Waiting for Autumn

by DeRouen, J. A.

  Marge’s all too familiar words of wisdom come to mind—words she’s told me dozens of times since the day I washed up on her and Joe’s doorstep.

  Do what you’ve always done, and you’ll get what you’ve always got.

  So here I stand, doing something I never thought I’d have the guts to do, expecting … well, I’m not entirely sure what I’m expecting, really. But it seems like the first step in the direction of healing.

  As I knock on the front door, I try to stifle the hope simmering up to the surface. I can’t help but notice the SUV in the driveway—the same SUV from the cemetery earlier. I’d give anything for either Autumn or Brady to answer the door, but there’s little chance of that. Mr. and Mrs. Norris warned me away all those years ago, and there’s no way they’ll let me waltz back into town, and back into their lives, without a fight. History proves they don’t fight fair, and today won’t be any different.

  Mr. Norris steps onto the porch, arms crossed and face impassive. The door clicks shut behind him, and he doesn’t say a single word.

  Hello, stone wall…

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” I say, raising my hands as a gesture of truce.

  “Aren’t you?” He releases a dragon breath and shakes his head. “Son, I’m sorry for your loss, but … I can’t imagine why you’d think showing up here would be a good idea.” His tone is clipped, and I barely recognize the man in front of me.

  I’m fully aware that my foolish actions caused this change in him. I’ve had years to ruminate on how my actions would affect his opinion of me, but I’ve never experienced it firsthand. I was sent away without ever seeing the full force of his anger, and today, it feels like a close-range gunshot. Time has done nothing to heal the gaping wound l’ve left behind.

  I’d always thought of Mr. Norris as a fair man, almost a second father to me. I’ve sat at their dinner table, had sleepovers and campouts with their son, tagged along to Sunday Mass … loved their daughter. I’d cared for Brady and Autumn’s parents all those years ago, and I know they’d cared about me, too. I know he cared for me, but that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago, it seems.

  “I know I’m the last person you want to see …” He lets out a sarcastic huff and shakes his head. “But I only came here to apologize. I never got the chance back then, and I want you and your family to know how deeply sorry I am for the pain I’ve caused.”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry?” He throws up his hands in exasperation and barks out a humorless laugh. “Well, since you’re sorry, we’ll forget all about it—”

  “That’s not what I mean,” I interrupt, feeling my temper bristle at the insinuation that my words are careless and flippant.

  “Since you’re sorry, we can erase all Brady’s years of frustration and physical therapy. I’ll grab the phone and call LSU right now. Let them know Sebastian Kelly is sorry, so my son will be on the field and ready to practice next week.”

  His words wheeze out in a long, labored exhale. The diatribe expels like a deflating balloon, and at the end, Mr. Norris looks spent. The silence between us feels insurmountable. He inspects me, like a hateful child making the most of a magnifying glass and the burning sun, for no other reason than he can.

  It’s clear that nothing I say will penetrate the blame and anger that’s been carefully crafted and nurtured over the years. I did as they said—I left and never contacted them. Today, it seems as if that may have been the worst mistake I could have made. The passage of time and my silence only allowed the hurt to fester and grow. My hope for a different future withers away with each of his menacing glares.

  “Since you’re sorry,” he whispers.

  “You don’t get to act like I don’t care. You don’t get to send me away, then stand here and berate me for not being here for Brady. It’s unfair and you know it.”

  “What’s unfair is that you get to waltz into town and apologize and have this weight lifted from you. You get to be free from all of this, but what about my boy?” Mr. Norris’s voice cracks, and I resist the urge to touch his shoulder. Grab his hand. Share this pain with him, because yes, I hurt for Brady, too. I think of what he’s lost, and I’m overcome with the desire to turn back the clock.

  But I’m the last person he wants comfort from.

  “You think I came here today to be what? Absolved? To be set free?” I can’t leech the incredulous tone from my voice because what the fuck? This man has no clue who I am. “That’s not what I want. It’s never what I’ve wanted. It’s what you demanded of me.”

  Another weighty silence falls between us, and I release a frustrated breath.

  “I don’t want to be free. That’s not what I wanted then, and it’s definitely not what I want now. I needed to be in the thick of it, right alongside Brady, doing whatever I could to help my best friend. And it wouldn’t have been a penance—it would have been a privilege. Still would. Helping Brady, being there for him, is all I’ve ever wanted. He was my best friend, Mr. Norris. Autumn was my—”

  “Don’t say it. Don’t you even dare say her name.” He stabs a finger into my chest, then recoils like my chest is made of hot coals. He drops his chin to his chest and shakes his head. Just when I think he’s going to walk away from me, he sucks in a tortured breath and meets my gaze.

  “If I could just see them,” I whisper, unashamed of the pleading in my voice.

  “We had a deal. You stay the hell out of town and away from my family. In return, I don’t sue you for every penny you’ve got. If you want me to keep up my end of the bargain, I suggest you get the hell off my property, get into your car, and drive.” His eyes burn with anger and saliva collects in the corners of his mouth as he points to the road behind me. “Just drive and don’t stop until you see the Prosper city limit sign fading in your rearview mirror.”

  I pull my keys out of my pocket and squeeze the jagged edges into the flesh of my palm. Mr. Norris and I will never understand each other, and this conversation could go in wicked circles for eternity. I need to back off … for now.

  “I’ll leave, and I’ll never bother Autumn or Brady again, if that’s their wish. But if it’s not …” I say, pausing until I have his full attention. “If that’s not what they want, though, then all bets are off. Circumstances have changed. You can’t hurt my family anymore, Mr. Norris. So, I won’t promise to stay away from yours.”

  My parents’ death wounded me in many ways. Never feeling their acceptance, knowing they’ll never see the man I’ve become … so many regrets. I’ll live with that in some way for the rest of my life, whether it be open wounds or mended scars. But there’s no denying it freed me in others. I didn’t leave Prosper out of fear for my own well-being. I left to spare my parents. My father didn’t deserve to have everything he’d worked his entire life for ripped away because of me.

  But now, here I stand, a man with nothing to lose—a loose cannon. And if the expression on Mr. Norris’s face is any indication, he knows it. And he doesn’t like it one bit.

  Without another word, he turns on his foot and reenters the house, leaving me staring at my second childhood home with jumbled feelings of regret laced with the tiniest amount of hope. What did he say to spark hope in me? Not a damn thing, if I’m honest, but the dreamer in me is a resilient little bastard, able to survive on faith and fumes.

  I back away, watching the third window on the right, willing a certain pair of blue eyes to peek through and meet mine. Wishing she would crack open her window like she’d done a thousand times before, and race into my arms.

  A sharp whistle jerks me back into reality, staring at the vacant window and steeling away my aching heart. My head jerks, and I do a double take at the scene before me.

  Brady motions me closer with a wave of his hand as he sits perched in the driver’s side of the SUV. The door is swung open, and his wheelchair occupies the space on the ground.

  He throws a thumb behind him and jerks his head. “Throw the wheels in the back and get in. I’ve had to u
se this piece of shit all week since my van’s in the shop. Pain in my ass.”

  “Wh-what?” I stammer, shaking my head in confusion.

  “Hurry the fuck up, dude,” Brady chides sarcastically while shooting me a what-are-you-waiting-for grin.

  I continue shaking my head, hoping the motion will unclog my brain. “If I get in the car with you, your dad will call the police and have my ass thrown in jail for kidnapping. Not sure how you’ve missed it, but the guy hates my guts.”

  “I’m a cripple, you fool, not a child. You can’t kidnap a willing, grown ass man.”

  “Brady, I’m trying to show your parents that I’m not the same stupid kid. I seriously doubt taking off with you right now is a step in the right direction …” My voice tapers off, hoping Brady will hear the voice of reason and agree to a friendly driveway chat.

  When he stays silent for five seconds, then ten seconds, I think I’ve gotten through.

  Brady’s lips curve into a mischievous smile, and he mutters under his breath, “Pussy.”

  Shit …

  I begrudgingly grab the wheelchair, toss it in the back, and climb into the passenger’s seat. I’m impressed with the modified handles and controls made to accommodate Brady. He cranks the engine as I slide my seat belt into place.

  “Let’s hope your ‘crippled’ ass can drive,” I mutter, throwing his choice of words right back at him as the SUV jerks into reverse.

  Chapter 9

  Dear Autumn,

  Halloween—I’ll be Westley, and you’ll be my Buttercup. My princess bride. I’ll protect you at the haunted house tonight.

  Unless you tell anyone the costumes were my idea. Then I’ll leave you for dead in the Hillbilly Hell Room.

  As you wish,

  Seb

  Autumn - Sixteen Years Old

  The Past

  Prosper, LA

  Sandy’s high-pitched shriek blows out my eardrums, and I stumble as she shoves me forward. With my ringing ears and the struggle to stay upright, I barely register the snarling zombies clawing at us from behind the steel cage. Another piece of my dress rips under my heel, and I groan.

  “Sandy, you’ve got to get it together, or I’m gonna walk out of this haunted house buck naked.”

  “Is it over? Is it over? We’ve got to be close to the end, right?” I reach around and pull her close behind me as I inch toward the buzzing of a chainsaw. She cries, “Oh no, that can’t be good!”

  “Just stay behind me, tuck your head into my neck, and close your dang eyes.” She does as I ask and whimpers. I blow out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know why you ever thought this was a good idea. You get twitchy watching Criminal Minds.”

  “Because it’s creepy! If Criminal Minds doesn’t scare the shit out of you, then there’s something wrong.”

  “Stop screeching, or I’m going to throw you in the cage with the zombies.” I laugh as she trembles behind me.

  The Prosperians for Change, the local civic organization, sponsor the annual fright house and cornfield maze every year. Sandy always begs me to go with her, and every year she all but pees her pants as we make our way through. Usually Seb likes a front row seat to the freak show—Sandy, not the haunted house—but he was nowhere to be found when we got here. This Buttercup is without her Westley, and I’ve been itching to find him. The best part of Halloween is getting “lost” in the corn maze with Seb.

  The “transplant-gone-wrong” scene is the last stop, and the ice chest is overflowing with entrails as the vampire nurse reaches inside and takes a whopping bite of large intestine.

  Sandy clutches her chest and dry heaves. “I’m go-go-gonna—”

  “If you paint my back with the Baconator you scarfed down earlier, I swear on all that is holy, I will cut you, you hear me?” I reach back, grab ahold of her arm, and jerk her forward. “Keep it moving.”

  The cool October air crashes into us as we step onto the creaky front porch, and Sandy holds herself up with one hand pressed against the house and the other clutching my shoulder. Watching her catch her breath with her Vote for Pedro T-shirt, oversized eyeglasses, and her slightly askew afro feels like my reward for enduring the haunted house with her. My doofus of a best friend is in rare form, but I love her.

  “You gonna make it, Napoleon?” I ask as I hand her a few tissues to wipe her sweaty forehead.

  She narrows her eyes at me, but before she can deliver a snarky response, I hear Seb calling my name. I raise a finger in her direction as I turn around, and she huffs.

  Sebastian, my own, personal Westley, stands below the porch, gripping the railing as he drinks me in. His hair is darker than the original Westley, but he’s feathered it perfectly. The ties of his flowy man-shirt hang loose, exposing a bit of his chest. He even grew a teeny mustache to look the part. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

  “Wow,” he breathes as the corner of his mouth quirks up into a lopsided grin. “You take my breath away, Buttercup.”

  I lower my head and flutter my lashes bashfully. “Thank you, kind sir,” I whisper as I lift the sides of my dress and lower into a deep curtsy.

  “I should throw you over my shoulder right now and steal you away.”

  “To the cornfield? Yes, please.” A little shiver runs down my spine at the thought, but it stops short when I catch Seb’s frown. “What’s wrong?”

  He reaches out a hand to me. “We’ve got a little problem.” He flinches and lifts his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Actually, we’ve got a two-hundred-pound problem … and it’s time sensitive.”

  “Oh no.” I round the railing and walk down the front porch steps, wondering what Brady has gotten up to. “What did he do?”

  This football season has been the most stressful of Brady’s life. The whole town is counting on him to bring home the championship. My dad has constant video, along with unhelpful commentary, going at home—last week’s game tape, the other team’s game tape, highlights and low points of Brady’s game play. The scouts are in the stands most Friday nights. And Brady looks like a pressure cooker, ready to blow at any second. I had a feeling it was just a matter of time before he would implode.

  Everyone thinks being the football star is the greatest thing there is, but that’s not what I see when I look at my older brother these days. Being the town hero looks like misery if you ask me.

  Seb salutes Sandy. “So long, Napoleon. I’ll take a rain check on your dance routine.”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you serious?” he scoffs. “You can’t dress up as Napoleon Dynamite if you can’t rock the ending dance number.”

  Sandy rights her afro and pushes her glasses up her nose. “You don’t think I can rock it?”

  Her eyebrows lift in challenge just as her hips start to gyrate in her skintight Wranglers. When she throws in the jazz hands, there’s no doubt she’s in touch with her inner geek. She stops abruptly and points at Seb. “To be continued.”

  * * *

  “You gotta stand for somefin …”

  I hear Brady’s drunken, off-key singing before I actually see him and shoot Seb a weary glance. We round the corner, and a muddied pair of work boots are all that’s sticking out from underneath the house.

  “You gotta be your own man …”

  The boots shuffle in the dirt, and a loud clanging comes from underneath the house. I assume his routine includes gestures, too, and Seb jumps into action to grab a bottle from the booted doofus.

  Wild Turkey … yeah, not the greatest idea my brother’s ever had.

  “You don’ haveta call me darlin’ … hey … where’s ma whiskey?” Brady slurs. He starts to shuffle out from underneath the house, but a big thud causes him to stop short. A pained groan fills the night air. “Yup, thas gonna leave a mark.”

  A giggle escapes my lips before I can muffle it with my hand. “Dude is toast.”

  “That’s an understatement. His eyeballs are floating in a pool of whiskey.”

  As ridiculous as Brady sounds
holding a one-man, off-tune country concert, nobody’s going to be laughing if he gets caught. Grounded at home, possibly suspended from the team … things will go downhill quickly if we don’t do something.

  “We’ve got to get him out of here before someone sees him. Coach … Principal Higgins … God, my dad. He’ll kill him, Seb,” I whisper while trying to figure out the least conspicuous route from where we are to the parking lot.

  Seb bends down, takes hold of Brady’s ankles, and pulls with all of his might. My brother appears from under the house, a whole lot of dusty with a lopsided gorilla mask on his head. His groan gets louder as Seb grabs his arms and heaves him up to a sitting position. He lets out a wet and nasty burp as the gorilla mask falls to the ground.

  “If you’re gonna hurl, do it now, brother. Before we get in the truck,” Seb warns as he hauls him up to standing.

  Brady throws an arm around Seb’s shoulder and teeters on unsteady feet. “’S’all good, man. I’m feeling good. So fine.”

  I shove the gorilla mask back on Brady’s bobbing head, then wrap his other arm around my shoulders for support.

  “The mask makes it easier to hide you while we’re getting out of here.”

  “Also muzzles that ninety-proof breath,” Seb mutters under his breath, and I giggle.

  * * *

  I toss the muddy boots, gorilla mask, and sweaty T-shirt into the corner of Brady’s room as he lays sprawled on the bed.

  “Safe and sound, and nobody’s the wiser,” I say as I draw a quilt over him. “Sorry, but the jeans stay. Drunk or not, you’re still my brother.”

  Brady catches my wrist as I try to stand and levels me with a defeated look in his eyes. At this moment, he looks way more sober than I thought he could.