Page 83 of Autumn on My Mind

“You know I love pumpkin pie,” I say with a delicate shrug.

“I do know,” he says, his eyes narrowing. His gaze darts over my face for a second, and then he takes a neat step backward, out of the bathroom once more. “The soap can stay.” His throat bobs as he swallows and turns his back to me, speaking over his shoulder now. “Get dressed, Berkeley. And from here on out, decent means fully clothed. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say lightly.

“Good,” he says under his breath. After a pause, he says, “There are linens and blankets in the hallway closet if you want to take some for your couch. And there’s fresh pumpkin bread in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

I blink in surprise. “Do you bake now?”

“Only sometimes.” He reaches blindly back and finds the door knob, adding, “I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.”

“What—why would I wait up for you?”

His shoulders jerk into a shrug. “You’re walking around my house in a towel,” he says. “Who knows what kind of salacious thoughts you might be having?”

I gasp and throw my bag of dirty clothes at him, but he dodges with a huff of laughter. Then, without waiting for me to say anything else, he pulls the bathroom door shut.

I don’t see him again that evening, but the pumpkin bread is delicious.

To ensure that the bar is sufficiently low regarding Thursday’s potluck dinner, it will be helpful to review several prior experiences involving “family quality time.”

The Soccer Incident. Picture, if you will, a children’s soccer game. Elementary kids in polyester uniforms, bleachers full of enthusiastic parents, and the overall scent of sweat. Now add to this scene one camp chair—“I will not perch like a bird for that long, Reginald; I need back support”—where Alvina Berkeley lounges, wearing stilettos and J. Crew. She has with her several magazines, behind which she promptly disappears. She does not reappear until a soccer ball flies out of bounds, sails through the air in a graceful arc, and hits her square in the nose, immediately fracturing the nasal bridge with a crunch that witnesses (me) would later describe as “so, so gross.” Never one to waste an opportunity, Alvina seizes this incident as an excuse for rhinoplasty. Recovery includes one week of nose bandages and bruising consistent with a violent, anything-goes boxing match.

The Road Trip Incident. Alvina gets carsick on long trips, and she does not suffer in silence. I don’t necessarily blame her; nausea is horrible. But on this particular journey, a three-day-weekend trip to New York City, we failed to restock her supply of Dramamine. As such, we were ten miles outside of New Windsor, New York, when she threw up all over herself and the passenger seat. We were then required to stop in New Windsor, rent a hotel room for less than five hours, purchase new clothing, and allow Alvina a shower and a nap before setting back out.

On the whole, I think the potluck dinner tonight will have to be better than either of these experiences. It may be stilted and awkward, but the food will be good, the duration short, and no vomit or broken noses will be involved.

I’ve made myself very at home in Dominic’s shed. The squashy couch has now been covered in an old set of sheets, and before I had my pumpkin bread last night, I dug out a few blankets from the closet too. Before I leave for work—another busy festival day—I brush my teeth in the bathroom at the back of the shed. I pull on my jeans, tank top, and cardigan, and I’m about to head out the door when I remember today is the costume parade on Main.

I think for a second and then grin; I change shirts, grab exactly one prop, shove it in my bag, and head straight out the door.

It’s nice, having everything I need here.

I drive with my windows down on the way out of Dom’s neighborhood, but I don’t go straight to Bugelbach’s. The parade will be starting soon, so I go to the hardware store instead and park in the back lot. I round the building and emerge onto a bustling Main Street, filled with the shrieks of laughing children in costume and even some pets on leashes.

I stroll down the street with my bag over my shoulder, my eyes searching for Dominic. My smile widens when I spot him, and even though my stomach still flutters when I think about last night, I make my way in his direction.

He spots me through the crowd, well before we’re close enough to talk. I stop when our eyes meet, pull his old blue baseball hat out of my bag, and then put it on.

It’s enormously rewarding to see his expression as he looks me over. His gaze goes from the still-warped hat on my head—his—and then down to my black shirt—also his. He folds his arms slowly, shaking his head as he bites back a smile.

“What do you think?” I say when I reach him, my lips twitching. “I’m you.”

“Spitting image,” he says as his smile finally breaks free too.

I nod and glance down at my clothes. “I just need to get in your pants and the outfit will be complete—” But I slap my hand over my mouth in horror when I realize what I’ve said.

Dom’s eyes fly wide open too, his jaw dropping.

“Oh—no,” I say as my skin heats and panic jumps in my chest. “No, no!” I gesture frantically. “No. I didn’t—that’s not what I meant.” I can feel myself starting to sweat. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t want to get in your pants. I don’t even like pants.” The words tumble helplessly from my mouth, but I babble on. “Well, I mean, I like some pants, obviously”—a nervous laugh escapes me—“Just not...yours.”

Dom’s shock is melting into faint amusement, although there’s an undeniable flush creeping up his neck. “There’s no need to insult my pants,” he says now, looking down at his jeans.

“I’m so sweaty!” I groan, airing out my shirt and then fanning my face. “I didn’t mean to say that. I panicked. Your pants are fine. Forget the last thirty seconds. Wipe them from your memory.”

He tilts his head down in a mock bow, smirking. “I’ll do what I can.” Then he shrugs. “But my clothes have, historically, always looked better on you. So if you want a pair⁠—”

“No pants,” I snap, still fanning my face. This entire situation has backfired miraculously. “I’m going to work.” Then I stomp off toward Berk’s.