Page 74 of Autumn on My Mind

“They’re not,” I admit. “But it’s true that you shouldn’t have to deal with her mess.”

He returns to the couch, sitting at the other end once more and staring ahead in silence. He’s waiting for me, I know; waiting for me to decide what I want to do.

He’ll stay there until I make a choice. He probably won’t even say anything else. But he won’t leave, because he feels as much as I do that we need some sort of agreement between us if we want to move forward—as friends, or acquaintances, or as people who simply exist in the same town.

The minutes stretch on as I put myself through Olympic-level mental gymnastics, asking myself questions and listening for answers.

“All I know,” I finally say, “is that I don’t want them to date. I don’t want them to get married.”

I don’t want to be your sister, I add in my head.

He looks slowly at me, raising one brow. “That will mean your mom’s heart might get broken. If she really likes my dad, she might be hurt.”

I swallow and admit the searing truth to myself, just once: that even though she may love the people in her life, Alvina will never love anyone more than she loves herself.

“I know,” I say hoarsely.

Dom gives a decisive nod, although nothing shows on his face. He stands up again and gestures to the couch he’s vacated. “What we’re doing isn’t working,” he says without looking at me; he’s already heading for the door. “We’ll figure out a new plan tomorrow.”

“So…” I begin, clearing my throat hopefully. “I can stay here?”

He stops with his hand on the door and turns around, blinking at me. “Why wouldn’t you? Did you want to stay at the hardware store?”

“I—no,” I say, my cheeks heating. “I—since we argued…” I fade into silence.

Dom shakes his head and looks at me with something unpleasantly like pity. “It’s disturbing to me how conditional you think love really is.”

It’s one final blow to my heart, and I don’t think he even realizes how much it hurts. He just leans down and picks up my duffle bag.

“Here,” he says. He tosses the bag toward me, harder and higher than necessary, and although I snatch it from the air, it finds my hands sideways.

I discover too late that the bag’s not zipped. My phone falls out, clunking loudly on my head and then to the floor, followed by the bra I wish I were wearing⁠—

—And then, in slow motion, out tumbles my little cardboard box full of mementos from my time with Dom.

The contents fall like they’ve been waiting for this moment; the ticket stubs flutter like flower petals, the wrapped candy clicks and rustles in a pleasant way.

And the hat? The hat somehow defies all laws of physics and chance. It tumbles and rolls until it comes to a stop⁠—

Right at Dominic’s feet.

For a brief second, even the rain overhead seems to quiet.

Horror rises in my chest, horror and mortification, as I watch the situation unfold. Dom is staring down at the hat now, his brow furrowing, and when he bends down to pick it up, I move.

I throw myself at the cap, trying to get my hands on it before he does, but I miss; he snatches it from the floor and then steps quickly back, holding it high in the air and leaving me grasping at nothing.

I scramble to my feet and look up at the hat, which could not more obviously be his. It looks exactly the same as it always has, faded blue with the ruined bill.

Dominic stares up at it too, and I see the recognition flash in his eyes after only a second; his brows jump, his lips parting. But then his expression smooths, and he looks back at me.

“You know,” he says in a quiet, conversational voice, “funnily enough, this looks familiar.” His gaze flicks over my shoulder to the ticket stubs and candy. “Those do too.”

His hair is still damp from the storm; his body is still tired from the late hour and our conversation. But he holds the hat high over his head anyway, looming over me, his brows raised as he waits for an explanation.

“I’m not—it wasn’t—” I begin, but I have no idea what to say. “It doesn’t mean anything!” I finally blurt.

My voice is too loud, the following silence damning, and Dom’s expression tells me plainly he knows I’m lying.