Page 26 of Autumn on My Mind

“Oh,” he says, looking surprised as he glances over at me. “Where do you work?”

“Online. For a company called Final Fiction,” I say. “They primarily do editing, except it’s not just for fiction, and it’s not all editing.”

“So what do you do, then?” he says, and he sounds genuinely curious.

“I do the very thrilling, exciting work of compiling creative briefs for online articles about science and history,” I say. “Basically I find internal and external links and format headings and stuff. Provide related search terms. I do batches of those, and I have about half of my current batch due end of day.” Then, biting my lip, I add, “If the offer still stands, I could use the help for engineering, though. Do you go to the library every day?”

“Most days, yeah,” he says, grimacing. “And somehow it still doesn’t feel like enough.” Then he sighs, the frown lines easing from his brow. “Want to drop by tomorrow? I study on the third floor, over in the corner with the cubbies.”

Even though I’m struggling in engineering and working on it is frustrating, a few bubbles of excitement rise in my chest at the thought of studying with Dominic.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there—” But I break off as a few fat droplets of rain plunk down, on my cheek and my nose and then everywhere.

I look around us. The rest of the students on campus seem to have gotten the memo I missed, because they’re pulling up their hoods and digging umbrellas out of their bags. When I turn back to Dominic, I’m surprised to find him doing the same; he’s unzipping his backpack, and after peering inside he emerges with his blue baseball hat.

Then, without asking, without hesitation, he plops the hat right on my head.

“Here,” he says, even as he’s pulling off his plaid jacket. There’s a hoodie underneath, and he tugs the hood up over his head, holding the jacket toward me. “Stay warm. You need to be healthy to study if you want to get your grades up.”

“I know,” I say with a miserable groan.

He nudges the plaid jacket at me again, looking totally at ease, like he gives people his clothes all the time. I take it grudgingly.

“Do you have anything else for yourself?” I say, but I’m already slipping my arms through the warm sleeves.

“Nah,” he says, and a hint of humor flickers in his eyes. “But you can bring me soup if I get sick.”

“All I can make is chicken salad. I’m a horrible cook.”

“I broke my nose twice in high school. I’m a horrible taster.” He pauses. “But no chicken salad soup, please.”

I stare at him, at the lopsided smile tugging over his lips as he looks at me.

“You’re drowning in that,” he says, his eyes trained on the jacket. “But it will keep you warm.”

He’s right; it’s way too big, which is perfect for me to burrow in and get cozy.

He gestures to the zipper of the jacket as he slings his bag over his shoulder once more. “Zip up,” he says, walking backward now. “I need to get going, but I’ll see you tomorrow at the library?”

All I can do is nod. Words seem to have escaped my grasp.

He nods too. “Don’t skip studying this time, Berkeley.” Then after a second’s pause, he grins, a rare expression that causes my heart to stutter suspiciously. “My apologies. Not Berkeley—Reese.” He turns on his heel, waving over his shoulder and striding off toward the library, head down against the rain.

And just like that, my silly high school crush returns.

I find Dominic exactly where he said I would—on the third floor of the library, in the corner lined with cubicles.

He’s not actually in a cubicle, though. He’s seated at a table, and he doesn’t notice me approaching at first, for which I’m grateful. It gives me time to stare at him like a weirdo. The hat he so often wears is in my backpack since he let me wear it the other day, but his light brown hair is still a bit messy. His shoulders are hunched as he looks down at the notebook on the table in front of him, and he absentmindedly taps a pen against his cheek as he focuses.

“Hi,” I say when I’ve reached the table.

He startles, looking up at me, but his attention catches on my shirt, like mine does on his.

They’re the exact same, each a burnt orange color with the slogan from the Autumn Ridge Fall Festival a few years ago: Come for the festival, stay for the people.

I begin to laugh as something warm rises in my chest, a nonsensical feeling that nonetheless continues to grow. “It looks better on you,” I say.

His grin matches mine as his eyes dart over me. “I don’t know about that.”