by Leia Stone
"Okay," I say, wishing now that I had drank more wine with Livvie.
"Okay, I can drive Faith home?"
I hear the surprise in his question. "Yes," I answer.
"I'll see you after a while, then."
"See you soon," I tell him, and scold myself for the butterflies that take flight in my belly.
I hang up at the same time as I reach the car.
When I get in, I flip down the visor and do a cursory check of my makeup and hair. That's when I see it. The smile I hadn't realized was plastered on my face. I swipe at my mouth as if the grin is a bright lipstick I can wipe off and find myself wondering if it’s because of Owen’s call or my new friend Livvie.
I have to remind myself that Owen is just a friend, and hardly even that. There is too much pain and history for there to be anything more. And that's the way it is going to stay.
Chapter 7
Owen
My thumbs beat a loud rhythm on the steering wheel of my car as I think of Autumn. The way she narrowed her eyes at me when I'd asked her if we're the kind of friends that get coffee. Then she barked her short answer “another time,” before turning on her heel and striding away. The sway of her hips issued a challenge: catch me if you can. She wants to make me pay, and I don't blame her a damn bit. But why do I like pain so much, why do I keep poking the bear? I must have lain awake a thousand nights with Autumn Cummings’ name on my lips. I typed that phone number a million times. Kissed those lips hundreds of times. And it all turned to ashes over one night.
"I don't think I've ever seen someone so hyped up."
The muscles in my neck tense at the sound of Faith's voice. I'd been so lost in my thoughts I'd completely spaced that there was another person in my car, enjoying the concert my thumbs were putting on.
I look over at Faith. "What do you mean?"
She shrugs. "You tell me. You're the one who turned your steering wheel into a drum."
My fingers stop, the noise in the car ceasing. "Why are you asking me questions? I should be the one asking you questions. How do you feel?"
Faith has a keen sense of how a person is feeling inside. She missed her calling as a shrink.
She frowns. "Fine. Now, let's talk about why you're so nervous. And don't tell me you're not, because I've known you for a long time, and I like to think I know a lot about you by now."
"You do," I confirm, but a twinge of guilt scrapes at me. She doesn't know what really went down between Autumn and me. She is, however, the only person besides Ace who knows about what I'm going through with my dad.
"I think my daughter has something to do with your nerves. Or maybe she has everything to do with it." Faith raises an eyebrow and I chuckle. If that woman had it her way, Autumn and I would be married with two-point-five kids and living next door. That was the plan … always the plan.
"Seeing her again isn't easy," I admit. I still remember taking pictures the night of senior prom. Faith looked so proud to see Autumn and I make it through high school together.
Faith makes a sarcastic noise in her throat. "No kidding?"
I wonder what Autumn has told her and it reminds me of all those times I called Faith’s house freshman year of college begging her to get Autumn to return my calls.
“She told me if I speak your name again, she’ll disown me. What did you do, Owen?” Faith had growled. Having a woman I considered to be a second mother ask me what I did wrong really fucked with my eighteen-year-old head. That’s when the guilt and shame turned to anger. Anger at Autumn for not giving me a chance to right my wrongs, for leaving me to deal with the choice we made and no one to talk to about it.
"We talked today. We're going to do better. Be adult about it all," I said proudly.
I'd chased after Autumn in the hospital earlier as Faith, Melody, and Linda had looked on. It wasn't my finest, most professional moment. I did my best to appear in control as I strode through the treatment room, but I don't know if my air of collectedness fooled anybody but me. “Collected” is the last thing I am when I'm around Autumn. In her presence, my blood boils, my stomach churns with guilt, my heart turns over in my chest. That woman drives me mad and it doesn’t help that she’s gotten even more beautiful with age.
"Maybe what you two really need is an honest conversation about how you ended,” Faith says matter-of-factly. “Air your grievances and get the ugliness out in the open where it can be dealt with. How can you move past it when you're both still stuck inside it?"
A lump forms in my throat at the thought of having Autumn alone, sitting across from her, finally apologizing for everything I said … it would feel so good. But it would also bring up what happened and I’m not sure either one of us ever wants to revisit that again.
Unless she wants to, unless it would help both of us heal…
Maybe. Clearly time hasn't erased her memory. She seems to have a razor-sharp grasp on the last time we saw each other, which makes me so ashamed.
My hand captures my lower lip and I squeeze it so it bunches together in the middle. I'm considering Faith's suggestion.
The hard part will be getting Autumn to hear me out. How am I going to make that happen when she so clearly doesn't want to hear what I have to say? And once I start talking, she’s bound to interrupt me in anger and the whole thing will become a big shitshow.
At the next light, I make an unplanned right turn, causing Faith to send a questioning glance my way.
"Ice cream," I explain. "To celebrate you beating this again."
A grin tugs at her mouth. "Isn't it a little premature?"
"Nah. We're putting it out into the universe that you're going to make this cancer your bitch."
Faith bursts into laughter and tosses her arms in the air. "Salted caramel for me!"
I love this woman, and Ace’s comment about me being too close to properly manage her care gnaws at my gut.
"Thanks for carrying that in, Owen." Faith holds the front door open for me and I step through, three grocery bags in one hand. I head for the kitchen and set them on the counter.
"No problem," I tell Faith as she begins pulling items from the bag. We stopped at the store for ice cream but ended up with a few more things Faith needed. Typical. When does anyone ever actually leave the grocery store with the one thing they ran in to get?
"Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" I ask, thumbing over my shoulder and down the hall.
"Of course not," Faith says as she bends to place something in the fridge.
I leave Faith in the kitchen, and just as I reach for the bathroom doorknob, it turns and the door flies open.
"Fuck," Autumn says, shocked, her fingers curling over the fold at the top of the towel wrapped around her.
"Shit … sorry." I step aside to let her pass. My eyes find the floor so she doesn't think I'm a creep enjoying an eyeful. She takes a moment to gather her bearings, then steps around me. The smell of cucumber and vanilla hits me hard as she passes and it’s like I’ve been punched in the gut.
She still uses the same shampoo, which takes me back to prom night and the shower we took together after…
I hurry into the bathroom, but before I close the door, I look at her. I can't help it.
She's standing at the entrance to her bedroom, watching me. Her long brown hair lies damp on her back, her shoulders bare. Her makeup-free face is more beautiful than I remember and I can’t help but eye her lips.
Her eyebrows raise as I take her in. "How's the view?" she asks sarcastically.
My neck heats up. "You'd look too if I came out wearing only a towel," I say, trying for confidence and good-natured humor and hoping she doesn’t take it wrong.
She smirks. "Maybe ten years ago, but I don’t know what’s under there anymore.” She points to my stomach. “Could be a beer belly." Then she steps into her room and closes the door.
Hah! Is that a challenge? Because I’ll rip my shirt off right now and show her the six pack Ace helped me get in the gym. God, I fucking love her little sassy
attitude. It’s a problem.
Stepping into the bathroom, I shut the door and I'm left with her scent. It's … well, mouth-watering. A little too delicious for my own wellbeing.
After finishing up in the bathroom, I get back out to the kitchen. Nobody is around, but from the kitchen window I catch sight of Faith in her small vegetable garden. Day one of chemo, most patients would be napping, but not Faith. She’s a warrior.
From a cabinet I pull out three small mismatched bowls. Just as I'm dropping the first scoop of ice cream into a bowl, Autumn walks in.
Her hair is still damp, the moisture causing it to appear even darker than its normal chocolate shade. Her face is slightly pink, probably from the hot shower she took. Certainly not because she's flushed thinking about my supposed beer belly. It's painfully clear the effect I used to have on her has disappeared.
I, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about what is under that towel.
She ignores me and walks to the door that leads outside, staring out at her mother. My ice cream scoop stops midway between the bowl and the carton. The afternoon sun shines off Autumn's profile, illuminating her face and my heart twists as I take her in. She is so familiar that my fingertips remember what it felt like to run them up her arms, over her shoulders, down the valley created by her breasts. But there are parts of her I don't know, a newness that intrigues me. Where she used to be narrow, her hips have taken shape more like the bottom half of an hourglass. Her cheekbones are more defined. On her face I see her strength, the determined set of her eyebrows, but fragility lives there too. What happened in New York that made her fragile? Or is it being back here that has done it?
Her eyes are trained on her mom. Her thick lashes blink once, twice, then she opens her mouth: "How was today?" she asks, not looking at me. Her voice breaks the spell and I glance down at my hand suspended mid-air. Small drops of melted ice cream dot the counter.
I clear my throat, more from discomfort than actually needing to clear my throat. "Good. Your mom is a warrior, you know that?"
I keep spooning ice cream and glance up when she hasn't yet answered. Her arms are crossed and she's watching me. I get the feeling I've done something wrong. In her book, anyway.
"What?" I ask.
"I went to the store today and bought a fridge full of healthy food."
"Oh… okay." I guess ice cream was a bad idea.
"People with cancer need a diet rich in cruciferous vegetables. They need dark leafy greens and bright colors for antioxidants. No sugar." She points to the ice cream I wield like it’s a weapon.
I hear conviction in her voice, but there's a vein of desperation running through it.
I swallow my sigh and dip my head down so my eyes are on the counter. How can I tell her that I don't disagree with her, but at this point there isn't much a diet like she's describing is going to do for Faith.
Been there, done that—didn’t work. Faith’s cancer coming back a third time means it’s aggressive, and although I’m hopeful I can get her into remission again, it could all go south in an hour and we would have to change our plan.
After Faith's first diagnosis, I got on a first name basis with a farmer and his wife at the local farmer’s market. Every Sunday, Faith and I went and bought them out of vegetables and summer fruit. Faith hated juicing, but she pinched her nose and drank. I learned that adding lemon made it all more palatable.
Months later, she was declared cancer-free and we celebrated with ice cream.
And then it came back. Twice.
Autumn is seeing this all for the first time. She's coming here with guns blazing, ready to jump into action with acai berries and God knows what else. Faith and I are beaten down and scarred from previous battles, but Autumn doesn’t know that, and I don’t think Faith has told her daughter how much I helped around the house in the past.
I balance two bowls in one hand and one in the other, walking slowly to Autumn and handing her a bowl.
"I agree with you. And after this bowl of ice cream, you can start her on the diet you're talking about. Wherever you learned it, you're not wrong. But keeping her spirits up is just as important as anything else, so can you please let her enjoy this before you start giving her liquid spinach for dinner?"
Autumn takes the bowl, her eyes squinting at me in suspicion. "You know she hates spinach?"
I feel like there are other questions lying beyond that one. What she's really asking is, Do you know she hates spinach because you tried this with her already?
I feel it only fair to let her know just how close her mother and I are.
"I've been eating dinner with her for a long time, Autumn. It only took one time of me making sun-dried tomato and spinach-stuffed chicken to learn about her aversion." It's not a lie, that really happened. Still, I feel bad, because it's not the full truth. But it's what she wants to hear. I don’t want Autumn to know the juicing and healthy diet failed. Hope is important in cancer recovery, even if it’s the family member who carries the hope.
Relief trickles into Autumn's expression, and I feel a tiny bit better about my omission.
She steps aside and motions out the door. "I'll let you do the honors," she says.
I’m surprised she hasn’t kicked me out yet. It’s a big step in our new “friendship.”
I nod and smile, stepping through the back door and out into the yard. Faith looks over and eyes the bowls I'm holding, then her gaze moves over to watch Autumn step out and come to a stop beside me.
"A little treat to start this all off," I yell to her. "And then it's greens tomorrow. Doctor’s orders."
Faith comes over, a smear of dirt across the front of her shirt. She takes the bowl I have held out to her and pulls out the spoon. Then she dips her spoon into Autumn's bowl first, and then mine, taking ice cream from each of us.
She grins. "If I'm going to look like the Hulk from eating all those leafy greens, I might as well go out with a bang."
"Come on, Autumn, you know you have some good stories." Faith pushes her empty dinner plate out of her way and leans her forearm on the table. "Spill."
Autumn pushes a lone piece of zucchini around her plate. She made roasted vegetable enchiladas that were a thousand times more delicious than anything I made for Faith in all the time we've eaten together. I'm not sure what has shocked me more since I brought Faith home from chemo: Autumn's cooking ability—which she claims is just following a recipe, not real talent—or her inviting me to stay for dinner.
Autumn twists her lips and tips her head, looking at the wall behind me as she thinks. Her eyes light up, and she looks back down to me, then to her mother, her lips curling into a fond smile.
"There was a homeless man who hung out by a fountain near my apartment. Sometimes, if I was stopping to grab something to eat on my way home, I'd grab food for him too. Usually just the same thing I was getting. But this one Saturday morning I was on my way out to run an errand, and I asked him if there was anything specific he would like me to get for him, and…" She pauses, looking at us intriguingly. "Do you want to guess what he asked for?"
I look across the table at Faith, seated beside Autumn. She grins and says, "Condoms."
Autumn's eyes widen and I laugh. "Mom, for real?"
Faith shrugs. "Is it so farfetched?"
Autumn thinks about it. "I guess not. But … well, no. That's not what he asked for."
"My turn," I declare, making a show of rolling my shoulders and clapping twice, like I'm ready to go. "I think he asked you for a dozen eggs."
"Hah!" Autumn belts out. "No, but you're in the ballpark. He asked me for organic soy milk."
My mouth drops open. I was kidding about the eggs.
“Organic scmorganic, what’s the obsession with this organic stuff?” Faith bellows, and I grin. “If you tell me to go gluten free, you’re fired.”
Autumn’s brows knit together. “We may have to consider gluten free, Mom.”
I can see that the comment triggers Faith an
d I don’t want them to argue. I want Autumn to stay happy and carefree, so I quickly get back on topic.
"How did he keep it cold? The homeless guy?"
"No idea. But I did as he asked. And it made him happy."
Faith smiles and sits back, thawed since the gluten free threat. "That was nice. Better than the story you told me about that time the guy on the street in New York shoved a CD into your hand as you passed him and then Matt—"
"Oh, right, that was crazy," Autumn breaks in. She gives Faith a warning look. It's subtle, but I didn't miss it. There was a story there that she didn’t want me to know.
All I can think is: Who the fuck is Matt?
I stand, taking my plate with me as I go. When I make a grab for Autumn's plate, she reels her hand back too quick, pulling it from my reach without a word of explanation. Then she takes Faith's plate too but doesn’t make a move for mine.
Okay…
I turn around and head for the kitchen and feel Autumn right behind me.
She pulls up next to me at the sink and places her small stack of bowls beside my single one.
"I'll do the dishes." My voice is gruff. I can't help it. The second the dude Matt’s name left Faith’s lips, it turned me inside-out with jealousy. I'm not an idiot; I don't expect Autumn turned into a virginal princess when she and I broke up. Until now I've tried to never, ever consider her with anybody else. Given what it's doing to me right now, that was a good call on my part. But now I’m wondering if she has a boyfriend back in New York.
Faith and I came to an agreement years ago: we don’t talk about Autumn. Now I’m wondering if that was wise.
Autumn frowns at me. "Are you okay? You seem … off."
I don't want to admit what’s going on, so instead I reach around her for the scrub brush and snatch up the soap. Who the hell is Matt? An ex? A current? A friend? Matt had better be short for Matilda because this was seriously stressing me out. Honestly, I was shocked she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring. Twenty-eight and still single? She was going to get snatched up quick.