Page 6 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

And two, she’s on the verge of leaving — and I can’t let that happen.

I’d try to sweet-talk her into staying if I was well-versed in the art. But I’m miserable at it, despite Matthew’s coaching.

So I just talk.

And she listens.

And laughs.

And it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in a long while.

Minutes into our very unromantic conversation, I’m head over damn heels.

I tell my heart to cool it. I’ve got a job to do.

So I stride into my classroom and face the usual crowd of horny women hungry for a piece of the Pushcart winner.

But this time, she’s here too. Hollis Watson, I learn when she raises her hand as I take attendance. And that makes all the difference.

When I ask a question, she raises a hesitant hand and offers her thoughts. She scribbles away in one of her notebooks when I tell the class to write a pastiche modeled on a poem we read together, the rest of the students checking their phones. And by the end of class, her shoulders are no longer hunched up to her ears and there’s an easy light emanating from her hazel eyes that wasn’t there before.

I want desperately to ask Hollis out for a drink, for a coffee, for anything, professionalism and personal philosophies against dating students be damned.

But as soon as I dismiss the class, the women who haven’t been paying my teaching an ounce of attention for the last hour suddenly mob my desk, as usual. By the time they’ve cleared, leaving their synthetic perfume hanging in the air, Hollis is long gone.

I find, however, that I’m not dismayed. Not even a little.

Instead, I’m excited — for my next class. Because she’ll be there, eager to learn and to write and to develop.

When I gather up my things and leave the classroom at the end of the night, I find that I stand a little straighter and that my step is a little lighter.

Two days, I tell myself. I’ll get to see her again, to teach her again, in two days.

I can’t wait.

Hollis

My heart is just about beating out of my chest as I trudge in Amy’s footsteps up the steep mountainside.

She’d asked if I wanted to meet for coffee and a walk.

What she’d really meant was coffee and a backbreaking climb up to the bluffs that overlook town.

The late September wind swipes at my face, and in spite of the sweat rolling down my back and the flush I know is spreading over my cheeks, it leaves me chilled, not cooled off. The breeze bites and speaks of the coming snows. Most of the country starts winter in December, but ours first snowfall usually arrives in October.

I use my fingertips to balance myself as I scuttle over a rocky spot on the path, cursing my friend’s name. But when I join her at the overlook, I can’t deny that the pain was a worthy price for the view I’m taking in.

The small western city spreads out golden before us. The turning trees’ red and yellow leaves catch the evening sunset in an explosion of glorious color.

It’s beautiful.

I let my eyes wander to the stately buildings of the college collected close to the mountain’s base. Thinking of Rowan Keating’s poetry class, a warmth as resplendent as the September sunshine floods my chest. In just a few weeks, this class has come to mean so much to me. I find myself coming alive when I’m there and longing for it when I’m not.

As if she can read my mind, Amy turns to me and says, “How’s the poetry-ing?”

A slow smile takes over my face without my meaning for it to. “Good,” I answer. “Really good, actually. I love it.”

Amy’s green eyes clamber over my face. “You look happy.”

---