Page 22 of She Autumn Be Mine

The Sapphire on a weekend typically ran wall to wall with the locals and tourists alike. Tonight I counted six customers as I walked in, five of them sitting as far from the little stage corner as the building allowed.

There Autumn was, under the one sad spotlight with the dead microphone in both hands, swaying on her own axis, absolutely singing out her poor little heart.

I stood and assessed the scene at first, the way I was built.

“What the hell has she been drinking?” I asked Smitty.

“Peach schnapps.”

“Christ.”

“I cut her off. She’s been running on fumes and heartbreak ever since.” He slid her keys and purse across the bar to me. “Whatever found her today, Jake—it scared her. I’ve seen that girl handle drunk cowboys and rowdies and a small grease fire in the kitchen. I’ve never seen her scared.”

Autumn spotted me then. Her whole face opened up, the spotlight catching it, and she leaned into the dead mic so her voice would carry, which it did, seeing as the mic was dead and the room was empty.

“Jake.” Sunshine and slur. “My buddy. My protector. My—” a hiccup rang out into the dead mic with startling clarity “—Jake.”

“Come on, sweetheart.” I crossed the floor easily, hands where she could see them. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I’m singing.” She swept an arm around the room like she had adoring fans. A rancher by the door raised his beer in solemn tribute.

“That’s my girl,” I said, and meant every layer of it. Then I made an executive decision. I took the mic out of her hands, set it on the stool, and put her over my shoulder.

The Sapphire broke into applause. The rancher whistled. Autumn, upside down over my shoulder, addressed her fans with what dignity remained.

“Thank you,” she called to them, hanging down my back. “Thank you. Goodnight. He’s very strong.”

“Get her home, Jake. Tell her to take the weekend off,” Smitty called, and sounded relieved.

Avery met us at the apartment door with her homework in one hand and her eyes big as saucers. I had Autumn upright by then, more or less, my arm doing most of what her spine was supposed to.

“Is she okay⁠—”

“Long night. She’ll be fine.” I steered Autumn to the bedroom, and got her lying on the bed. I peeked at Stetson, sound asleep, and came back out to deal with Avery. “Did he go down all right?”

“He stood up in the crib and yelled ‘Baba’ at me for five minutes, then dropped like somebody unplugged him,” she chuckled.

I dug money out of my wallet and gave it over. She pocketed it, and gathered her books, with one last look at the bedroom door, hesitant. “Jake? A man called the apartment phone tonight on the landline. He asked for her, but I told him she was at work.” She shrugged uneasily. “Probably spam. But Mom says tell you stuff, so.”

“Your mom’s right. Thanks for telling me. Be safe driving home. Text your mom you’re coming.”

I watched from the landing until she got into her car. Then I locked us in, and that’s when I heard Autumn make her run for the bathroom.

She beat me to it by a step, hit her knees at the toilet like a runner sliding home, and everything came up—the schnapps, the night, the worry, and somewhere in the middle of it, the crying. I did the only job there was. I knelt behind her, gathered that pretty hair back off her face in one hand, and rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades while the storm took its course.

“There you go. Get it all out, girl.”

“I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t see this⁠—”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be. You know that by now.”

“They think I’m weak. Unfit…” She sagged back against me between rounds, sweaty and wrecked, and cried at the ceiling.

“Who, sweetheart? Point me at them and I’ll tell them otherwise. You’re the bravest woman I know.”

“What would I do without you, Jake? Such a good friend.”

Any other night that word would’ve shot me under the ribs, same as always. This night I just held her through it.