Page 56 of Autumn on My Mind

He looks over at me and hesitates for a second, until he glances over his shoulder at our parents. Then he gestures at his lap, tapping his legs impatiently.

I stare at him, my jaw dropping. “What?”

And I can’t hear him any better than he can hear me over the Gregorian chants rattling my bones, but I can read his lips clearly as he points at his lap again: Come on!

We’re pretending to kiss. That’s where he’s going with this idea.

It’s the arrival of Daryl and Alvina that spurs me to action; I scramble onto Dominic’s lap, straddling his legs but staying so far back that if I teeter even a little, I’ll tumble right off.

A knock sounds at the window just as Dominic throws the blanket around the two of us, the tops of our heads visible but presumably little else. I lean forward and talk directly into his ear, because if we’re going to pull this off, we’d better be convincing.

“Put your hands on my back outside the blanket,” I shout. “I’ll hold the blanket up. Come on—move your hands around.”

He protests with words I half-hear, but only for a second; when another knock sounds on the glass of the window, sharper this time, I snatch the top edges of the blanket. Then he pushes his arms out of our cocoon and places his hands on my back.

I slump forward a little, partly because I’m uncomfortable but also because his grip pulls so naturally, tugging me closer until I’m forced to accept this moment for what it is.

So I let my head drop until it rests more or less on his shoulder, my hands still clutching the blanket up by my ears. I scoot it down slightly so I can peek at what’s happening out there, only to find Alvina with her hands cupped around her eyes as she tries to see inside.

“She’s looking,” I say quickly, my voice muffled by Dom’s shoulder. “She’s looking inside. Are your hands moving?”

“You can feel them, can’t you?” Dominic mutters.

He’s correct, of course. I can feel his hands, and they’re sliding very convincingly over my back.

“Yeah,” I breathe into his neck, a word I’m not sure he hears over the deafening Latin. I shift my knees, trying to ease some of the bendy discomfort⁠—

But the Gregorian chant stops abruptly, plunging us into silence, and I know a brief moment of panic that sends all thoughts of comfort from my mind.

Dom swears under his breath. “Half my butt is on my phone,” he says into the quiet that leaves my ears ringing, and one hand drops away from my back.

Daryl’s voice drifts toward us in the absence of the monks whose aural presence I clearly did not appreciate before. “Excuse me,” he says, accompanied by a knock against the window. “Excuse me?”

Alvina speaks next, her words sharper. “Very rude behavior. Hello?” She raps against the window again. “Hello! What are you doing in there? It’s rude to ignore people who are talking to you, you know.”

“Dom!” I whisper frantically.

“I know,” he mutters. “I’m trying—hang on⁠—”

The rest of his words are drowned out, swallowed up by new music, both better and worse than the monks or the heavy metal—the slow wobbling of a synthesizer and strumming guitar, followed by the longing voice of David Gates.

I freeze with recognition, and Dominic does the same, a tiny motion I can feel because of how close we are.

It’s “If,” by Bread, a song we danced to in the headlights of Dom’s truck as the music played from his car’s speakers. Very much like right now, in fact, except this moment isn’t romantic; it’s painful.

I lean back, my eyes finding his, wide and full of questions. But his gaze darts away as he digs for his phone again, his motions more frantic. His other hand is still on my back, too, and whether he realizes it or not, his grip has tightened, pulling me closer.

“Popped up randomly,” he says, barely audible over the volume, and his shoulders fall in relief as he hits the button for the next song to play⁠—

Until the song actually filters through the speakers.

My eyes widen further at the pluck of strings, unmistakably identifiable, even around the renewed knocking of our parents against the window.

“What is this?” I say. But I already know: it’s my music. The stuff that’s on my playlist.

He still doesn’t meet my eyes; every ounce of concentration he possesses is on his phone.

“Dom,” I say more loudly. When the music stops abruptly, I’m able to speak again. “You hate Sufjan Stevens.”