Page 110 of Autumn on My Mind

He grabs the dangling necklace, snatching it away with a protective look. Then he fastens it around his neck, with the easy air of having done it many times before.

It is approximately then that the awkwardness sets in.

He stares at me—or, more specifically, at my forehead. I stare at him while he stares at my forehead.

There’s not another pimple patch, is there? But no, I’m positive there’s not. This is good, old-fashioned abashment.

The seconds stretch long and uncomfortable as the image of last night plays vibrant in my mind, in great detail with slow motion and technicolor.

We almost kissed. There is no way around it. Our lips almost touched in a very romantic way. And he said—he implied⁠—

My heart begins to beat faster as worry floods through my veins, concern over losing the tentative relationship we’ve reforged. I almost kissed this man, and now I am staring at him, and I don’t know what to do⁠—

“I’m sorry!”

The words explode from inside of me, from deep in my stomach, up my throat, and to my lips. I think they might echo up and down the tree-lined street. But the awkwardness is horrible, the cost not worth the gain. “I’m so sorry⁠—”

“No,” he says quickly. His shoulders slump, some of the uncomfortable tension disappearing from his frame. He’s shaking his head vigorously as he goes on, “Don’t be sorry. It was—I’m sorry, too.” He pauses here, stills and then rubs the back of his neck, his eyes darting back and forth, unsure where to land. “We just got caught up. The song and dancing and everything. That’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

I take a deep breath. “And what you said?”

His look of casual confusion is not at all convincing.

“You said you wanted to say yes.”

“Oh.” He shifts his weight as though trying to find a more comfortable position, finally leaning against the door frame. It’s usually an easy pose, lounging, but right now he looks like a stone statue propped against an unsteady wall, ready to crumble the second it teeters over. “That. I—” Clearing his throat, he goes on, “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was—back then.”

His eyes fix on a spot above my shoulder as he takes a fortifying breath, and I wait for him to continue.

Finally he does. “Back then. When you wanted to get married.”

My heart stops, but his words don’t.

“For a second, I wanted to give in,” he says, and he sighs into something more real. “Even though it wasn’t a good idea…I wanted that.” His shoulders twitch. “Back then.”

And he’s right; he really shouldn’t have said anything.

The necklace now resting against his chest taunts me with the words he spoke before—I know it doesn’t mean anything.

But if it didn’t mean anything, why did it feel so meaningful? Why do I feel like a rubber band, stretched taut until it’s going to break?

One step in the wrong direction, and I feel like I’m going to snap. I don’t even know what kind of snapping it will be—only that it will happen.

“Are we sure that’s all it was?” I sound like someone is strangling me from behind; the words gurgle as they issue from my mouth. But the question needs to be asked. I refuse to leave anything unspoken. Not this time.

It’s this, finally, that pulls Dom’s gaze to mine. If possible, his shoulders slump further, and he sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits, running his hand through his hair.

I nod, sensing the honesty in his words—that he’s truly as torn as I am.

It’s enough for now.

“All right,” I say. “Well, in the meantime…we’re good?”

“Yeah, of course.” He clears his throat. “Still up for keeping an eye on our parents on Monday? In Burlington?”

I nod. “Let’s do it.” I pause, thinking, and then go on, “How fancy is this place?”

“No t-shirts, I think,” he says, looking down at his own tee. “It’s a French restaurant⁠—”