Page 43 of Autumn on My Mind

“I know our parents are dating, and that no one is really happy about it.”

Rosie’s eyes dart away from mine, and she gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Yeah. We’re a little—” She breaks off, looking worried, but I wave that away.

“You won’t offend me,” I say. “You really won’t. My mom is in no place to be in a relationship with anyone. You guys must be pretty concerned.”

This is all Rosie needs to relax. “We’re just not sure what’s going on,” she says, her voice dropping as though Alvina is hiding around the corner. “Like if our dad is going through some sort of midlife crisis, why not buy a sports car?”

I nod and sigh. “I wondered the same thing,” I say frankly. “It doesn’t make much sense.”

She nods vigorously. Then, after a beat of silence, she says, “It must be weird for you and Dom, too.”

My laugh is hollow. “You could say that.”

“At least you’ve been broken up for years, right?” she says in a would-be optimistic voice. “If our parents somehow end up together”—she shudders—“you’ve at least had time to move on.”

It suddenly occurs to me that while Rosie is lovely, she needs to shut her mouth.

“Be nice,” I snap at myself as the thought flits through my mind.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Sorry. Talking to myself.”

She hums, and quiet settles between us again, broken only by the sound of a car passing outside. Then she stands up straighter. “Well, are you here to book a room? I do have to warn you”—she leans forward again, placing her elbows on the reception desk—“we’re sort of in renovation mode right now. So your options are pretty limited.” She brightens. “I can check out what we’ve got, though! I could probably make up a room for you for a couple nights before the festival starts.”

I take a deep breath to evaluate the paint scent again, and the tattered remains of my hope finally fly away in the wind. The smell is strong, and from upstairs, I hear the sound of a drill. Trying to stay here will just produce more scent-induced migraines and noise-induced poor sleep.

It wouldn’t have been a permanent solution anyway, but it does hurt a bit to see Plan A die such a swift death.

“It’s okay,” I say, waving one hand and coming to a stop. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry,” Rosie says, scrunching up her nose. Then she tilts her head. “Do you not have anywhere to live? I thought you were staying with—” But she breaks off suddenly, her eyes widening as she bites her lip. Then, with a sigh, she says, “Sorry. I might have asked Dominic about you.”

My answering laugh is uncomfortable. “I figured,” I say. “It’s not a secret that I’m back or living in my brother’s house, anyway. You’re all good.” I do not let myself ask her what else Dom said, because I (just barely) have my dignity.

“Are you sure?” she says, looking worried now. “You’re not homeless or anything?”

“Definitely not.” I begin my slow shuffle toward the door. “And I have some options, too. There’s some space in the back of my dad’s shop, or even other rooms in the house. I’m not worried.” I force a warm smile to my face. “I’ve got to head out, but it was good to see you, Rosie.”

This, at least, is true.

“It was good to see you too,” Rosie says, beaming at me. “Stop by any time!”

“I will,” I promise, and with one last wave, I head back the way I came.

My footsteps feel heavier on the way out than they did on the way in, and the morning air feels chillier, too.

You’ve at least had time to move on.

Rosie’s not wrong. She’s completely right, in fact. That was a very reasonable and logical thing for her to say. It’s been six years.

Do you know how many things can happen in six years?

World War I was four years, according to a few moments of internet searching. So was the US Civil War. I’m sure other, less violent events could also be mentioned.

If entire countries can fight entire wars in fewer than six years, I can definitely get over my ex. No question about it.

I head straight from Once Upon an Inn to Bugelbach’s, where I find Joe presiding over a patch of pumpkins and two glassy-eyed, captive-looking part-timers. Almost nobody is here—such is the fate of a pumpkin patch on a school day—but Joe is knee deep in the infamous tale of how Bugelbach’s came to be. It’s a long story, made longer by the side tangents that wind and curl like the pumpkin vines still lining the fields, and when I tap the shoulders of our employees to let them know they can go occupy themselves elsewhere, they hop off their hay bales with impressive speed.