Page 100 of Autumn on My Mind

“Not if you open some windows!” I say, dropping my innocent act. “And you have a stove fan, right? Probably? So I can turn that on and open the windows, and we can even keep this door open⁠—”

“No. Onions,” he cuts me off, his eyes narrowing on me. Then his gaze drops suspiciously to where I still have my bags hidden. “Give me that.”

I attempt a backward shuffle, out of his reach, but he’s too fast. He takes one giant step down from the doorway and wraps his arms around me—not a romantic gesture but one that lets him pry my bags out of my hands. A mostly silent struggle ensues, our bodies pressed together, and for two seconds our eyes lock, our faces inches apart.

I’m not sure if it’s his sudden proximity that startles me enough to release my grip, or if it’s my inferior strength; either way, he pulls the bags away from me and strides back inside the house without another word.

Very concerned about which bag he’s going to open first, I dart into the laundry room after him. Because while one of those bags does contain my cooking ingredients—and yes, FINE, onions are involved—the other contains things that are none of his business.

“Wait,” I blurt, scurrying past the washer and into the kitchen, reaching for the bag⁠—

But it’s too late. Dom is standing next to his kitchen counter, and from inside one plastic bag he’s lifting a pair of underwear.

They are not sexy. They are not cute. They will not make him picture me in a tantalizing light.

They are white, faded to gray.

A little stretched out, with full cheek coverage.

And there is a hole at the waist band.

“Give me that!” I yelp before he can find the bra, which has been a trusty companion for years and looks the part. “Give me—that—” I yank the underwear out of his hand and then grab the bags.

He puts up no resistance; just stares blankly at the space where the underwear were dangling from his grip a second ago.

“If you would please erase the last thirty seconds from your mind,” I say, out of breath, “I will be about my business.” I swallow. “We may discuss the onions when I’m done upstairs.”

And then I march away, my cheeks flaming.

I shower quickly and use liberal amounts of my pumpkin pie bodywash, because I find the scent soothing, and I need to be soothed. When I get out and see how red my face is, I choose to believe it’s from all the steam. I put on a t-shirt and leggings, take a deep breath, plus one more when the first doesn’t work, and then I return downstairs.

My head is held high. My steps are confident. I am a woman who does not care that her ex saw her unflattering panties.

It’s fine.

Dominic says not a word when I reappear in his kitchen. He just holds up the bag of cooking ingredients I brought, raises his eyebrows, and waits.

“I will commit to using only half of one onion,” I tell him, because this is his house. “If you would prefer, I will even forego the onions completely. Your choice.”

He hesitates, his eyes on me, and then he gives a single nod.

“Half is fine,” he says. He jerks his chin at the cabinet by the oven. “Grab a cutting board. You do the onion. I’ll start on the peppers.”

I blink in surprise, but I do as he says, and together we begin cooking. I turn my music on shuffle, letting the sound fill the space so we don’t feel pressured to talk if we don’t want. Because I was telling the truth this morning—my soul is tired. A weird thing to say, but undeniably true. The monotonous process of chopping veggies and swaying back and forth to music is strangely calming.

It’s also very domestic, which tugs a little at the sutures I’ve been fiercely guarding.

It could have been like this, my mind whispers. Your life could have been like this. If you hadn’t jumped the gun and pushed for a relationship rather than waiting, things may have turned out exactly this way.

Because I was the one who did that damage. Of the stupid decisions we made, that one was mine alone.

And I find myself speaking before I can think better of it.

“I think we should tell them.”

Dom’s rhythmic chopping falters before starting again. “Tell our parents?” he says in a voice that’s too casual. “That we dated?”

I set down my own knife, committing to the conversation I didn’t mean to start. “Yeah.”