Page 72 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

I’m elbow-deep in a pickup truck’s engine when I hear the voice of my best buddy echo in the cool dim of the auto shop I inherited from my dad.

“Ash,” Tristan calls, peering around the truck’s popped hood, wearing his usual grin. “What are you doing tonight?”

Fingers groping for a gasket, I grunt. “Not sure. Why?”

“You’re invited for dinner at my folks’ place.”

An invitation to the Ingersoles’ is not an uncommon occurrence in my life. I practically lived there as a teen. But something about my friend’s tone makes me frown at him.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask.

He shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “Just the usual. A family get-together.”

Now I’m sure of it — a tremor wraps around his words, and I can’t discern if it’s from excitement or nerves.

“A family get-together,” I repeat. “With you and your parents.”

He nods, eyes roving the gun-metal gray of the shop ceiling.

“Justyou and your parents?”

Tristan’s brown eyes snap to mine as if he can’t help it, betraying him. “Um,” he says, clearly groping for an answer. He always was a bad liar.

I sigh and straighten. Grabbing a rag, I wipe at the grease streaking the hard muscles of my forearms. “You’re twitchy. What’s up?”

“Well, you know Mom’s not doing so great,” he begins.

I nod. The breath I’m taking suddenly doesn’t feel like quite enough, ribs too tight. We’ve all been waiting for the day that her dementia turns south, but it’s held steady for so many years and I never quite believed we’d get to this point.

The last time I went over, she called me Gunner, which had made me recoil and Tristan stalk scowling from the living room. Tristan and I had been friends with Gunner when we were teens. He was Tristan’s sister’s high school boyfriend — the guy who got her pregnant, then told her to get an abortion before breaking up with her. Neither Tristan or myself liked hearing that name again.

That was weeks ago. I haven’t been back since.

He kicks at the concrete floor with the toe of his scuffed boot. “Dad called Isla. She’s driving over with Guin. They’ll be here this evening.”

Isla. The name of Tristan’s sister is like a punch in the gut and a shot of caffeine and a the quiet scent of blooming lilacs caught on the breeze, all rolled into one. My mouth flaps open as my heart pounds and I struggle to keep control of my facial expression.

Because I’ve always held a flame for Isla Ingersole. Even though I know I shouldn’t — she was busy being the school’s pariah, and then with being a mom. Plus, she’s my best friend’s sister. After how things went down with Gunner, I felt pretty sure that me wanting to date Isla wouldn’t exactly be music to Tristan’s ears.

“Oh,” I say, the single syllable sounding strangled even to my own ears. “That’s —“

“Big, I know,” he interrupts, to my relief. “Dad wouldn’t have called my sister if things weren’t getting really bad. He thinks there won’t be much of Mom left before long — at least, not of the mother we grew up knowing.”

“Shit, man,” I breathe, slinging an arm around my friends shoulders and giving him a squeeze.

“Yeah.” Tristan sighs. I can tell he’s somewhere far away inside himself. I wonder if he’s running back to the past, to the kind woman who always had a joke and a fresh batch of zucchini bread ready for all who crossed her threshold — or if he’s in the future, where her empty shell of a body is a specter of the light she once was. I can’t blame him for dwelling on either reality, and I can’t tell which one is worse.

“Of course I’ll be there tonight.” I squeeze again. “What do you need me to bring?”

“Just yourself. And maybe some beer. Or a lot of beer. And maybe that kale salad. The one Mom always likes.” He steps away, giving me a smile that tears at my heart. “I think we’re all going to need it.”

I dip my chin in agreement as my friend leaves. I hear his footsteps crunching across the gravel of the lot, fading with distance.

Shit. I knew things were bad with Mrs. Ingersole. But not this bad. Not bad enough to bring Isla back. Not bad enough for goodbyes.

Because that’s what her visit has got to be about. Mr. Ingersole is gathering his children and grandchild so they can say their last “I love you’s” to his wife — at least, the last ones that Mrs. Ingersole has a chance of comprehending.

When I turn back to the truck, my hands feel clumsy, heavy, as if weights dangle from my wrists.

---