Page 75 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

Just like you, I want to say but, thankfully, do not.

Isla steps back and beckons me inside. “Those for Tristan?” she says, eyeing the other bouquet I’m holding, pink lips twisting into a gentle smirk.

“Do you think he’ll like them?” I joke back, following her down the familiar hallway to the kitchen.

She snorts. “Honestly, you probably know better than I do.”

Is that a twinge of regret I hear in her voice? Or is that just my own wishful thinking?

I’m not sure how to respond, so I just say, “They’re for your mom, actually.”

She hesitates at the kitchen’s back door, gazing at the bundle of flowers with sad eyes. “Oh,” she says softly, “I’m sure she’ll like that very much.” But it’s clear from how her words trip that she’s not sure at all.

Drawing a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she opens the door and leads me outside. Mr. and Mrs. Ingersole are settled in the variety of squashy-pillowed outdoor furniture scattered across the stone patio, clad in sweaters and with blankets tucked around them. Tristan leans against the trellis that opens out onto the wide lawn and thick stand of trees beyond, their leaves bursting in a cacophony of warm color.

Mrs. Ingersole’s face brightens when she sees me. “Oh good,” she says with a warm smile. “You made it. And what’s that you’ve brought?”

I produce the tupperware from beneath my arm with the flourish of magician. “Kale salad. And,” I lean toward her, bouquet outstretched, “flowers for a beautiful woman.”

Her smile grows. When she sniffs the blossoms, I see the same arch of the neck as her daughter, the same feathered lashes brushing her cheeks. The two look more alike than I remembered, and I can’t help but return the older woman’s smile.

“Do you like them?” I ask, settling into an empty lounge chair, tugging my fleece-lined leather jacket close around me.

Mrs. Ingersole laughs. “Oh, of course I do, along with your flirting, you wonderfully impertinent boy.”

“How come when you call me impertinent, you don’t think it’s so wonderful?” Tristan scowls as he speaks, but his eyes are dancing.

“Because Ash is hardly ever truly impertinent,” she declares, “and you so often are.”

A blossom of surprise warms my chest at the fact that Mrs. Ingersole remembers my name today. That’s why Tristan and his dad are in such a happy mood, I realize. It’s a good day for her.

Isla settles on the settee next to her mother, weaving her arm through the matriarch’s elbow in a way that is both protective and nurturing. I know that having Isla home for the first time in years might also have something to do with the sunny glow I can almost physically feel emanating from her family.

“Although,” Mrs. Ingersole continues, “I do wish our Ash would be a little bitmoreimpertinent, when the time is right.” She flashes an impish grin at me.

Isla snorts, but I can tell that she’s more pleased than anything at her mother showing her true personality. “And when exactly would be the right time for Ash to do that, Mom?”

“Why, whenever you’re around, of course,” Mrs. Ingersole states. She then folds her arms over her chest and by all appearances seems to nod off, oblivious to the tense silence that falls across the patio at her words.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to erase the embarrassed expression from Isla’s face, but words fail. Because I agree with the elderly woman. I do wish I had the freedom — and the courage — to be more bold when it came to Isla Ingersole.

I attempt to lock eyes with Isla, to show her that she doesn’t need to worry about me pressuring her into anything. But she won’t meet my gaze. I try not to think about how that makes my guts feel like they’re being crocheted into a knotty blanket.

“Well,” Tristan says, “on that awkward note, who wants alcohol? I’m not buying, but I damn well can pour.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Isla mutters, making a beeline inside.

Tristan follows. “Sorry,” he shrugs at me as he passes, although I’m not sure exactly what for.

It’s just the elder Ingersoles left with me on the patio, one of them blissfully unconscious.

“So,” Mr. Ingersole says with a chuckle, “how about those Pats?”

I grasp onto the benign topic of Massachusetts football like a drowning man onto a raft. But my mind is on Isla and Tristan inside, wondering what they are talking about.

Isla

Ihaul open the fridge door and duck my head into the cool air that pours forth. My eyes search the wire shelves for alcohol, any alcohol, but my mind can’t focus on anything but my mother’s words.

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