Page 55 of Autumn on My Mind

“What?” he shouts back, his hands clutched over his ears.

“The music!” I yell. I point at the phone on the seat between us. “Do you have different music?”

DIFFERENT—MUSIC! I mouth when he continues to squint his eyes at me.

This finally does it. A look of comprehension enters his expression, and he nods, letting go of one ear and picking up his phone. He looks at it for a moment and then holds the screen toward me, showing me a playlist he’s apparently made for this very occasion.

He’s always been organized—much more organized than his appearance lets on, what with the delicious frayed hats and sexy torn jeans and⁠—

Stop it! I tell myself. Cut it out.

I give my full attention to the playlist instead of the man holding the phone, and I swiftly narrow our choices down to what I think are two very promising options.

Because I don’t feel like shouting over the professional screamer still breaking me down one cell at a time, I point instead: first at the Gregorian chant tracks, then at the true crime podcast.

Dominic nods like he agrees. He taps around until the heavy metal comes to an abrupt stop, and in the sudden silence, I exhale with relief.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Dominic says from next to me. “But this won’t be as bad.”

And sure enough, when the speakers blare to life, I find myself listening not to screamo but to…chant-o? Infinitely better but still uncomfortable, especially when Dom cranks the volume up. He gestures for me to cover my ears with my hands, and I do, just in time to protect myself from very loud, very intense Latin.

The monks aren’t singing anything soothing or soft; they are commanding, a swift tempo accompanied by lyrics that may very well be calling me to repentance for spying on an unsuspecting couple.

I wince when a boys’ choir joins in—lovely, actually, if it were being experienced at a different decibel. Their voices soar, reaching soprano heights I will never attempt or achieve, and I think longingly of Enya once again⁠—

The gentle nudge of Dominic’s elbow against my arm pulls my attention, and I straighten up when I realize one of Daryl’s car doors flies open.

Something anxious stirs in my gut as Alvina emerges, smoothing her hair and frowning so deeply that a little furrow actually appears between her brows.

There’s an unkind joke somewhere in this situation, hidden amongst the deafening Latin—a joke about exorcisms and casting out demons—but I hold my tongue; the thoughts are scattered from my mind regardless when the driver’s door opens too. Out steps Daryl, craning his neck as he looks around the parking lot.

His eyes find our truck immediately, of course. We’re the only ones here, and deafening strains of Gregorian chant are not hard to follow.

I tap Dominic on the shoulder, several times at first and then more insistently as Daryl’s expression pulls into a frown that matches my mother’s.

Words have no place between Dom and me, because we won’t be heard over the blaring Latin anyway. My head whips toward him, a silent question about what to do next, but when I see his eyes widen, I look back to our parents—and my eyes pop wide, too.

Because there, striding toward the truck with a determined expression and a smudge of lipstick on his lower lip, is none other than Daryl himself, followed by Alvina Berkeley.

They are approaching.

They are approaching the truck right this very second, and there is lipstick on Daryl’s face, which means Alvina’s lips have been ON HIS FACE⁠—

“Gah!” I squawk, like the twelve-year-old I apparently become when thinking about my mother kissing Dom’s father.

At least I’m not vomiting.

My head whips toward Dom’s as he’s turning to look at me. His wide eyes are full of the same panic I’m feeling, an unusual expression on someone who’s normally so unflappable. We’re mirrors of worry, though, and for two seconds we stare at each other before erupting into chaos.

“What do we do?” I shout over the deafening chorus of Ave Maria now playing. My body automatically makes itself as small as possible, and next to me, Dominic does the same. “We won’t fit on the floor!”

Having heard not one word I’ve said, Dom begins trying to cram himself to the floor anyway. I whack him on the back a few times to get his attention, but it’s unnecessary; he pulls himself back up to the seat, his head craning back and forth.

When I see his gaze land on the blanket we’re flattening, I look at it too. And when he grabs my arm, pulls me roughly closer, and then cups his hands around my ear, I freeze.

“Under the blanket,” he says, words I hear but also feel as his lips crush against my skin when his balance teeters. I ignore my skittering pulse and nod; he lets go of my arm and tugs on the blanket, both of us shifting our weights awkwardly until it’s out from beneath us.

His lips move again when he glances up to check how close our parents are. I don’t hear what he says, and it’s probably for the better; I’m pretty sure there’s some cursing in there. Then he settles on the seat in a deceptively normal position, sitting upright, feet on the floor.