Page 17 of Autumn on My Mind

Yep, I’m good. Great, even. And the way I stare at my phone screen is definitely very normal. I blink a normal amount and breathe a normal amount, and my pulse thumps very normally too.

When my eyes have begun to water and I pull in a gasping breath—for reasons unrelated to forgetting to breathe—I make myself put the phone back in my pocket. Then I stand up, shake out my pins-and-needles feet, and leave the bedroom. I wobble down the stairs just in time to see Alvina coming through the front door.

The burst of wind that accompanies her is a bit chilly.

“There you are,” she says, as though she’s been looking for me. Her lips are turned down into a frown, and her eyes are disapproving. “What on earth is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing,” I say with an unconvincing shrug. My voice remains normal, but a wave of faint anxiety rolls through me as I watch her, waiting.

She scoffs, and some of my anxiety fades when I see her expression. This type of scoff holds more tiredness than anger, which means I probably won’t receive anything nasty.

Her hair, I also notice vaguely, is still the exact same shape it was earlier. Not a strand has moved.

Someone should study that.

“Well,” she says now, “clearly something is wrong. You spit water all over Daryl. I was so embarrassed.”

“I was just surprised,” I say—which is true. “That’s all.”

A long, skeptical hum escapes her pursed lips as she steps elegantly out of her heels. “Don’t let it happen again, please. I’m not sure how I could explain something like that twice.” Then her eyes catch on the letter in my hand, and she nods. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I say casually, tucking the letter behind my back and out of view. “Just some stuff.”

“Mmm.” Then, looking supremely unconcerned, she adds, “Go touch up your makeup. It’s a bit smudged.”

I already cleaned up my mascara, although I don’t tell her that. What she’s noticing is the dark circles under my eyes, courtesy of poor sleep caused by her faint snores.

“Yep,” I say lightly, and only when she’s trailed into the living room do I descend the rest of the stairs, relief coursing through me.

That could have been significantly worse, and I can’t help the lightness that enters my step now that one hurdle is out of the way. My grip on my phone is steadier too when I pull it out to check if Dominic has responded.

He has, I see with a jolt. There are no words in his text; he’s only dropped me his location.

“Fine,” I say under my breath. “That works.” I tap the map in his message and pull it up, zooming in. He’s over on the outskirts of town, but it won’t take me long to get there.

Which is perfect—less time to second guess or overthink. Regardless of whatever happens while Dominic and I are in the same town, I need to give him this letter. Not for his sake but for mine.

So I hop in my car and turn around in the driveway before clanking out into the perfect suburban street, where my once-perfect suburban family lived a perfect suburban life. I don’t glance over my shoulder or even in the rearview mirror, because when trying to move forward, there’s no point in looking back. I just pat the envelope in the front seat with one nervous hand, like the letter is a living creature.

It feels alive.

The grid of suburban streets takes me into town and then spits me out of the other side, where I drive through increasingly rural patchwork parcels of land until my phone tells me I’m almost to my destination. I turn down a dirt lane, and several moments later, I find myself pulling up to a white, two-story farmhouse.

When I grab the envelope next to me, it feels heavier in my hand than it did before. Then I exit the car—cautiously, because I don’t actually know where I am, and despite Dominic’s claim that he’s here, I don’t see him. My shoulders settle with relief, though, when I hear the unmistakable sound of carpentry from the other side of the house; I head that direction, my shoes scuffing the dirt as I walk.

When I’ve rounded the house, I emerge into an open space. I spot Dominic immediately, but he’s not alone. Bennett Walker is here, too—who I know only slightly because he and Dom grew up together, but I think they really became friends after high school. The two of them are clearly hard at work; I move closer, taking advantage of the fact that they haven’t spotted me yet⁠—

And hello.

The sun glinting off one of Alvina’s diamond rings is nothing compared to the shirtless, glistening, sweaty torsos of the men in front of me. There are abs and golden skin and gritty smudges of dirt on display as Dominic and Ben move around the area. If this were a movie, they’d be walking in slow motion. Sexy music would be playing in the background.

Then we would all pause, rewind, and watch the scene again.

Ben is a good-looking guy, with dark hair and a bit of scruff, but it’s to Dominic that my eyes are pulled. He twirls a hammer in his hand as he tromps toward the porch of the house, his strides long and sure. He crouches down by a spot of latticework, the ground already littered with a few other tools, and then he gets to work.

“You,” I inform myself as I fan my face, “are a lecher.”

My voice is what finally alerts them to my presence. Dom’s hammer stops mid-swing, his head lifting, and Bennett turns to look at me.