“What’s wrong?” Finny says.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Are you sure?” he says, and then, “Autumn—”
And then his phone rings. He stiffens and sits up. When he picks up his phone, he looks at it and frowns.
“Hi,” he says. “Isn’t it like four a.m. for you?” I watch his frown deepen and then he turns away from me. “Just slow down, Syl—no, it’s okay. Take a breath.” He is quiet for a minute, and then he looks over his shoulder at me. He walks out of the room. “What did you have?” he says, and then he closes the door and I can’t hear him anymore.
I lay my head back down on the bed and close my eyes.
When Finny finally comes back, it is to tell me that The Mothers want us for dinner. He doesn’t look me in the eye. After we eat, I go back home. His window is already dark.
74
If you want me to, I can clear my schedule and go down with you and your mother when you move into the dorms,” Dad says. We’re sitting outside at the downtown restaurant he chose. He has a new red car that reminds me of Finny’s, but his doesn’t even have a backseat. “It’s an important day,” he continues, “and if you want me to be there, I will be.”
“So if I don’t want you to come, you won’t?” I ask.
“If you want me to, I will, that’s all I’m saying.” Our appetizer comes and my dad ignores the waitress as she lays the plates down. He doesn’t even look up.
“Thanks,” I say to her. She ignores me too and walks away from us.
“You don’t have to make a decision right now, but the closer we get to the date the harder it will be.” He dips his toasted ravioli in marinara sauce. “Not that I won’t do it anyway.” He takes a bite and chews.
“If it’s what I want,” I say. He nods. “And only if it’s what I want. If you wanted to come and I didn’t want you to, you wouldn’t come anyway.”
Dad wipes his hands on his napkin and sighs. “Honey, if you don’t want me there—”
“What if I don’t want Mom there? Can I just tell her not to come and then she won’t?”
“Now, honey, your mom has to come. That is not optional.”
“Why? Why are you optional and she’s not?”
“You’re saying that you want to move into the dorms without either of your parents there?” Dad says.
“No,” I say, “that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that—never mind.”
We look back down at our food. It’s too hot out to be perfect weather.
“Your mother told me about Jamie,” he says after a while. The name startles me.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Is that why you’re upset?”
“What? I’m not upset.”
“You’re not upset?”
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
***
When I get home, I don’t call Finny. I want to, but I don’t. At my desk, I write a couple of sentences, delete them, and close my laptop. I try to nap but I’m not tired. I close my eyes anyway. The sun bleeds through and all I can see is red. I’ll wait for Finny to call me first. The afternoon passes.
75
A day passes. And then another. I write a little; I read a lot. Finny doesn’t eat dinner with us; he’s out with Jack, his mother says.
On the third day, I watch him as he pulls the red car into the driveway. He hesitates before closing the door; he looks down at the keys in his hand for a long time. He doesn’t move until Aunt Angelina comes out onto the porch and says his name. Then he slams the car door and looks up at her and smiles.
On the fourth day, my mother asks me if Finny and I have had a fight again.
“What do you mean ‘again’?” I say.
“Well, I just mean that you were spending all this time together and suddenly—”
“What do you mean by ‘again’? Who ever said we had a fight the first time? Maybe sometimes people stop spending time together and it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay, Autumn,” she says. She lets me go up to my room.
***
Sasha calls me. I don’t answer.
I wake up early in the morning, and I cannot sleep. I stare at his window until the sun is up and then sleep again.
***
On the sixth day, I call him. He doesn’t answer. I lay my phone down on my nightstand and curl up into a ball. He must have seen it in my eyes.
I’ve managed to ruin everything again.
My cell phone rings. I pick it up. I look at it. It rings again.
“Finny?” I say, instead of coolly saying “Hello?” like I had planned.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” We’re quiet for a little while. I can hear him breathing. He clears his throat.
“I’m going to break up with Sylvie when she comes home.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah. It’s—it’s gonna be hard.”
I draw my knees up to my chin. He would think I was crazy if I started to cry right now.
“You want to come over and watch a movie?” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“Right now?”
“Sure.”
After the movie, we go out for pizza. And we don’t talk about Sylvie.
76
“Do you remember in fourth grade,” Finny says, “when we read Charlotte’s Web in class and you cried?”
“Yes. Do you remember when that baseball hit you in the head?”
“Yes. Did you cry then too?”
“No,” I say. We’re sitting in his car. It’s late at night again, but we aren’t quite ready to go inside. The engine is off, but the dashboard light is on; I can barely see his face. I’m curled up in my seat. I’m so tired, but I don’t want him to know.
“You were scared though. You said you thought I was dead.”
“It was scary. You fell like a rag doll.”