SEVENTEEN
I shouldn’t be listening to sad, haunting music. Yet here I am, my iPod on shuffle. It’s my “Just Eat a Bullet Already” playlist. Matt Walters sings about a dark love that he would die for; Mumford and Sons made me teary with their “Reminders”; and Ed Sheeran wants me to kiss him like I’m falling in love. I want to drown myself in copious amounts of liquor that will lead to my inevitable heaving. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a kid anymore. Declan’s idiotic behavior shouldn’t make me feel all “dumped at the junior prom.”
Even training yesterday and today didn’t help extinguish my ridiculous melancholy. Layla had her dad set up a course on the back five acres of his property, complete with a tar-slick wall and tire lanes. I experienced a few moments of excited glee, but then I remember Declan wouldn’t be there, that we were now left to our own devices in our preparation for the Dash. The course was brutal and I did love the feel of exhaustion I experienced running through it, but it was fleeting, which only made me angry with myself.
The music continues, soaks into my ears, causes me to suddenly want a distraction. Liquor. Yes. It won’t do me any favors and will probably threaten the ten pounds I’ve lost these past few weeks, but at the moment, I can’t seem to find the will to care. But, I’ll have to be quick about it. Joe will be here soon. Oh goodie. An afternoon with my long lost father. It can wait though. There’s not even enough fight in me to roll myself off the sofa and hobble into the kitchen.
The track shuffles ahead and I’m treated to Mumford again. I love their British irony and morose companionship, but when a mood such as this strikes, there is only one lady that seems appropriate. The lady, actually. I flip through the playlist and Billie Holiday sings what is burning in my soul. “Fine and Mellow” invades the silence of the room, the cracks and pops of the recording filling those fractures in my internal wall. I can’t dismiss the irony of the song. “My man don’t love me, Treats me oh so mean.”
“Ain’t that the truth, sister,” I say to Billie.
Shadows of images collect in my thoughts. My eyes unfocus and in that blur, I recall Declan’s sarcastic smirk pulling across his lips. His condescending eye rolls, him biting the inside of his mouth, his breath heavy against my neck, the feel of him, hard, smooth, against my palm.
“Crap,” I say, eager to drive those images from my mind. I wobble off the sofa, my ankle still a bit tender from my tussle to the floor two days ago and head for the kitchen, snatching up a bottle of Jameson’s. I hope Joe is late. I down two glasses, refill the glass for a third and mean to run to the bathroom and grab my mouthwash when the doorbell chimes. Joe will just have to handle my whiskey breath.
When the door opens, I forget to smile, to erase my foul mood from my features. My father’s expression is warm, excited, but he sees the glass in my hand and then looks behind me to where my iPod is plugged into my speakers and his body droops, the wrinkles around his mouth amplify.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what happened?” I wave my hand and he follows me in, stares down at me as I take a sip from my glass. Joe walks to my iPod and turns it off. “Sweet Lord, Autumn, you are your mother’s child.”
“Huh?”
He takes the glass from me and sets it on the coffee table. “Lady Day? I always knew when something was troubling Evelyn.” He sits, drapes his arm behind me on the sofa. “She’d play the same Billie Holiday songs over and over.”
“Good thing you weren’t there when your anniversary rolled around. That’s all she played then.”
Joe’s arm leaves the couch and I instantly regret my comment. I grab his hand and offer him a smile. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“It’s fair, love. I deserve that rudeness, don’t I?” Again he puts his arm around me. “Tell me what’s got you fussed.”
I want to tell him, and think about how to separate the details so I don’t completely shock him, but there is still awkwardness between us. We have spent some time together over the past month, dinners and films, listening to bands on the weekends, watching away matches at McKinney’s. But I still feel this distance between us, a barrier that keeps us from connecting. Joe does seem more relaxed now that we’ve spent time together and it isn’t anything like the uncomfortable one-word conversations and curt replies we bounced between each other that first day in my apartment. He’s asking. He wants to help, that much I can tell.
“Joe, you really don’t want to hear about my disaster of a love life, do you?”
He thinks for a moment and I see the indecision flash in his eyes. “It’s not the topic of conversation I expected on way here, but you do seem out of sorts. Think I can help, sweetheart?”
So I tell him. Not everything. God, no. I gloss over my post-date activities with Declan, our brief groping in the basement, but I tell him what I feel, how he pushed me aside, even about Tucker, our history and the bet. After a moment, Joe stops rubbing his beard, erases that contemplative expression from his face.
“It sounds to me there is something this Declan lad isn’t able to share with you.”
“Well, obviously.”
“Perhaps it isn’t all what you think, love. Perhaps his reasons are wholly honorable and his hand is being forced.”
“But he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
“Given him reason to, have you?”
I haven’t hurt him, not intentionally, at least not enough to warrant his rejection and certainly not before our date. Still, logically Declan and I have only known each other a short time. There is a connection, something that whispers behind each look, each touch that tells me experience isn’t important. What truly matters is what we feel.
“Probably not.” I can’t take the consuming thoughts, the weight of all those skittering questions or the very fatherly expression Joe levels at me. There’s this placating expression on his face, eyes soft, squinted, a half-smile pulling his lips as though he thinks I’m a child, that my erratic emotions are not warranted. The window calls to me, displaying the activity of match day, the streams of red, of the passing crowds and I stand in front of it, glad that I’m not there for Declan’s first match back. I don’t know if my presence there would bother him or how it would affect me. “It’s all so stupid, really. I haven’t known him that long. I shouldn’t be so upset by this. I shouldn’t be even considering him at all. On the surface, he’s a terrible match for me.”
Joe laughs, bringing my attention back to him. “Oh, Autumn, you can’t rationalize love. There is no bit of logic to it.” He taps his chest. “It’s all heart.”
I want to be able to ask him questions without seeing the guilt that always flashes in his eyes when I mention the past. But as I watch him fiddle with the tassels on my pillow, work the loose strings around his fingers, I sense his ease, his comfort. “Did you…is that what happened between you and mom? There was too much logic?”
Joe’s easy smile vanishes and I immediately regret my question. He throws the pillow off his lap, lets a soft exhale move his lips. “No, love. There was no logic between us. Despite what she may have told you or what you might have guessed, there was love. A great deal of love.”
I want to ask him why he left. Just now, I want to ask if there had been so much love, why did he run away from her. Was that love all-consuming? Did it overwhelm him? Scare him? But there is honest sadness in his eyes, as though he’s remembering her. As though those memories are heartbreaking to recall, and I can’t bear to bring up his failings. I can’t manage to hold on to my anger. That conversation would come, it had to, but for now, I was enjoying hearing Joe’s advice.
He scans my entertainment center, walks close to it to see my collection of DVDs. “It’s a great Irish truth that all the quandaries of life can be measured and sorted by one of the greatest thinkers of all time.” Joe’s finger passes over my collection, searching for what I’m not sure, but then his finger stops and he points at a small case. “Ah ha! I knew I had at least gifted you with my good sense and taste.” He pulls the case out of the stack and hands it to me. “Joss Whedon, love. The whole of life’s questions, even those of the heart, can be resolved by the words and knowledge of Whedon. Shall we skip lunch and partake?”
“Great Irish truth, Joe?” I laugh when he nods, quite serious. “I can remember watching vintage “Doctor Who” with you all those years ago, but I had no idea that you would be a Browncoat.”
“Love, there’s a fat lot of things we don’t know about each other. But here’s a start, a bit of advice on love and life in general: ‘Everything’s shiny.’ Or at least, it will be.”
Joe stayed far longer than either of us had planned. That entire afternoon we watched Firefly, laughing, eating far too much popcorn, uttering “Oh, I love this part,” and more often than not one of us cursed the network and their hasty cancellation of the show.
It was nice, bonding with him over something we both clearly adored. There were long moments when we simply watched, when nothing could be heard in my apartment except our own laughter and the clamorous noise outside as the match ended. Cars honked, roosters clucked and drunks sang inappropriate drinking songs and various out of tune choruses of “The Wild Rover.” Joe and I exchanged grins when we heard “And it’s no, nay, never, No nay never no more” being shouted just outside of my front window.
It was a good day, one that I was surprised to discover I didn’t want to end. Before I realized what was happening, I nodded off and woke up on Joe’s chest, his fingers brushing through my hair.
There was only one awkward moment, just before he left. Joe’s advice had been somewhat benign, a bit unbiased but as he turned to leave and kissed me on the cheek, he hesitated.
“I think you know this Tucker lad isn’t right for you, love. From all you’ve said, he seems unable to be done with you. Seems to me he doesn’t want you being friendly with Declan.”
“Joe, you don’t know either of them. They both could be serial killers. Declan, I’m sure, is very insane.”
“My inclination is to advise you to never let any man ever kiss you or even so much as hold your hand, but I suppose I lost that right years ago.” He watched me, as though he expected me to correct him. When I didn’t he smiled sadly and moved in for a hug. “There are so many things I’ve need of sayin to you, Autumn.” I smelled his familiar scent and a dozen images flew to my mind, memories I’d tried to suppress for so many years. But if felt good for Joe to hold me, to have my father’s arms wrapped around me. He pulled away and let his hands cup my face. “Some things you may not be eager to hear, but soon, when your spirits pick up, I must make confessions.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. He simply kissed my cheek again and walked away.
I only heard from Joe twice in the following week, and he made me laugh when I realized he had recently sorted out texting. His messages had been mostly discernible, some containing ridiculous things like “Isn’t the sunrise grand this morning?” with an attached picture of his thumb.
Tomorrow would bring another match, and I informed my friends during training this morning that I wouldn’t go. My love of the game didn’t seem to surpass my need to stay off of both Declan and Tucker’s radars. My ex called me as well during the week, asking for a friendly chat, emailing me to let me know his mother’s birthday was coming up and she’d asked if I’d join them for dinner. I hadn’t decided if I wanted to go, but knew I needed another excuse to snoop.
Today will be awkward, I’m convinced. After a month of sorting and cleaning, organizing and shelving, it is time for the book sale. So here I am, huddled next to Sayo at a long table outside of the library, primed to smile my sweetest and bat my eyes to any student eager for cheap books.
Declan made an off-handed comment to Sayo last weekend about helping out despite her reassurances that we could handle it. Still, if I’ve learned anything during my time with him, it was that, given the chance, Declan would make my life as complicated and stroppy as possible.
I’ve seen him twice today. Both times, he ignored me when I scanned his face. It’s good though. I don’t want to talk to him. Talking to him leads to arguing and touching, something I’m sure Sayo wouldn’t appreciate in the middle of her book sale.
Students saunter around us, thumbing through books, messing up our neat organization that took Sayo and me all morning to arrange. To my surprise, Declan runs back and forth from the sale to the library basement to restock the quickly emptying tables. Not once does he acknowledge me. It’s starting to piss me off.
“So?” Sayo says. “What’s going on with Declan?”
“You mean besides him being the most annoying and confusing jackass on the planet?”
“Yes, besides that.”
“Nothing since he ate my face in the basement. He hasn’t annoyed me at all today.” Sayo nods, but doesn’t comment. I have the suspicion that she’s thinking thoughts I wouldn’t appreciate. I sigh. “What?”
“Maybe your dad is right about Declan.”
“What?”
“Maybe this whole thing with Declan has nothing to do with how he feels about you and everything to do with something he can’t tell you.”
I don’t like her prissy little know-it-all expression. She tried talking to me about this earlier, while we were training, hinting that I should give Declan the benefit of the doubt, that I should withhold my anger, but I ran further up the course leaving Sayo behind before she could make any real sense.
“If that’s true, then he should trust me. Clearly, he doesn’t.”
“I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“Why are you defending him? Hello,” I say, pointing to myself, “best friend here.”
“It just sounds like he has his reasons. Besides, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You can’t fake that.”
“Whatever. You are being a really bad friend.”
“I am not. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. There has to be a logical reason for his behavior.”
“Yes. He is clearly off his meds.”
Whatever else my best friend wanted to say was cut short by a sudden crowd of Early American Lit students who swarm our tables like ants on a dropped popsicle. In between the exchanging of cash and questions about Hawthorne, Sayo mentions having a girls night. Layla and Mollie have been bickering quite a bit lately, mainly over Layla’s new boyfriend, a cop named Walter. Mollie isn’t a fan, but I know that’s simply because there is quite a bit of the criminal element in her family. That family tree is littered with knots and decay. So Sayo is eager to get them to stop fighting. But she’s going to mention karaoke, I know she is. She’s been trying to get us to go back for three months, ever since that taboo night I drunkenly sang “All By Myself” in front of a group of Cameron rugby players. I will never forgive my friends for letting that one happen.
“You know I hate karaoke,” I say when the inevitable topic surfaces.
“It’s the pastime of my people.”
“You’re adopted, friend. The pastime of ‘your people’ is Canasta and drinking too much wine.” That earns me the bird, but I ignore my best friend’s rudeness and take the money of a young girl with her hands full of the collected works of D.H. Lawrence.
Sayo and I laugh at the wild blush on the girl’s face when I wink at her and the copy of “Lady Chatterly’s Lover” that she holds to her chest, but my humor is interrupted when Declan approaches, his attention on Sayo.
“Do you want me to start packing up the books no one’s taken?” He acts as though I’m not even here. I try to pretend I’m busy digging for something in my bag.
“Um, give it about ten minutes. I see some kids from the computer lab heading our way.”
“Do you have anything by Beckett?” a voice says over my shoulder and I smile when Joe stands in front the table.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Wanted to check up on my sweetheart, didn’t I? Sale alright then?”
Sayo answers for me. “We’re making a killing.” She stands and sticks out her hand to my father. “You must be Joe. I’m Sayo, the only one besides Ava that tolerates your daughter’s moods.”
“Well, aren’t you lovely?”
“Yes,” I say. “She’s adorable, but don’t go complimenting her, Joe. She’s horribly vain already.”
He kisses Sayo’s hand. “I don’t believe it.”
There is an odd moment when Joe glances up and nods at Declan, and receives only a curt jerk of his chin in reply. “I’ll start packing up in a bit,” Declan says, before he walks off.
“That was rude,” Sayo says.
“Seems like he’s got a bee in his bonnet,” Joe says.
“Nope, he’s just certifiable.” I stand, start packing up the table. “Can I help you find something?”
“Nah, I just wanted to stop by and see if I could buy you an early dinner. Your lovely friend as well.”
I was going to refuse, eager to get home and take a hot bath, but Sayo has other plans and by her too-wide smile and hopeful eyes, I know my soak will have to wait. “That would be fun,” she says, walking to Joe’s side to link her arm in his. “You could tell me all those embarrassing stories about Autumn as a kid. I’d love to have dirt on her. That way I can get her to do all sorts of unpleasant things that I know she wouldn’t normally agree to like be nice to total strangers or say yes to a date once in a while.”
Joe laughs and pats her hand. “I believe I could manage that, love.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to be buttering me up, not my evil friend here.” Joe only laughs at my protest.
Sayo waves her hand, dismissing my mock upset. “Oh, hush, Autumn. If a good looking man wants to buy us dinner then we’d be fools to refuse.”
I cross my arms, shake my head at her ignorant assertion. “It’s the good looking men that have given me the most grief in my life.”
“Perhaps you should try ugly men, then.” Joe says this just as Declan walks past and I notice a faint smirk on his face.
“So, Joe, was Autumn a terrible child? Please tell me she slept with the light on until she was ten or wet the bed when she watched a scary movie. Ms. Perfect here gives me a complex.”
“Not a’tall. She was a well behaved child. Had my temper, mind, but otherwise ate all her green things and behaved just as her lovely mum asked her. I had no complaints whatsoever.”
Sayo’s smile falls. “You’ve just dashed my hopes.”
Joe pats her hand again and then he sits on the table, an idea seeming to come to him. “That reminds me, Autumn. What are your plans for your birthday?” Sayo laughs, making Joe throw her a frown. “Miss something funny, did I?”
“Autumn doesn’t like celebrating her birthday. She has refused any suggestions I’ve made for parties since I’ve known her.”
“What? Why on earth have you not—”then he stops, catches the way my eyebrow arches up and I know he must realize my reason for avoiding my birthday. He clears his throat, forces a wider smile on his face. “You loved those mad parties and such when you were little.”
I don’t meet his eyes and just offer a twist of my shoulder. “I just don’t want to make a big deal of it.” We dance around the issue, avoid the past like it never happened. My neck heats up and I know Declan is behind me, watching, listening in on our awkward conversation.
“Twenty-three is a year to celebrate, sweetheart,” Joe says as though leaving on my birthday all those years ago should remain in the past. He seems determined to ignore all the pain he’s caused me. “How can I convince you to allow us to throw you just a small party? I’m sure Sayo here would love to help me with the fixings and such.”
“Oh, Joe, I wish you wouldn’t.” The words slip from my mouth in a small rush.
Before I can explain, list a dozen reasons that aren’t remotely the truth, Joe is at my side, taking my hand in his. “It’s because I’ve been a dreadful father that I’m asking, love. I’ve not been with you on your birthday for eight years and it would warm my heart, it would, to spoil you some.” When I stare at our hands held together, on the lines beneath his thin skin, my father tips my chin up. “Humor an old man, would you, not?”
Declan walks around the table, shoving books into boxes as Sayo’s smile wavers, up and down, as though she’s hopeful. I catch Declan’s gaze, his lowered mouth and know that he remembers our discussion in the basement, that first day we worked together. He takes a step forward, opens his mouth as though he will speak up for me, but I don’t want his help.
Sighing, I smile at Joe. “Sure. As long as it’s small. Not a huge deal, okay?”
Sayo squeals and Joe claps his hands together then the two of them start talking about plans, momentarily forgetting about me. Resigned, I pick up my bag, shuffle inside of it for a mint and Declan moves next to me. The smell again, woodsy, clean and I sidestep, hoping he won’t stand too near me.
“You should tell them why you don’t want a party.”
“It’s fine, Declan. If my father wants to plan a party with Sayo, then it will keep both of them out my hair for a while.”
“Always the little martyr, aren’t you, McShane?”
Finally, I glance at him, ignoring the brightness of his eyes, the way his stare is dark, concerned. “You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”