Page 113 of Autumn on My Mind

“Put that on your lap, you heathen,” Dom says from next to me, and I look at him. He glances pointedly at the roll of silverware in their white napkin, placed neatly on the table in front of me.

“I’m hardly a heathen,” I say as I remove the silverware and then spread the napkin over my lap. “In fact, I seem to recall that while you keep your living space neat⁠—”

“Very neat.”

“Your manners could use some work.”

“My manners?” Dom shoots back. “Only one of us was caught peeking through windows at our parents.”

“Yeah. And only one of us tossed the other in the bed of their truck in the rain⁠—”

“I offered you the cab first,” he points out. “And what, did you want your bag to go there instead? So all of your stuff could get soaked?” He leans in, a gleam in his eye. “What would have happened to the box I saw if it got wet, hmm?”

I flush to remember my box of Dom memories clattering to the floor of the shed, right in front of him, but he goes on.

“Those ticket stubs would’ve been ruined in the rain, wouldn’t they? And the hat—” He breaks off, his lips twitching, and I snort too.

“Yeah. The hat was already ruined,” I say.

“Because you put it through the wash. Like a heathen.”

“Like a heathen,” I agree, but I can’t stop my smile. As my eyes drop to the feather necklace he’s wearing, the cord barely peeking out of his shirt, I swallow. My pulse jumps and my legs bounce a few times under the table. “I have to admit, though, it’s nice knowing I wasn’t the only one…”

Although I trail off, his gaze flies to mine. His body stills as I reach toward him, my fingers finding the cord of our necklace and tugging it, pulling gently until I work it out from beneath his shirt. I hold the little feather for a second before letting go; it falls and lands against his chest, deceptively simple for all the memories it evokes.

“Like a bird loves the sky,” I murmur without thinking as the charm catches the light of the flickering candle.

Dominic clears his throat, and I jump.

“I think we’re getting off-track,” he says in a hoarse voice. “We’re here to—” His eyes dart to the column. “To spy on our parents.” He pauses, his brows furrowing. “Like we’re in Parent Trap, except we’re not eleven, and therefore…possibly should be ashamed of our actions?”

“We discussed this already,” I say. “When we inadvertently dyed my mother’s hair. We agreed that some absurdity might be required.”

He hums. “Hair dye, Gregorian chant, spying,” he says, ticking them off with his fingers. “Yes. I’d say absurd is the right word.”

I’m glad he didn’t mention vomiting in his dad’s bushes.

“Do you think we could move this table over a bit?” I say, leaning forward so Dom can hear me better. “A tiny scoot?” Glancing at the column next to us, I go on, “Being closer might help.”

Dominic casts a critical eye over the table and then the space between us and the column. “We could probably move a bit. Steady the vase and the candle.”

I casually rest my hands next to them as under the table and tablecloth, Dominic lifts his knees. The table swivels rather than moves altogether, a few subtle inches, then a few more, until it’s perfectly reasonable for me to move my chair closer to the column as well.

“Excellent,” I say, draping my napkin back over my lap and settling in. I lean to the side again, my heart pounding in my chest for no other reason than that I’m sitting here with Dominic and tap dancing on a tightrope above the Grand Canyon.

My legs squirm beneath the table as I listen, trying to gather any hint or sign of what’s going on at Alvina’s table. Dom and I make idle small talk every now and then, smiles over the candle and accidental foot brushes that cause us both to startle with disproportionate embarrassment—because we almost kissed and he wanted to marry me and did I mention how overloaded my brain is right now?—but the most I hear from the other side of the column is the clink of glasses and occasional snippets of indecipherable voice.

Eventually I crane my neck, trying to hear better, until I spot the waiter headed to our table. He sets a plate in front of me, and I give him a distracted but genuine smile—because people who are mean to the waiter are the worst—before turning my attention back to the other side of the column. Dom speaks to the server for a second before he whisks off again, leaving us with our food.

I strain my ears. I selectively tune out the soft music. I become very familiar with the swirling marble pattern on this very large column.

But after a second of trying to listen, I turn to Dominic, my shoulders tight in frustration. “I still can’t hear anything,” I say with a frown. “Sometimes I catch snippets of their tone, but that’s it. They could be getting engaged over there. They could be discussing moving in together. They could be planning their future.”

A future where Dom and I exchange Christmas cards as stepsiblings. I want to vomit.

My eyes fall to the plates on our table, and I brighten. The food portions are small here, which I can accept as a fact of fancy foreign cuisine, but Dominic’s dish seems to be some sort of steak with vegetables.

My stomach rumbles.