Page 3 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

“Excellent.” She links her arm through mine, tugging me along as she sets off down the trail again. “Now we get to go school shopping.”

“I do need some new notebooks and pens,” I admit.

Amy laughs. “No, silly. Forclothes. We’ve got to have you looking flawless on your first day.”

And that right there, ladies and gentlemen, is the difference between Amy and I. I want spiral notebooks, she wants fresh denim. But somehow our friendship works, standing the test of time for twenty-five years now — unlike some other relationships I could name.

Usually, I’d laugh her suggestion off. But this time I don’t. “You’re on.”

“Really?” Amy squeals. “Oh my god, I’m so excited, you never let me take you shopping.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, grinning, loving that Amy understands what I’m really saying isthank you.

Rowan

Irock back from the desk in my office and scrape my fingers through my hair. My administrator just sent me this semester’s roster for my evening intro poetry course, and it’s business as usual — a full class of twenty-eight women vying to be teacher’s pet.

It doesn’t shock me like it used to when I was new to the artist-in-residence gig. Now a gaggle of women signing up for my classes because they read some of my poems, know I’m twenty-eight and single, and conclude that I’m ready to be swept off my feet by any woman who offers doesn’t phase me.

It exhausts me.

I’m hungry for a classroom full of students in love with the written word, ready to learn, and eager to take risks, read widely, and play hard with words.

Most of the people who come through my courses have never read any poetry besides my own . . . and too many of them leave the same way, disappointed by the fact that I’m not just a brainless hunk of man meat ready to sign my heart away to the loudest flirter.

I wonder if all this would bother me as much if my career wasn’t built on a lie.

See, I’m one of the youngest winners ever of the Pushcart Prize for small press poetry. I was awarded the honor for my debut collection,Sex, Love, and Other Cataclysmsand soon became known as something of a love guru looking for the perfect mate with whom to share ecstatic, ascended bliss.

Except I’m not a love guru. And while I wouldn’t mind finding a woman that matches me in mind, heart, and soul, I’m not exactly the perfect man.

Case in point: I built my career on a collection of love poems, and I have never been in love.

I’ve had trysts and lovers, sure, and a few longterm relationships. Nothing that stuck, though. Nothing that set my heart on fire while making my soul feel safe and cherished.

It’s practically criminal that I could have my pick of higher ed teaching placements, given that the work I’m lauded for is a complete sham.

I am a liar.

Thankfully, I’m a very good liar. Good enough that I could smile and nod and speak palatably inspirational words through all my award acceptance speeches, my interviews, and my TED Talk.

And now, a handful of years and two subsequent poetry collections that haven’t garnered nearly as much attention later, I’m hunkered down at a small college in a mountain town, teaching people who don’t give a shit about poetry and wondering if anyone reads my poems that aren’t from my first book.

Matthew Hubbard, inhabiter of the office next door, fiction professor, and wholly British colleague and friend, pokes his head through my door. “Got your roster?”

I nod.

“Still a bunch of horny broads?”

I sigh. “Probably.”

“Damn, you’ve got all the luck.”

“Don’t start,” I tell him with a grimace. “I’d give anything to get a couple of students who are actually interested in learning to write poetry.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he says in a dire voice. “That’s all I get, semester after semester — would-be authors of the next great American novel. Do you know how tiresome that gets, especially as a Brit?”

I rub my face. “I’d swap if I could.”

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