Page 103 of Mad Girl

“Tell me what it’s like outside. Tell me what you see on your walks,” I said, because the only way I’ll experience fall this year is to live vicariously through you.

After a few more weeks, the nasty looks died down at tennis, my teammates began to practice with me again, and—finally—fall arrived. That golden time when the city shines boldest and makes me grateful to be a Bostonian. We took the long way home from school, sometimes veering off-course to cut through the cobblestoned streets, jewel-toned leaves—amber, fiery red, blazing orange—often crunching beneath our feet. We sat in the park on beautiful crisp days to people-watch, admire the lush fall scenery, and read.

We wore our fall best. Which, for me, meant the return of tights and blazers with my dresses. And for you, lots of plaid and cardigans, both thick and thin, on heavy rotation.

You and those damn cardigans.

You left a soft brown one on the back of a kitchen stool once, so I stole it for myself. I loved the soft scratch of it against my skin when I lifted the cowl neck up to my face, but the thing I loved most? How strongly it smelled of you: your natural clean scent, plus the leathery spice of your deodorant (the little black tube of which I might’ve sniffed a time or two when sneaking into—I mean, looking for you in—your room). Wearing that cardigan felt like having your arms wrapped around me in a hug.

You found me wearing it one afternoon while I watched You’ve Got Mail with Garland, a big bowl of popcorn sitting in my lap. “I’ve been wondering where that went.”

“It’s mine now,” I said, “and I’m not giving it back.”

You smiled. “But it swallows you whole.”

“It’s like wearing a blanket. It keeps me nice and warm.”

“Well.” You dropped down next to me and reached for the popcorn. “I suppose I’ll let you have it, then.”

“You only have, like, fifty of them,” I pointed out.

“Oh, do I? You haven’t been in my bedroom counting them, have you?” You bumped my knee with yours and shot me a meaningful look.

“Oh, no. I don’t do that anymore.”

You laughed. “Right,” you said, then glanced up at the TV. “Oh, hey. I love this movie.”

I smiled. “Where do you get your love of old movies from?”

“My mum. What about you?”

“Eleanor.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. For someone who shows very little emotion, she has great taste in movies. When my dad left me with my grandparents as a kid, that’s all we’d do—watch movies together. If I made it through an entire movie without saying a word, she’d let me choose two chocolate ganaches from her stash of Parisian chocolate.”

“You know,” you said, juggling a handful of popcorn, “I’m liking Eleanor better all the time.”

“Casey, she put movies on so she wouldn’t have to talk or interact with me. You get that, right?”

“I don’t know,” you said, your head tilted thoughtfully. “A woman like Eleanor was probably taught not to show her emotions. Maybe by putting on a movie like this, she could tell you all the things that might’ve been too difficult or uncomfortable for her to say out loud. Things about disappointment, family, new beginnings, love…”

Leave it to you to take a small resentment, flip it inside out, and force me to look at it from a different perspective, all while tugging at my heartstrings in the process. Not for the first time, I marveled at your unique ability to brighten everything around you, shining light in unexpected places.

“I bet,” you said, “she got a lot more out of introducing you to these movies than you realize. I bet it even makes her happy to see you’re still watching them.”

An overwhelming surge of warmth flowed through me. “Who are you?” I whispered.

“I’m Casey,” you said flatly. “Some strange foreign guy.”

I tossed my head back and laughed.

“Who slithered into your lives, apparently,” you added.

“Oh, come on. I was joking when I said that.”

You snorted.