Page 67 of Autumn on My Mind

Of course, underneath all those reasons, one more burrows nastily beneath my skin: I think I’d be ashamed to admit what Dominic and I talked about.

“I wouldn’t call it an argument,” I say with a sigh. “There are some things we don’t see eye to eye on.”

Even though you know he’s right, says a little voice in my mind, and my heart sinks.

“Everything will be okay,” Liv says, maybe sensing my desire to change the subject. “Worst case scenario, you, me, and Ari can move to Alaska and start our own commune.”

“I would die in Alaska,” I say, frowning. “Do you know how cold it is up there?”

“Somewhere warm, then,” she says, and a reluctant smile comes to my lips.

“Deal. Our own commune, somewhere warm.”

We say goodbye and hang up, but I don’t leave right away; I stay on the bench. I swing my legs and stare aimlessly at the hay bales across the gravel lane, and the entire time, my head swirls with questions I don’t have answers to—riddles without solutions.

In the end, all my tired mind can settle on is that too many rubber bands stretched around a pumpkin will not snap themselves—it’s the pumpkin that will explode.

“Go home and go to bed,” I mutter to myself, standing up and leaving the swing swaying gently behind me. “You’ve looked at too many pumpkins today.”

Tuesday is more of the same, minus visiting the ongoing festival in the middle of the day. There’s also an added migraine, one that pulses painfully behind my right eye until I take the migraine medicine that gets rid of it. I’m fairly certain the headache is caused by my nighttime tossing and turning, not to mention the floor I’ve been sleeping on.

I don’t hear from Dominic, and like the spineless slug I am, I’m glad. Dom has always had a way of asking questions I had to answer, questions I didn’t let myself think about because of how sticky they were.

But with Dom, keeping my head buried in the sand won’t fly. Not completely, anyway.

Why must he encourage me to be a better person? Why can’t I wallow stagnantly in my comfort zone?

I snort as I tromp over the straw-strewn gravel, a large pumpkin in my arms, dirt smudging my overalls. It’s been a more hands-on day at Bugelbach’s, because we’re moving some of our stock around. Musclewoman I am not, so it’s slow going, but we do get it done, and after that I’m able to sit down and rest.

In rest, my mind turns to my mother, and Daryl, and Dominic. Those three are impossibly tangled together, and no matter how I think about it, Dom is right—not everyone will be happy, regardless of what happens with the situation we’ve found ourselves in.

I don’t want my mother to date Dom’s dad. Everything in me repels that idea, because it’s wrong. It’s just wrong. If anyone will be together, it will be me and Dom⁠—

“Stop,” I say severely when I realize where my thoughts have strayed. I press my back into the prickly bale of hay I’m seated against, trying to bring myself to my senses. “No. Stop.”

But that’s the real reason, isn’t it? That’s what I’m trying to ignore. If Alvina marries Daryl, Dom and I will be stepsiblings. And as stepsiblings, any far-off future for us would be difficult, if not impossible.

But if Alvina finds out I’m trying to ruin her relationship, she’ll be so, so angry—and when Alvina holds a grudge, she’s punitive. Add in the fact that she genuinely seems to like Daryl, and the equation becomes more complicated still.

“Maybe I should talk to Liv and Ari about that commune,” I say.

A child running past slows down and gives me a weird look as I talk to myself, so I snap my mouth shut and try to look like I’m busy.

Which is true! I’m very busy. I have a lot to do.

And that’s how the rest of my day goes: talking to myself like a weirdo, moving pumpkins all over the place, and keeping the farm orderly while Archer continues to ferry people to and from the festival.

The hours stretch on, and if I had a feather bed, I would collapse onto it with abandon when I returned to my storage room set-up that night. As it is, I’m working with a sleeping bag, so I move a little more carefully. My hair is still damp from the shower I snuck at Nathan’s house after work, but I don’t mind; my body aches after the day I’ve had.

It’s about nine-thirty in the evening when I receive a text from Dominic, and it comprises three words only: Where are you?

His name on my phone screen causes a little jump in my veins, excitement and worry and trepidation. I bite my lip at his question, and I glance around the storage room, at the looming shelves and my sleeping bag and my camp light.

Then I lie through my teeth.

“I’m at home,” I breathe as I text him back.

But why is he asking? We haven’t talked to each other since our conversation in the alley yesterday. It’s not even that we’re not speaking; we just…haven’t spoken.