Owen
Two weeks.
Nearly two weeks of bliss with Autumn.
After finding the empty Plan B pill box in Autumn’s trashcan the morning after I gave it to her, my heart tore in two. I thought she’d taken it, thought she’d made her choice and I was going to have to live with the aftermath.
Again.
But then she came back from her drive and pulled the tiny white pill from her bag, handing it to me.
“What will be will be,” she’d said, and that was that.
We didn’t say another word.
Now it's like I'm riding on fluffy clouds of cotton candy and living my best life. The energy Autumn put into hating me when she showed back up, she now puts into being with me.
It's not just the sex, which is mind-blowing and constant, it's the conversation, the quiet time we spend together. It's like our relationship from ten years ago, before we fucked it up. I’m so comfortable in her presence; she feels like home and I keep waiting for something bad to happen and it all to be taken away.
Comparing now to before isn't even enough to capture it. It's us, Owen, and Autumn, but on steroids. Adults. Playing for real in the game of life. Before, we were just starting out on roads leading away from one another. We're seasoned now, we've traveled those roads. We've both had wins and losses, pain and triumph. The roads we went down eventually brought us back together.
Autumn hasn't told me her plans once her mom is in remission, and I've been too afraid to ask, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't constantly running through the back of my mind.
Is she going back to New York? She said her stuff was in storage there and it bugs me that she hasn’t had her things sent to Arizona.
As if thinking of Autumn summons her, my phone dings with the notification of a text message. We've been texting all day, but when I pick up my phone I see it's not a continuation of our earlier conversation, but a photo of a watch, along with the message:You keep forgetting to take this back from my mom’s. I never took you for a two-tone metal watch guy.
The skin between my eyebrows forms a bewildered “v.”Very fashionable, but not mine, I respond, adding the thinking emoji.
She writes back immediately:What? If it's not yours, who does it belong to?
Your mom's secret lover...I hit send and smile at my joke.
Very funny, she says, andI imagine her holding the end of the wordfunnyfor an extra beat to drive home her point.
Autumn doesn't say anything more, so I put my phone back on the desk and pick up my fork. I'm in between patients right now, and I'm using the time to eat lunch. The first half of my day, I usually have appointments with my patients, and the second half I do rounds on patients who were admitted to the hospital for whatever reason. I love that working at the hospital as a staff oncologist with an office affords me the ability to do both. My next patient is new to me, so I'm in my office reading his history when Ace walks in without knocking. He sits in one of the two chairs in front of my desk and pulls a foil-wrapped sandwich from a white bag.
"How's it going?" he asks, unwrapping a Cuban sandwich and takes a big bite.
"Great," I answer, chewing a piece of the grilled chicken I brought from home. For the record, Ace's lunch looks better.
"Bet I know what's putting you in such agreatmood these days." Ace's eyebrows pull up and begin moving in a way that can only be described as waggling.
I haven't told Ace about Autumn not taking the pill or that Autumn and I are so serious. Truth is, I don't know what exactly to call it. We've been enjoying being together so much that we haven't labeled it, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn’t starting to bother me.
I haven’t told my dad either. I probably should. The news would make him beyond happy, but I’m afraid he’d use it as a cause to celebrate. Which means get shitfaced. Not that he needs a reason. He’s made that abundantly clear, but I’m avoiding him altogether as much as possible right now.
My dad is a puzzle I don't know how to solve. He's supposed to be a parent. Why am I the one parenting him? It's amazing how a person can get older but always expect their parent to stay in their role. I never expected my dad to lose his shit and completely give up at adulting.
He's called me four times since Autumn and I started back up. He never calls unless he's drunk, and I'm so afraid each time is going to bethetime—the time he has crashed his car and needs help—the time he's in the hospital because he got hurt. The possibilities are endless for someone who gets as drunk as he does.
I just don’t want to deal with it.
"Just in a good mood," I tell Ace, who's sitting there, waiting for me to answer.
He raises one eyebrow. "And a person whose name rhymes withbottombut is spelled totally different doesn't have anything to do with it?"
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "It's possible," I concede, pushing away my nearly empty container.
