Page 32 of Autumn on My Mind

“Fine,” my mouth says. My legs finally get beneath me, and I let go of Dom as he lets go of me. I only wobble for a second, and then I’m upright once more.

Unfortunately, there’s no graceful way out of what just happened. I don’t even try.

“Well,” I say, gasping for air. “So.”

“So,” Dominic repeats slowly, eyeing me with disconcertion. He adjusts his pointless backward hat a few times, still watching me. “Are you going to throw up again?”

I take inventory of my stomach and find things a little iffy down there.

“It’s possible,” I say.

“Then let’s find a storm drain or something,” he says, his expression turning grim. “I think my dad will question a trail of vomit on his lawn.”

“Storm drain.” I bob my head, panting. “Yes. Good.”

“Are we walking or running?”

I do another quick scan of my stomach. “We’re hurrying.”

I see him wince in the light spilling from inside, but he nods.

I’m not certain we could look any more ridiculous or suspicious as we walk-run our way out of the backyard, past the windows, past the sidewalk, and into the street. My satin pajamas are still decorated in bursts of bright color, and my boots are still fuzzy, and at some point I will have to explain this outfit, because no one was supposed to know.

But Dominic knows. He knows exactly how stupid I look as I hurry down the road, dressed like a tropical explosion, my hand clapping over my mouth—and now he’s gesturing to the storm drain by the mailbox like it’s the finish line to a race and he’s my trainer—“Move, move, move! Go, go, go!”—and I’m hurtling toward that grate with speed I’ve never before shown in my life.

And I swear, as I reach the drain just in time, that an out-of-body experience occurs. I see the entire situation as though from above, hovering over my disgusting self, emptying my stomach into a storm drain while my ex stands nearby, a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.

What? I think as my body heaves and my vision blurs. This isn’t how you wanted to spend your night?

I lose track of time and space very briefly, as one does when one is throwing up into a sewer grate, and when I return to myself, my arms are shaky with the effort of holding myself up. I collapse weakly onto the pavement, rolling onto my back and staring blankly at the night sky, wondering why no one has called the cops on us yet.

“I think,” I say with little puffs of breath, “I might be sick.”

“I think you might be right,” Dominic says, from much closer than I expected; I tilt my head to the left and find him right there, crouching on the pavement. He gestures to my cheek, where the thorn got me. “You know, you’re lucky that won’t scar.”

“What?”

He gives a nod. “In the olden days no one would have married a woman with a scarred face.”

My heart crumbles—dried mud in a tight fist, leaving nothing but dust. “Yeah?” I manage to get out in a weak voice.

He nods again, and when our eyes meet, he reaches out and pushes some of my hair off of my forehead. “You’re clammy,” he says, picking a few more strands of hair away. Then he presses his hand to my skin. “But I don’t think you have a fever.”

I swat his touch away with a weak arm. “Stop,” I breathe. “Stop being nice.”

“I’m not being nice,” he says, pulling his hand out of my reach. “I’m being normal, Berkeley. Now get up. You need to go home and go to bed with a trash can.”

The thought of going to sleep in the same room as Alvina pulls weak laughter to my lips; the memory of her perfume makes me nauseated all over again.

“Do you have any extra room at your house?” I say before I can think better of it.

“I have a shed,” Dominic says, his voice distracted as he stands up. He moves to my head and leans down again. “I’m lifting from under your arms. One, two, three—up.”

I lurch into sitting position. “Can I sleep in your shed?”

“What?” Dom says from behind me, snorting. The sound filters just above my ear. “Of course not. Come on.” He fits his grip more securely under my arms and lifts. “Up. Come on—there you go.”

I sway on my feet, but I don’t fall over, even as Dom puts a light hand on my back and begins leading me toward his truck—which, I see, is parked one house down from my own car.