I type out my response. Tell your mom I wouldn't miss it for the world.
It's true. Autumn or no Autumn, Faith is important to me.
"You're late."
Autumn leans against the doorframe, arms crossed like a guard denying me entry. All I can think about is my fingers inside of her as we were pressed against my dad’s house in the dark of night … the way she moaned in my ear and tilted into my hand, begging for more.
I clear my throat. "My last patient needed some extra time." I rub my temple with two fingers. I should ask her where the hell she went last night after she disappeared on me, but I don't have it in me to start that discussion right now. I'm exhausted, and I'm starving.
Autumn must sense that I'm not a worthy opponent right now. She steps aside and I walk in. If I were more awake, more spry, I'd brush against her as I walk past, but I'm not, and I don't so much as graze an inch of her.
“Hey, I was fucking with you. You okay?”
I flinch, I don’t know why, but I do, and she retracts her arm.
“I had a rough day with a pediatric patient.” I flick my gaze up to hers and her face falls.
“Oh.” I can see the shadows cross over face, haunting her, and I regret telling her about my patient.
I’m so pissed she hasn’t said anything about running off last night that I just keep walking until I reach the kitchen.
Faith is in there preparing a salad. I peer over her shoulder to see what we are eating. Kale, with sliced apples, almonds, and grapefruit.
"Very healthy," I comment.
Faith startles. "Geez, I didn't know you were there, Owen. I'm sorry. I was daydreaming."
I settle back against the edge of the counter. "I hope it was a good dream."
She smiles. "Pretty good."
Also known as, I'm not telling you about it.
“How are you feeling after chemo?” I ask.
She nods. “About as good as can be expected.”
That meant some nausea and fatigue no doubt.
Autumn walks in, glancing at me hesitantly before going to the fridge and opening it. She's wearing black leggings, a loose top, and her hair is wound into a messy bun on the top of her head. She's stunning and she's not even trying. Typical Autumn.
"The grill should be ready by now," Autumn says, pulling away from the fridge with a tray. On top are three large salmon filets. She doesn't ask me to come outside with her, but the meaningful look she gives me conveys her message.
From the window above the kitchen sink, I watch her walk to the grill, and after what I think is probably enough time, I follow.
"Do you need help with the fish?" I ask, coming up to stand beside her at the grill. She has set the tray on the small attached workspace and is folding the foil around the salmon so it creates something like a pillow. My guess is that she brought me out here to talk about what happened last night, but I'm not sure how to start the conversation.
"I'm sorry," she says, not looking at me. She sets the foil packet on the heated grill. "I freaked out and took off last night."
Wow. An apology from Autumn Cummings. Never thought those words were capable of leaving her lips. She picks up a pair of tongs and uses them to push the foil to the center of the grill before stepping back. I reach around her and push the lid down over the grill to be helpful.
"I understand," is all I say as I watch her toss the tongs on the now-empty tray. "But I was disappointed." I'd wanted to hold her, touch her, kiss her, make her listen to what I have to say. I’ve waited a fucking decade to speak and she still hasn’t let me.
"I didn't know what to say or do after … you know." Pink blooms on her cheeks. "It was just so unexpected. I still can't believe I let it happen like that."
I still can't believe I let it happen like that. My stomach drops in my gut. That sounds like regret. Or embarrassment that we let our passions get the better of us?
I study her profile as she stares out into the yard. Clearly there is still attraction between us, as strong as it ever was, maybe even stronger now. "Don't be embarrassed, Autumn. I … liked it." What a lame way to finish a sentence. I want to tell her that I didn't just like it. I loved making her come apart at the seams, knowing it was me who was taking her on that ride.
She eyes me. "It’s backwards…” she says and I get her meaning. “I don't know what to say or do now either."
"Neither do I." I rub my eyes, the exhaustion of the day creeping in.
"Did you have a bad day?"
My hands run through my hair. "No. Not really a bad day. Just a hard one."
"Why was it hard? Because … it was a kid?"
"Because the patient was a ten-year-old girl."
“Oh.” Not just any kid, a kid the exact age ours would be.
Her lower lip trembles. A few seconds later, tears well up in her eyes. "Is it always like that for you? When it's a child" she asks. She is trying so hard to be brave, to stumble through the anguish that still plagues us both.
"Yes. You?"
"I don't have much interaction with children. But yes, sometimes it happens."
We look into each other's eyes, and the stare is full of everything we've been holding back. We've held it in for years, knowing it lies dormant, resurrected only by one another.
"I'm so sorry," Autumn says, a guttural sob escaping her. Her shoulders slump and her head dips.
I rush in, wrap my arms around her. "I'm sorry too, Autumn. So sorry. I was just a kid. What I said—"
She shakes her head against my chest. "Please don't go there right now, Owen. I can't take it." She sniffles and wipes her eyes, taking a step back. "Maybe we can talk on your next day off? I'm sure we have an audience right now."
I look over and Faith darts away from the window.
I frown. "You're right, we do."
She smiles ruefully. "My mom is dying to know what happened between us."
"Do you think you'll ever tell her?"
Autumn sighs. "Maybe one day."
"She might take it better than you think."
"You think you know my mom pretty well, don't you?" A defensive tone creeps into her voice. It's the same tone she uses every time she thinks I'm insinuating I know her mom better than she does.
"I know her well enough to know she has lightened up a lot over the years,” I tell her.
Autumn frowns. The conversation is moving away from where I want it to go, and I have to get it back.
"I have the day off tomorrow. Can we get that coffee?"
Autumn nods and reaches for the handle to lift the grill, but I get to it first.
"Let me."
She steps back and I take care of the fish. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her run her fingers under her eyes one more time, wiping away any evidence of upset.
"You ready?" I ask, pausing with the tray in my hand.
She nods and follows me back across the yard and into the house. Halfway through dinner, Faith sets her fork down and says she doesn't feel well.
"What's wrong?" I ask her, leaning forward. The doctor in me is examining her appearance; the human in me feels the cold whisper of my own fear.