d imagine would protect a haunted house.
She sits at the edge of her seat in awe as we slowly drive down the twisty road that leads to Hollow Manor. It’s only wide enough for one vehicle and is surrounded by trees that hang above us. With no lights lining the pavement every five feet, it would be spooky as hell and I understand why the rumors about the manor began.
There is no one to prove the tale right or wrong, and with the distinct lack of life, the stories are more than plausible.
Hollow Manor has been a large, vacant house for over twenty years. Before I arrived, ghosts might as well have occupied it.
When I look farther ahead, the tree line fades and displays a sky full of twinkling stars. I drive to the back of the house and open her door. Autumn takes my hand, meeting my eyes before passing me. Fucking flirt.
I grab the pumpkins from the back and we move to the backyard where the lights are brightly lit, waiting for us, before I set them down. “Thirsty?”
“You have no idea,” she tells me and follows me into the kitchen.
She stands beside me as I open the fridge, glancing over my arm. “Oktoberfest.”
“You mentioned you liked it, so I got a case for us.”
“You were listening?”
“Of course. And I remember everything you’ve ever shared with me,” I say. “Maybe I’ll write a book.”
“Now that’s something I’d love to read,” she says, reaching inside and grabbing two bottles for us. She hands me one and we twist off the caps and flick them onto the counter, where they spin for a few moments before settling.
“Shall we toast?”
“To us.” She grins, repeating what I said at Bookers last night. Flirt.
“Alwaysto us,” I repeat, clinking the glass bottle necks and taking a sip. The light hint of pumpkin dances in my mouth and I swish the liquid around before swallowing.
“What does your refined palate say?”
“It’s great.” I chuckle, glancing at the carving tools for two that are waiting on the center island. It’s hard for me to believe she’s inside my house again, hanging out and comfortable, like she belongs in my space. She does.
“Sometimes you look at me like I’ll disappear.” Autumn takes a drink of her beer.
“Everyone does, eventually,” I state. “Don’t they?”
“Not me. I’m not going anywhere. When you go back to wherever it is you live, I’ll still be here. Hopefully not as a memory,” she says.
“New York and Washington,” I admit, wanting her to know where I am when I’m not here. “I split my time throughout the year depending on my mood.”
“I love New York,” she says. “At least I enjoyed the four years I lived there.”
“And somehow we never crossed paths.”
“Wrong time,” she tells me. “Had I met you then, I wouldn’t have given you a chance.”
“So, you’re saying I have a chance?”
She ignores my question.
“I was extremely focused. Nothing could distract me. Not even you.”
“Hm. I disagree.”
