Page 38 of Autumn on My Mind

Silence falls as we both think. I run through possibilities in my mind, but strangely, they’re difficult to pluck from the ether. Dominic is next to me; it’s been a long day. And, perhaps, I am less of a planner than an on-the-spot doer.

“I’m struggling,” I finally say, and as though I’ve given him permission, Dom sighs.

“Me too.” The breeze ruffles his hair. “We do need to try to keep them apart as much as possible. Ruin the mood, kill the vibes, whatever.”

I am so capable of ruining moods. I can kill vibes.

In this capacity, I will shine.

“Speaking of ruining vibes…” I say slowly. “How does your dad feel about appearances?”

“What?”

“Like, the way he looks.” I put one hand on top of my head. “His hair. Does he care how it looks?”

Dominic frowns, an expression that’s beginning to get lost in the fading light of the day as the pink sky turns to dusky purple. “I don’t think so, no.” He pauses. “But I’m not sure I want to know why you’re asking.”

“Alvina likes things neat and attractive,” I say.

“Shocking.”

“Hush.” Inspiration is coming to me, something that would be horrible but undoubtedly effective. “I wouldn’t want to traumatize your dad. But if he really, truly doesn’t care about his appearance…”

“He dyed his hair blue one year when Emma arranged a family Halloween costume for all of us⁠—”

“I have so many questions,” I break in, my eyes widening. “What were you? Did you dye your hair blue? Are there pictures?”

“It was Dr. Seuss themed because Emma’s a librarian, and I did not dye anything any color,” Dom says flatly. He does not answer the question about pictures, I notice. “Stay focused. All that was to confirm that he’s not concerned about appearances.” His eyes jump over my face. “I, however, am growing very concerned.”

“What if we put bleach in his shampoo?”

This blurted-out suggestion sits between us for a solid five seconds before Dominic speaks, and when he answers, it’s one incredulous word:

“What?”

I nod. “Like in Matilda! Well—” I pause and then admit, “I haven’t actually read the book. But in the movie, she puts bleach or something in Danny DeVito’s shampoo. He looks absurd. It’s completely dumb, I know,” I hurry on before Dominic can say anything else. “I know. It’s totally stupid. But thus is the bottom of the barrel in which we find ourselves. If we don’t want to tell them we dated⁠—”

“We don’t,” Dom says firmly.

“And I suppose it won’t work to tell your dad how difficult Alvina is⁠—”

“He is a believer in giving everyone a chance,” Dom cuts me off again, his voice grim now. “Even if their past is against them.”

“Very churchgoing of him,” I say with a nod. “But that leaves us with the sole option of breaking them up ourselves, and ridiculous measures might be needed.”

Dominic’s boot goes back to kicking gravel, a rough exhale escaping his lips. “All right,” he says. “Okay. I can’t believe I’m saying this. But…I could probably put some bleach into his shampoo.” He raises his brow at me. “And your mother would be bothered by that? Her boyfriend suddenly having bad hair?”

“Sadly, yes,” I say. “She really, really would.” I gesture at my face as a bitter laugh escapes me. “She doesn’t even like her daughter to have acne.”

Dom opens his mouth, his eyes darting to the spot where my blemish patch was. But he doesn’t say anything; he just snaps his mouth shut and looks away again. Silence falls for several seconds until finally he directs his gaze at his lap and speaks.

“How has it been? Living with her, I mean?”

I shrug. “About like you’d expect. I’ll survive.” Then, because the opening is there and I want to know, I add, “Where did you say you were living? How long have you been back here?”

Dom shifts uncomfortably and rubs one hand over his head. His gaze flicks to me briefly, his brows jumping. “Are we talking about the past already?”

My pulse spikes, but I keep my voice casual. “I was wondering what you’ve been up to. How you’ve been. We don’t have to⁠—”