Change Of Season

by Dillon, A. C.

  Autumn swatted playfully at his chest. "Don’t patronize me!"

  "All right, all right!" Andrew’s other hand grazed her stomach beneath her sweater and she shivered in pleasure. "Ask a question, then."

  "Where did you get that scar?" she immediately asked, language escaping her as warm circles were drawn just beneath her bra line.

  "Scar? Oh what, the one on my jaw? Firecracker disaster when I was twelve. One of my idiot friends thought it would be hilarious to treat a sparkler like a lightsaber and took a swing at me as a joke. Grazed me with it." He grinned as her back arched slightly, languidly tracing a line to her waist. "Something wrong, Autumn?"

  "System overload," she murmured, stifling the urge to moan, lest someone overhear it. "Um... desert island albums. Five."

  "Rage Against The Machine’s Battle Of Los Angeles, the Street Sweeper Social Club album, Marilyn Manson’s Mechanical Animals... Hmm, Rain Dogs, Tom Waits. Oh, and Jack’s Mannequin. The Glass Passenger."

  "Really?" Her eyes rolled back as his soft circles drifted along her side. This is too good to be legal!

  "Of course. My fellow Andrew led me to you. Are you sure you’re okay? I could stop-"

  "Don’t you dare!"

  "As you wish," he whispered. "I love how soft you are. It’s a cliché, I know, but your skin feels so nice to the touch."

  Circles and figure eights, branding her. It was all she could do to not ignite. Primal instincts whispered in her ear, urging her to pull him to the floor, to tear at needless layers and press her fevered flesh to his. This wasn’t the place for it, but how desperately she wished it was!

  I’ll have to settle for what I can have.

  With a roll, she rose to her knees, startling Andrew. The element of surprise. Taking advantage of his confusion, she straddled his waist and kissed him. He sank into her with a guttural noise, their kiss intensifying as she gripped his hair and pulled him closer. She felt his hands slide over her hips and up her back and gasped at the contact. Safe harbour, shelter: all fears and doubts were, for a few minutes, cast out by their spark.

  No ghosts here. Only life.

  "Door’s... not locked," Andrew whispered hoarsely.

  "You started it," she whimpered, biting her lip as he sucked gently at her neck.

  "Guilty." He groaned as she retaliated, daring to suck hard and leave a mark. "Hey, lower!"

  Autumn reluctantly obeyed, longing to mark him as hers. To create, not destroy. Satisfied with the small purple oval and his ragged breathing, she leaned back with a smile.

  "Something wrong?" she teased.

  "Not enough privacy, or hours in the day," Andrew answered quietly.

  "I know," she lamented.

  His hand cradled her cheek, pulling her in for a light kiss. "I do have to finish this stupid editing, but you’re far more appealing. What to do?"

  "Finish quickly and make out as a reward?"

  With an exaggerated sigh, he nodded. "I guess. One more kiss?"

  She obliged, lingering in his embrace. She never felt caged in his arms, as she had with Chris. She wasn’t his prey. For all of the tension between them, Andrew never touched her anywhere intimate, although she’d noticed several false starts in heated moments. He had the restraint of a saint.

  You’re worth waiting for. His words still rang true.

  Reluctantly she rose, letting him off the couch to resume work. She pretended not to notice the bulge in his jeans, acutely aware of how her own body ached at the loss of his touch, longed for him to abandon his computer. Film was his passion, and her hormonal surges could wait. No sense making the choice more difficult for him.

  "Whew!" Andrew stretched overhead, flexing his fingers. "Alright, concentration. It’s a skill I used to have."

  "I didn’t mean to be so distracting," she demurred.

  "Like I really mind."

  The clattering of keys resumed and Autumn reached for her bag, digging out her copy of Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace, the first assigned reading in Contemporary Literature. It was a boon for her: she’d already read it twice before, and could skim now to refresh herself. Professor St. James had an eclectic list of readings in the syllabus, and she looked forward to him connecting the dots between the myriad of plots.

  She had scanned her way to the second chapter by the time Andrew shoved the mouse noisily across the desk and hit the power button on the monitor. With a bemused expression, she watched him cram books and notes into his disaster zone of a backpack.

  "Done?"

  He rolled his eyes. "I love Gretchen, I do, but editing together clips of various god-awful Seth Rogen films? Child abuse. The stupidity is burning."

  "I take it you’re not one of the 90% of men who find Superbad hilarious?" she teased, packing up her belongings.

  "I would rather willingly watch Son Of The Mask. At least that movie has Alan Cumming in it."

  "Ouch! That’s on par with choosing to watch Halle Berry as Catwoman!"

  Andrew shuddered, reaching for her hand. "Don’t get me started on poor Catwoman. How do you go from Michelle Pfeiffer to Halle Berry to Anne Hathaway? Michelle is still gorgeous! Cast her! It’s not like Bale’s a spring chicken."

  They walked out together, fingers interlaced, trading thoughts on horrible casting choices across Hollywood’s major franchises. Pop culture fury was their specialty, and their laughter drew several eyes as they crossed the quad. By the time they reached Ashbury, it had become a battle over Lindsay Lohan’s talent, or lack thereof.

  "Oh come on! You can’t possibly hate Mean Girls!" Autumn countered.

  "Everyone gets lucky. Even Megan Fox is tolerable in Jennifer’s Body," Andrew said.

  "Freaky Friday? She had great chemistry with Jamie Lee Curtis."

  Andrew sighed. "Maybe. But you can’t possibly defend drivel like Labor Pains or I Know Who Killed Me."

  "Okay, that baby movie blew, no doubt," Autumn conceded. "But I will make a grand case for I Know Who Killed Me any day."

  "Who are you, and what have you done with my usually intelligent girlfriend?" Andrew asked, his disbelief apparent.

  Autumn smiled, well aware of this reaction to a movie that likely offended any student of Film’s good taste. "In the right hands, the kernel of the story could have been handled far better, first of all. I can see the diamond in the dog crap. Next, the alternate ending? Much more interesting and again, proof that it had potential to work. Three, no matter how awful you think it is, the film gave the world the joy of stripper Lindsay and her robo-leg and hand, and those laughs are priceless, sweetheart. And hey, I kinda liked the blue glass shots."

  "So you’re basically saying it has the same merits of Avatar: the colour blue, a script in need of massive doctoring, and laughter at technology."

  "Only Avatar stole the plot from FernGully: The Last Rainforest and I Know Who Killed Me is a special creature all its own."

  Andrew laughed, rocking back on his heels. "You just ranked one of the most panned films of all time above one of the most successful ones. You’re incredible."

  "And correct, too. Oh, and cherry on top: Machete. Lindsay’s in that stroke of genius. I win!"

  "If I let you win, can we make out for the whopping four minutes we have left?"

  Autumn answered him with a kiss, the winter winds a little less ferocious nestled in his arms. Little moments of joy were her stepping stones between hours of fear and confusion, and Andrew often featured in these brief reprieves. Had she not given in, had she not taken a chance last month, how would she be coping?

  Miserably, she thought.

  "What’s the plan for tomorrow night?" he asked quietly. "Are you going home for the weekend?"

  "No, not until Saturday. Veronica and I have plans."

  "Girls only?" Andrew frowned. "I suppose I’ll live. Movie night?"

  Autumn hesitated, debating how much to tell him. Instinctively she’d left him off the invite list for Tunnel Walk 2012 the night before, and that still seemed wises
t. He hadn’t taken the whole haunted dorm scenario well, abruptly changing the subject whenever able.

  "Um, yeah. Talk, candy, Netflix. Nothing major."

  "So there isn’t a tunnel exploration on tap? That’s good, because given the state of things around here, it’s probably not safe."

  Autumn winced. Did I not tell Veronica to keep it quiet? Andrew was very, very pissed off from his tone. She glanced down at his watch and sighed. This is not a two-minute discussion.

  "Andrew, it’s no big deal."

  "Good. If it’s not important, you can do me a favour and leave it alone, then."

  "You know I can’t do that," she mumbled.

  He kicked the wall angrily beside them, startling her. "Why not? Why do you keep poking around in this?"

  "Nikki won’t let me leave it alone! You can’t possibly understand why this isn’t a choice for me. You don’t live with her."

  "Neither do you!"

  A fault line emerged, splitting the common ground she thought they shared. "You think I’m crazy."

  "No! But Autumn-"

  She pushed him backwards, avoiding his touch of consolation. This wasn’t something that could be remedied with a pat on the arm or a kiss. He thinks I’m crazy. He thinks it’s all in my head. Paranoia.

  "You need to go," she said firmly, feeling her knees shudder. "Goodnight."

  "Autumn, wait!"

  With a swipe of her FOB, she was secured within the warm fortress of her dorm. Untouchable. Crazy might be catching, Andrew. Better be careful. Her stomach turned and lurched as she stomped up the stairs, melted snowflakes leaving a slushy trail behind her. Breadcrumbs for the beasts in her head.

  She scarcely made it to her room before emptying her stomach, spitting in disgust as her mouth swelled with bile. So this was it: Andrew’s breaking point for the chaos that was her life. She had to give credit where it was due, in spite of the large tears welling up. He’d tolerated an awful lot.

  Brushing her teeth, she kicked off her boots, leaving them beside the desk chair moved beneath her ceiling fan – again. Maybe I’m doing that myself, right Andrew? Crazy girl tricks? Her phone beeped once, twice, three times as she sobbed into her pillow, the darkness a welcome friend. Maybe Nikki would let her sleep tonight out of pity. Maybe her plans would appease the angry demanding girl.

  Plugging her phone in to charge, she scanned the texts. Two from Andrew, rapid-fire after their parting:

  I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

  Autumn, please talk to me. Tomorrow?

  The third was from Veronica, and it was apparent that Andrew had taken the step of pulling her friend into the mess.

  Hey doll, what happened? Are you two in a fight? Should I sneak up there?

  With a sigh, she replied to Veronica, not wanting her solo pity party disturbed: Tomorrow. Breakfast in my room. Avoiding the dining hall for obvious reasons.

  She had History first thing with Veronica before her appointment with Emma. If she was lucky, she could avoid him altogether. Do him a favour. What was that saying about loving and letting go?

  She sobbed loudly, considering this thought. Why did I let myself fall in love with him? All of her plans had gone so very astray here. Where was her isolation, her aloof stance? It was all a mistake, and now she was dragging these wonderful people into the flames of her personal hell. Selfish.

  Her phone vibrated loudly, shuddering against the window ledge. He was calling now? This was ridiculous, and could very well get her locked down on campus.

  Maybe that’s the goal.

  Enraged at this manipulation, she answered the call quickly. "Andrew, what the hell do you think you’re doing?"

  Breathing. Steady, rhythmic. It echoed in her skull.

  "Andrew, talk or I hang up."

  Inhale. Exhale. It was all she could hear. Glancing at the display, she dropped the phone on her lap. Unknown Number. It wasn’t Andrew. It couldn’t be him. Why would he block his number?

  Even from here, she could hear the caller’s breathing. Intentionally heavy and loud, meant to terrify. If it wasn’t Andrew, then who-

  Chris. Fiona’s calls.

  Hanging up quickly, she flipped from vibrate to silent, whimpering. It had to be Chris. He was sending a message to her. And now he knows about Andrew. How stupid of her to just assume and answer the phone! She’d handed him a weapon, a sharpened dagger for her frantic heart.

  Had he seen him at Christmas and understood how important he was to her? Did Chris know where she was now?

  Suddenly, avoiding Andrew took on a whole other meaning. It might be a matter of life or death now. Memories of Fiona in her bedroom morphed until it was Andrew in a leg cast, pale and emaciated. Andrew, speaking in hushed tones about the colour of a truck. Andrew’s face struck the dash, not her own, and she was powerless to save him.

  Unless she let him go.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Oakville; January 6th, 2012

  "So, let’s keep you on the Ativan for now, but half as much. Sound okay?"

  Autumn nodded absently at her therapist. "Sure. Fine."

  She absently toyed with the strap of her bag, finger and thumb sliding along the canvas strap until it hurt. Friction burn. It seemed a metaphor for the different parts of her life colliding within her skull. Crowded, chaotic heart. Innocent people on fire.

  "Is there something wrong?" Emma asked softly.

  "I don’t want to talk about it today."

  "Okay, sure. Can we talk about Miraj today?"

  Autumn glanced up, pushing her tangled waves from her face. "Huh? What about her?"

  "I noticed you hadn’t mentioned her in a while. Are you not getting along anymore?"

  She shook her head, drawing her knees up beside her. "No, I haven’t seen her in a little while. Although I guess we’re not exactly on great terms lately. I don’t know. Maybe the whole leaving home thing has affected her."

  "Affected her how?"

  "She’s pissy. Miserable. She always has a problem with everything I do and the people I talk to."

  "When did you last see her?"

  Autumn hesitated, digging through the fragments of memory and conversations. "A month, maybe? It was back in Toronto."

  The fog lifted, and she could see it clearly: midnight, at Woodbine Beach. She hadn’t been able to sleep – shocker – and had slipped out for a late night walk, Chris be damned. Miraj had been there too, walking the shore with a bottle of vodka and a vicious temper.

  "What does she seem angry about?" Emma asked.

  "She pushes me when I don’t cooperate with therapy, which is probably a good thing. I know I need to process this mess, and I can’t do it alone. I get that now." She forced a weak smile for Emma, who returned it. "But then, she gets mad about the amount of time I spend with Veronica. She really doesn’t like that I’m dating Andrew. We fought about that last time."

  The arguments had come at her like bullets from a semi-automatic. How do you know he’s not like Chris? How long have you known him? Should you really be dating right now? What happened to keeping to yourself? You never have time for me now. Miraj had been seething and Autumn had rebuked her at every turn, that first kiss in the storage closet fresh from the night before.

  "Her arguments sound rather familiar to me," Emma remarked. "They’re the ones you’ve written about in your journals. Views you’ve expressed to me here."

  "Well, yeah, of course. We’re friends for a reason. We think a lot alike. She just doesn’t seem to trust me to know my own mind," Autumn complained.

  Emma remained silent, the music emanating from her tinny computer speakers the only sound. Autumn felt uneasy, sensing there was something not being said. Something important.

  "I don’t get where this is going."

  Emma leaned forward slightly, setting her pencil aside. "Has Miraj met Andrew? Or Veronica?"

  "No. She doesn’t come around often, so that’s no surprise."
/>   "But she told you that she’d seen you with Andrew once. You mentioned that to me, back in November."

  "Um, I guess? A lot’s happened since November. I still don’t understand-"

  Emma cut her off, her voice calm yet firm. "If Miraj feels so left out of your world, why doesn’t she approach when you’re with others? If she’s worried about Andrew’s intentions, why hasn’t she confronted him? She’s not one to back down, from what you’ve told me."

  Autumn hesitated. "I-I don’t know... Maybe she sees that I’m happy?"

  How many times had Miraj threatened to slash Chris into pieces if he laid a finger on her? If she was concerned enough to draw a line between him and Andrew, why would she not caution him?

  Something’s strange. What is she trying to say?

  "Autumn, I’m going to ask a question, and I want you to take it seriously and consider carefully before answering. Okay?" At her reluctant nod, Emma continued, "Has Miraj ever met any of your friends or family?"

  "What does that have to do with-"

  "Please, humour me? I’ll explain in a minute."

  Tapping her foot, she thought back, taking each person in turn. Definitely not Andrew. Not Veronica. Evan, Keenan, no one at Casteel, but that makes sense.... Not the parents, but they would hate her, so we avoided that. Heather? She bit her lip, confused.

  "No. No, I don’t think so."

  "Where do you two go when you hang out? Movies? Dinner? Sleepovers at her place?"

  "The Beach. Abandoned places. Walking around. She’s broke, usually, and her parents are abusive, so we never go to her place. She’s trying not to be home, you know?"

  Emma nodded. "Of course. Kind of how you’ve avoided home, in case your parents figured out the truth about Chris."

  Autumn remained silent, her limbs twitching nervously. What is this? I don’t understand.

  "She left home in September to escape her problems. Like you. You still had that friend, that protector, with you here."

  "Okay, I really don’t like this," Autumn said angrily. "Could you come to the point before I storm out of here or break something?"

  Emma hesitated a moment, her eyes dashing to her notes before meeting Autumn’s angry gaze head-on.