She answers three or four times before I actually hear her.
A rogue raindrop bull’s-eyes my forehead, the sky a purple-black bruise.
“Do you wanna go?” she asks, dangling her keys.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
She slaps them into my palm.
My eyebrows raise. “You’re not coming?”
“I’ll get a ride.”
“I can wait. If you wanna stay longer, it’s cool.”
I lean in for a hug, but it’s like embracing an armchair.
“You okay?” I ask again.
“Of course she’s not okay,” one of her friends says. “She was just embarrassed in front of the whole school, and you just let it happen.”
I tilt my jaw. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Defend your girl’s honor,” she shoots back.
I turn back to Autumn. Waiting for her to defend my honor. But she won’t even hold my gaze. I try to lead her to privacy a few feet away, but she’s not budging. “Autumn,” I say softly. “Can we please talk?”
Normally, she’d take my face between her palms, kiss my forehead, my nose. Our eyes locked, she’d say, me and you no matter what.
But now, her body’s speaking a language I can’t even place.
“I’m sorry for . . . Nothing he said is true. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says, in a voice I haven’t heard.
“Look, can we please just . . .”
Her friends close ranks, slingshotting themselves from her rear to a flanking position at either hip. “I’ll catch up with you later,” she says. “Just park in your driveway, toss the keys under the seat.”
And she knows what happens when I get behind the wheel.
“What if I keep them in my room and you come through whenever you’re ready?”
And I see this idea floating through her brain, and for a sec, she’s climbing the ladder, stepping through the window into my bedroom—
But what’s a bubble if not for bursting?
“Just leave them under the seat, okay,” she says, knowing that in all likelihood I won’t be able to leave this party.
This house.
This neighborhood.
That it’s possible I won’t even open the driver’s side door.
Yet she’s doing this anyway.
Which, maybe that’s her point.
That I need her in ways she doesn’t need me back.
That maybe I need her more:
Than she needs me.
Than I know.
“Autumn, I’ve told you things that I—”
“Apparently, you didn’t tell me everything.”
“What didn’t I tell you?”
Her eyes looking through me. “You said Quincy was just a dude. An acquaintance. But that, all that history between you two, that’s way more.”
Which, okay, is it possible I’d edited the narrative a bit—given Autumn the much-abridged version? Maybe.
But the Jamal–Quincy story arc’s still the same.
Ahem. Once upon a time, we were cool. Then he killed my parents. The end.
“Okay, so we used to be friends. Who cares?”
She points to herself. “Me, Jamal. Your girlfriend. I care.”
“Wait, so you’re getting vexed by semantics?”
“No, Jamal, I’m getting vexed by the fact that if you lied about that, which is a dumb-ass thing to lie about, then what else are you lying about?”
“You don’t get it.”
“Because you never wanted me to. What, you thought if I found out how you’d done Quincy, I’d think you were a shitty human, right?”
I roll my tongue around my cheeks. “Autumn. Please. Don’t do this. Let’s just . . . let’s just go somewhere and talk and I’ll tell you everything you wanna—”
But her voice pushes me away. “You should go, Jamal.”
And maybe it’s the full moon that’s got hearts twisted.
“For real?”
“Yeah. For real.” Somehow her friends press in even tighter.
“You gonna be that way off the strength of some salty-ass dude I used to know? Like, word? Wow, I thought you and me rocked differently.”
“I thought so too, Jamal,” she says, folding her arms. “Guess we’re both learning a lot tonight.”
“That, Autumn.” I point to the area of sand we’d vacated. “That wasn’t about you.”
“How was that not about me?”
“How was it?”
“See, this is the part you don’t get. The lesson you won’t let yourself learn.” She shakes her head. “When someone loves you, Jamal, they love all of you. I love all of you. Your pain is my pain. Your anger is my anger. So, when you’re in the thick of it, I’m in the thick of it. But you? It’s like the more people wanna love you, the harder you wanna push them away.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?”
“Not at all.”
“Jamal, how long have we been together?”
I squint in confusion. “What’s that got to do with . . .”
But she’s not finished. “Do you love me, Jamal?”
“Wait, what?”
“Do. You. Love. Me.”
“You know what? I’m not playing this game with you.”
“Who’s playing, Jamal? Huh? You or me?”
“Man, this full moon got everybody out their mind tonight.”
“Or finally in their right mind. Tell me you love me. Say the words.”
“Yo, you buggin’. Like for real.”
“It’s easy, right? Four words. You love to talk, right? So, talk. I love you, Autumn.”
“Why are you trying to embarrass me right now?”
“Oh, I’m embarrassing you, Jamal? I’m embarrassing you? My friends are standing here not listening to you tell me you love me. I think I’m the one embarrassed.”
“Like, you saw what just happened. You know my head’s all over the place and now you wanna have a full-on state of the union.”
And I know I’m dumb as hell.
And I do love her.
Other than my sister, I love Autumn more than anyone on this planet.
Which is exactly why I can’t tell her.
Because the Universe is a trained assassin.
And as soon as it’s out there, the second you verify your weaknesses, expose your soft spots, the Universe starts counting down, and then it’s only a matter of time before it stalks and destroys everything and everyone you love.
I know, because I’ve already seen it happen.
The only thing worse than loving someone so much?
Telling them.
“We’ve been together for two years and you’ve never, not once, told me you loved me. Two years. And I never, not once, complained. I never pushed. I never even nudged you, Jamal. I knew you were afraid. I understood why. And I knew, eventually, you’d get there. But . . . it’s like Q said, eventually you sound stupid even to yourself.”
I feel it in my throat. The burn. The next words I speak, my voice will crack in two. “Autumn. Baby. Please, just . . .”
And for a second, the look she’s giving me, her frustration’s kinda melty. But then I see it, that this isn’t a thing she can let go. I see it, a transformation, her hardening right in front of me. I’m losing her.