Page 74 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

It’s a completely different feeling, approaching the Ingersole home knowing that Isla is inside.

This is the woman that I loved before I knew what love was.

The one I defended from her brother’s teasing when we were kids.

The one I dreamed sticky dreams about when my body was turning from boy to man.

The one I watched fall for the wrong guy, a terrible guy, and then watched her be crushed by him.

The one I stayed away from, because she deserved a little goddamn peace after being used so roughly. And because Tristan vowed to destroy the one who hurt her, and any other guy who tried to get close to his sister.

The one whose belly I watched swell at too young an age with a child she hadn’t asked for but decided to keep and love with all that she had in her teenaged heart.

The one that I ached to cherish, but knew that I couldn’t, that she was off limits, that she needed anything but a love-sick man in her already complicated life.

I stare at the crimson door nestled into the deep brown facade and swear I canfeelher presence within the walls.

Giving myself a shake, I try to think of something — anything — besides Isla.

I tighten my grip around the twin bouquets I clutch in fingers I haven’t quite managed to rid of grease, a tupperware full of freshly made kale salad tucked beneath an arm. The flower stems feel slightly damp beneath my fingers, and the salad container cuts into my ribs. Focusing on these realities helps.

Because me and Isla? That’s never been in the cards. Never been even close to real. I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this at all.

But then I rap on the Ingersoles’ front door, and she’s the one to swing it open. The sight of her, older and somehow even more beautiful than I remember because of those added years, makes fire sear through my veins. I was made to love this woman — I can’t stop the thought from burning through my brain.

Isla is smiling politely when she opens the door, but when she sees me, her mouth drops open. “Ash?” she says. I can’t tell if she’s pleased or aghast in her surprise at seeing me. “Tristan said his buddy was coming over, but I didn’t think you’d still be hanging around Edgewood.”

She steps back to let me pass. When I brush by her, she doesn’t flinch, and I catch a whiff of her aroma, part smoke and part sweet vanilla. I breathe deep, drinking her scent in, even though I shouldn’t. I should write Isla out of my heart forever, even though she’s here —especiallybecause she’s here.

“What can I say,” I respond with a shrug and a half smile, “I can’t say no to everything homegrown Edgewood.”

She closes the door and turns on a heel. Her gaze sweeps my whole length, and I suppress a shudder. I can practically feel her eyes on me, a visceral sensation, and that just will not do. “What did you find to get up to here as an adult?”

“I took over my dad’s auto shop.”

“The Wicked Wrench is yours?” She snorts. “He had enough of the working life then?”

I’m grateful for how her words cut into me, turning my attention away from how much I want to gather her into my arms. “No,” I say, voice hitching, “not exactly. He passed away a few years back.”

Her brown eyes fill with instant regret. “I’m so sorry.” She opens her arms and for a confused and delirious moment I think she’s about to wrap them around me. But then she stuffs her hands into her pockets, and I let loose a lungful of air I didn’t realize I was holding.

“It’s fine. Or at least,” I reconsider, cocking my head to one side, “it’s fine enough. He always did push himself too hard for too long. It finally caught up with him.”

“What happened?” She asks like she’s not sure if she wants to know.

“Heart attack. Nothing like —“ I cut myself off. I’d been about to sayNothing like what your family is going through with your mom, but that doesn’t seem right. Maybe Isla doesn’t even know just how bad things are. Not yet, at least.

But then I see the shadow pass across the smooth skin of her forehead. She knows exactly how close to losing her mother we all are.

She nods, swallowing hard. Again my arms ache to cradle her close, offer her what comfort I’m capable of to keep her sorrow at bay.

Instead, I step close and extend one of the bouquets. “This is for you.”

Her eyebrows fly skyward. “For me?” she replies, uncomprehending.

“To welcome you —“ I hesitate, choking on the wordhome. I’m not sure if Edgewood has really been much of a home for Isla Ingersole. “To welcome you back,” I finish lamely.

She accepts the flowers with both hands, lifting them to her nose and inhaling their scent. “Mmm,” she says. “Thank you, Ash. They’re beautiful.”

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