My parents never fought. Mom was insufferable sometimes, a touch on the dramatic side, but I think that was one of the things my father loved best about her. Still, I never heard them fight once. For the first fourteen years of my life, they always hid away to shadowed corners and forgotten nooks to steal kisses. There was laughter and low moans coming from their closed bedroom door and long stares given across the dining room table when they thought I wasn’t watching. As a kid, I found it highly embarrassing. As an adult I occasionally forget that something was buried beneath the surface of all that passion. Something I’ll probably never know.
Living in a calm household, full of love and laughter isn’t always best. Sure, there is serenity and the certainty that life can be very good if you work hard at it, but in the wake of contentment are impossible expectations. Its effects aren’t realistic. I’ve always searched for the joy my parents had, always believed that I deserved that kind of happiness and so I sought it out. I hoped finding it would chip away the firm walls I’d built around my heart, break free the happiness that was once a part of my life.
Tucker didn’t give me that. Ours was not something secure, probably something not remotely normal. Passion is not the same as love. Love shouldn’t consume you, shouldn’t breathe fire and rage and venom inside you. He never understood that. Clearly, he still doesn’t.
An older couple heading for their car watch me, shaking their heads, tutting their tongues at the foul, under my breath curses I utter as I pass them on the sidewalk.
“Idiotic, alpha male bullshit.” A brief flash of their disapproving stern glowers catches in my eye as I hurry toward my apartment.
“You don’t mess with my shit.”
Tucker hasn’t changed. Tucker won’t ever change. That he and Declan fought over something so asinine and juvenile shouldn’t surprise me. But him thinking I’m still his? No. It was ridiculous for Declan to instigate anything with Tucker and no amount of wonderfully managed kisses will lessen the disappointment I feel about Declan’s behavior.
My anger simmers as I hurry down the sidewalk, barely managing to miss passing cars as I cross the street. From the beginning of Dunlap Street I can make out the curve of my building. There are four terraces above my apartment and, against the sunlight, I can see the beautiful stone carvings in the arch above each window and over the wide doorway.
Puddles from the sprinklers wet the front of the steps on the sidewalk and the low growing bushes and flowers in the brown stone planters are still moist.
Behind me comes the heavy falls of running feet and then, Tucker is in front me, grabbing my shoulders between his bloody hands.
“Autumn, wait. I’m sorry.”
“Get away from me, you asshole.” My shoulders come away from his touch as he holds up his hands. His face is a disaster, but I don’t think it’s just from his fight with Declan. Mullens would have never allowed those two idiots to have a brawl on the pitch. Rugby is a rough game so many of these scrapes are likely left over from the match. I wish, though, they weren’t. Tucker deserves a few punches on his smug face. Large bruises and scrapes are angry over his pale skin. Purple whelps form under his left eye. “God, you’re an idiot.”
“He fucking started this shit. That wasn’t me.”
“You’re both idiots.” When Tucker reaches for my hand, I slap him away. “Don’t touch me.”
He stands still, not meeting my eyes, hands hanging casually on his hips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“What? That I’m your shit?”
He closes his eyes. “You’re not shit and I know you’re not mine. He just pissed me off. I…I don’t like the way he looks at you.” He takes a breath. “I don’t like the way you look at him.”
Tucker tries to touch me, but I manage to sidestep him, walk toward my building. I don’t care what he thinks. I don’t care that his face isn’t masked, that his eyes are glistening. “Wait, Autumn, don’t leave.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you!” His hands are tight on my shoulders, his grip firm, pinching into my skin until I wince. “Fuck!” The passion is familiar. It took me a long time to forget it, to push it down, to convince myself that it isn’t healthy. Tucker’s face flames bright pink and he rubs the back of his neck, something he does when he’s trying to calm himself. “Am I supposed to pretend I don’t? Shit, Autumn. I spent a solid year thinking about you, dreaming about you. I loved you. I still love you. You’re everything to me and you damn well know it.”
“No, Tucker, I’m not. You left me. You told me you loved me and then you just left like I wasn’t a consideration to you at all. You wanted me to give up my life to follow you around Europe. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go. You just expected me to.”
“That’s bullshit. I was thinking of us, both of us when I left. It was a short notice tryout, I didn’t have time to plan. I had to go.”
“Fine. You had to go. But did you have to stay gone?”
“Things…happened.”
I can only image what those things were. Images of blondes, brunettes, race through my mind, girls I’m certain that happened to Tucker while he was away. Not that long ago, I had obsessed over those images, now they are fleeting thoughts. I’d been helplessly jealous. In the two years we were together, there had been too many unexplained phone calls in the dead of night, too many instances of me finding phone numbers and smelling perfume on Tucker’s shirts. I’d tolerated it, ignored it all like a complete idiot. His mouth is tight and I know that he is angry, that his temper is surfacing. I don’t care. It’s no longer my job to calm him or to even make him feel better.
“Yeah, things did happen, Tucker. Things kept happening everywhere despite you not being here. And you can’t just come back into my life and expect me to drop everything because you’re back. You can’t fight with Declan because you don’t like the way he looks at me. I’m not yours and my life doesn’t revolve around you anymore.”
Tucker turns around, hands on the top of his head, until he finds a metal garbage can on the edge of the sidewalk ready for tomorrow’s pick up. In one swift movement, he kicks it, scattering rubbish and debris all over the street.
I don’t have time for this, for him. There have been too many minutes squandered on Tucker, on thoughts of him, on the heartbreak he caused. My chest is tight, filled with anger so rigid, it burns; it distracts me, blinds my awareness. When I stride toward the front steps of my building, I notice a tall, wide man standing next to the entrance. At first, I disregard him, my anger not letting me linger too long on anything other putting distance between me and Tucker, who is still rushing after me. I need to get away, to isolate myself in the solitude of my home, the scalding water of my shower spraying against my tense muscles.
But then the man steps forward and the shock of orange hair and light blue eyes that seem so familiar grabs my attention, then stops me where I stand.
“Autumn, wait,” Tucker says, coming up behind me. His hands fall on my shoulders, but I don’t jerk away from him, am too caught up in the echo of the man I once knew standing in the place of the wrinkled face before me. Joe’s eyes narrow over Tucker, on his hand gripping my shoulders, on the fierce scrapes collected over his face. “Can I help you, buddy?” If Tucker thinks he’s doing me any favors, he’s far more delusional than I suspected.
“Tucker. You need to go.” My eyes won’t leave Joe. It’s impossible to make my hands stop trembling.
“Who’s this guy?” When Tucker walks around me, blocks me from Joe’s view, my father’s body becomes a rigid line, tense, defensive. I’d always remembered him as a giant of a man, but his shoulders seem wider now, his chest thick like a barrel. He makes Tucker look every bit a scrawny kid.
“Tucker. Go.”
“Why?” He nods to Joe. “You know this guy?”
“This guy, is her father,” Joe says, accent heavy and voice whiskey deep, raspy.
The seconds gather, stretch and Tucker’s face pales. He takes a step forward, to do what, I’m not sure, before my hand is on his wrist. “You need to leave. Now. Go to the infirmary, get patched up and stay away from me.”
“Like hell. I’m not leaving you here with—”
Joe grabs the back of Tucker’s neck, fingers digging in and by the twitch in my ex’s eye and the wince he tries to withhold, I know my father’s touch isn’t gentle. “Fack away, boy. Unless, o’course you’re keen to add to those bitty marks on your gob.” Joe pushes Tucker forward and he stumbles, nearly falls on the sidewalk. He levels one hard stare at my father, doesn’t bother eyeing me before he disappears down the street.
When Joe faces me, the irate dint of his frown is gone. He swallows, scratches down his dense ginger whiskers then takes another step forward. I don’t want him here. I don’t want him anywhere near me. My lungs burn. My breath is tangled, a thick knot sticking in my throat.
“Autumn Honor,” he says, as though the name is a promise sighing off his tongue.
“No one calls me that. Not to my face.”
“It’s your name.”
The fight and Tucker and Declan’s immaturity are suddenly forgotten, replaced now by a bright rage. “What are you doing here? I told Ava—”
“What was that, then?” Joe says, jerking his chin down the street.
“That was none of your business. Now. What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you, didn’t I?”
“How would I know?” I pull my keys from my bag and hurry up the steps, eager to end this day, to forget the pulls of selfish men against me. They suffocate me, cripple me.
“Please don’t walk away. I’ve so much I want to say to you.”
My keys jangle against the erratic tremor of my fingers, making it impossible to get my key into the door. Joe inches up the steps and when the wind picks up, I smell him, that strong scent of pipe smoke and peppermints. A rush of memories comes back and before I can stop them, tears cloud my vision. The brass keyhole is a thick, unfocused blur.
“Go—go away. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“I was so sorry to hear about you mum, sweetheart.”
I spin around and take a step up so that I am looking down at him. “Were you? I can’t imagine why. It’s not like you ever cared about her. Or me, for that matter.”
My father and I have the same reaction when mad—red, blotchy cheeks, deep contours creasing around our eyes. I wait for his anger, for him to yell, but just then a tear betrays me and falls from my eye. His face softens and, to my disappointment, his eyes shine.
“I deserve that, love. I know I do.” He steps up, reaches for my elbow and I flinch, move out of his reach. “I deserve your hatred and anger, Autumn, but yes, I was very sad to hear about Evelyn’s death. I loved her once and she loved me. What I did to you both cannot be forgiven, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t dreadfully heartbroken to hear that she died or that you were injured.”
“I don’t want your sympathy.” When his fingers slide against my face, wiping back my tears, I lose all composure. I can’t have Joe touch me. He’s a coward. He betrayed us. He abandoned us.
Me.
I hate that my face is wet. I hate that there is nowhere else to go, no escape from my father, from his eyes welling and moist. I want to hit him so badly. I want to slap him, punch him so that he feels every ache that has severed my heart, every ounce of pain that has ripped me to pieces for the past eight years.
I want to injure. I want violence and rage. I don’t want tears. I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want his remorse.
“I hate you,” I say, but my voice is low, soft, it dwarves the anger I feel.
“I know,” my father says. He isn’t proud, isn’t making grand statements of apology. He seems, in fact, quite gutted. Joe’s body sags, loses all stiff bearing and he exhales, the movement pulling down his arms, his shoulders until he sits on the steps at my feet. I watch him for a moment, the regretful way he slouches, the limp hang of his wrists on his knees, how he scrubs his fingers through his beard. “I know you do, love.”
My mind is a mass of contradictory emotions. I hate him so much for abandoning us. I hate him for never once contacting me. For never telling me if he was alive or dead. I hate him for all those nights I cried myself to sleep, for all the years my mother spent alone.
“Ach, darlin’…”
Despite myself, I allow him to pull me down next to him on the step. We don’t touch, not really, and when Joe continues to rub his face, to dig his fingers in hair and stare out onto the sidewalk, I release the bubble of rage so that it does not choke me anymore. He is defeated, that much I can tell. Then Sayo’s voice comes back to me; her words about family, about my last connection that ties me to the earth. It’s sitting right next to me, that connection. It’s breathing the same air I am. Joe is a tether to my past, to the serenity I once held.
Again, the wind wisps over us and I catch his scent. Memory collides with rage, dampens it, brings back my da, the man who walked two miles around the county fair, stopping at every single booth in an effort to win me a stuffed giraffe. The same man who dressed up as Santa Claus every year for my elementary school Christmas pageant. The same man who sang “The Nightingale” to me when I was scared or sick with his perfect tenor voice.
I can’t clear away any of the things I’m feeling. They exhaust me, overwhelm me and so the tears continue to fall, and my father inches closer to me. I tell myself it’s only for a second, just a moment of recollection that I won’t cling to, but then I don’t move his hand from my fingers. I don’t recoil when he drapes his arm over my shoulder. I take in that sweet mix of tobacco and mint. For all my anger, for all the years of pent up rage, there is a part of my subconscious, that small, little girl that remembers Irish Teas and nights of music filling our home, of bedtime stories and snoring on my father’s chest. I can’t help it. I rest against him.
“Oh, my sweet Autumn. My love. I’m so fretfully sorry.”
The crowd, the remnant celebration continues across campus with bustling, drunk fans, and, scattered around random corners, a wandering rooster or, at least, the mess they leave behind. I can’t run the pitch, not on match day.
Joe left hours ago and I couldn’t stand the silence, the low hum of nothing that filled every crevice of my apartment. Even baking didn’t help, something that always manages to calm me. But I could not be calmed, not after this day. Not after that visit. I had to get out - since the campus itself was too busy, I headed for the falls north of campus.
Fanning Falls is secluded, a quiet trail that snakes along the river and inclines up the mountain. Each step on the trail leaves my day further behind. Each exhalation exorcises my tension until my mind is clear, until my chest doesn’t ache. I avoid large roots protruding across the gravel trail, bypass thin trees that shoot up from the earth like broken fingers, and, I continue up the trail, focusing on the heavy pant of my breath, the cool path of sweat that slides down my back. Here there is no arguing, no solitude fractured by noise or complication. Here I can be alone with my rising heartbeat, with the comfort of the river’s soft, slow trickle.
But comfort for me never lasts long. When the twinge of pain in my calf smarts, my steps slow, and I wobble through the ache cursing my body, this weakness that shakes my pride and dissects every facet of my self-confidence. The pain resides, lessens, as I sit on the river bank, among the cold wet stones smoothed by the current of time. I pull up my yoga pants, let the back of my calf catch the water and I like how it collects around the back of my knee, circles across my shin. All is still, undisturbed until I hear the voices—loud, obnoxious, cursing. My friends have no concept of serenity, no idea about the thrill of peace or the joy in silence.
“What the hell, Autumn?”
Oh look, that’s my quiet scampering away.
“Are you trying to drown yourself?”
“Leave her alone, Layla.” Sayo at least understands my need for isolation.
This trail isn’t the Fortress of Solitude, but it comes damn close. Layla and Mollie hate nature. The high heeled boots and tight jeans they wear are evidence of that. They hold each other by the arms and navigate down to the bank in clumsy, awkward steps, and Sayo is at my side before Mollie’s scream splits across the river.
“Hey,” Sayo says, squatting down next to me. “So. What happened?”
“Cramp. I needed a break.”
“She doesn’t mean your leg, genius. We went to your apartment.” Layla’s voice is a shriek of worry, concern muffled behind the sarcastic jibe.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” My best friend brushes the loose hair off my sweaty forehead, her touch slight, but reassuring. “Tell me what happened. I know the two rugby pigs fighting didn’t cause you to buy out Cavanagh’s supply of flour and sugar, or send you out onto the trail by yourself.”
“I felt like baking.”
“For an army?” Sayo says.
Layla and Mollie finally manage to make it down the bank and crowd next to me. Layla’s arms curl around her waist and her eyes flick to the forest around us, to the dark patches of wooded areas. She’s watching for animals. She doesn’t like being here and is certain bears and mountain lions lay in wait for thin co-eds. “What happened, Autumn? You totally disappeared after the match,” she asks.
“Yeah, you didn’t see the rest of that fight,” Mollie says. I think she might want to sit next to me, but the way her eyes pinch and how she sweeps her hands over her jeans distracts her. “Declan got in a few good shots, but Mullens ended it before it got interesting.”
“I saw the results.” At their questioning frowns, I tell them what happened. “Tucker followed me. He looked like shit.”
“I guess he did,” Layla says.
“So him chasing after you had you baking a billion pastries?” Mollie gives my foot a gentle tap. “I thought we were supposed to be training.”
“I didn’t eat any of it. Besides, it wasn’t Tucker.” My arms loop around my knees and I cradle them to my chest. “My father showed up.”
“You’re shitting me,” Sayo says, instantly touching my back.
“Nope. Tucker’s chasing after me and gets pissed off, kicks over a trash can and I take off toward my apartment and there’s Joe.” I won’t tell them what Tucker said. They’d only bemoan his stupidity and warn me not to believe him when he says he still loves me. “Tucker goes all caveman, asks me who Joe is and that didn’t go over so well. I thought Joe was going to kick his ass”
“Wish he would have.” Sayo’s hatred of Tucker isn’t something she keeps quiet and I often wonder if there is something she’s not telling me, some closely held secret about my ex that is the genesis of her anger.
“Anyway, we had it out, my father and I. I told him I hated him. And then, I just collapsed. Started crying.”
“You cried?”
“I’m allowed, Layla.”
Though I don’t see it, I know Layla and Mollie. Their eyes are likely rounded, connecting together as if some silent, mental conversation jumbles between them.
“Of course you are.” Sayo covers the silence. “Well. That explains the obscene amount of muffins.”
“And the pie and all those cookies.” Mollie’s laugh is comforting and I don’t mind their easy ribbing. In fact, their companionship and concern for me only sharpens my guilt. I have to tell them about the bet. They won’t be happy, but I can’t put it off any longer and now is best when their hearts are softened by my shit day.
“Guys, I have to tell you something.”
Layla’s intake of breath is loud, sharp against the trickle of the river. “You and Declan in the basement. I knew it.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly it, Layla.” I rub my hands over my face and I try not to laugh at my lecherous friend. “I did Declan on top of all those dusty, moldy books in the middle of a panic attack.”
“Okay, what is it?” Sayo disregards Layla’s lack of tact.
“I made a bet with Tucker.”
“What do you mean?” The expression on her face has me nervous. It’s as though she knows something dreadful is shadowing in my throat. Sayo most of all will hate me for involving them.
“He was being a dick,” I say, rushing to explain myself. “He told me I shouldn’t attempt the Dash, that I’d humiliate myself. I lost my temper.”
Layla’s fingers slip into her back pocket, but her shoulders straighten, become a tense line. “Oh, man. This isn’t gonna be good.”
It’s best to get it over with, like a Band-Aid ripped clean in one swift jerk. “I bet him we’d win the Dash.”
My head jerks up and I hazard quick glances at my friends. Predictably, Mollie and Layla wear twin expression, eyes narrowed, heavy crinkles wrinkling between their eyebrows, but Sayo is calm, her face almost relaxed. “What do you mean ‘we’?” she says.
My leg is completely soaked and the water rises toward my knee, wetting the hem of my pants. My joints pop when I stand and I distract myself from their heavy stares by shaking my leg dry and pulling my pants back into place. “The bet was the squad against us.”
“Autumn—” Mollie begins.
“Wait. What are the wagers?” I can’t look at Sayo and my eyes shift down as I pull my sock and shoe back on. “Autumn—”
“If we win, Tucker has to get Mullens to put Declan back as wing.”
“What? How is that a win for us?” Layla says.
I know they agree with me, that the consensus is that Tucker is a jackass, but by their worry, their indignation, that idea is likely secondary. “Because it will piss Tucker off. I had to think of something that would annoy him the most and Declan happened to be there at the time. I wasn’t thinking.”
Sayo stands in front of me, her arms crossed over her small chest. “And if we lose?”
“Um…that’s the shitty part.”
She grabs my arm when I start to walk away. “Explain. Now.”
My hands curl into a fist and I close my eyes, try to make my heart stop racing. Band-Aid. Right. I can do this. “If we lose, then we have to, um, volunteer for the Biddy Auction.” Hands on my neck, I watch the sky and let their loud, vulgar protests wash over my like a wave. I deserve this.
“No fuckin way,” Mollie says, her thick Mississippi accent surfacing in her anger. We always joke that she spends too much time in clubs DJ’ing and hanging out with musicians. The potty mouth comes out the more gigs she has.
“Are you crazy? My dad would kill me. He’d kill all of us.” Layla’s right. Mullens would have a fit at the idea of any of us participating in that vile auction.
“Well, that’s not gonna happen,” Sayo says. “Absolutely no. Nope. Never.”
“I know! I know, okay? It was stupid.” My voice cuts through their dissent. “We just have to make sure we win.”
“Ha, okay, like that’s so probable,” Mollie says, her voice holding no humor. “How the hell are we going to do that?”
“Declan.”
“Wait. What?” Layla asks.
“He offered to train us.” Their faces are a mask of suspicion. “He’s trained since he was a kid. He knows what he’s doing.”
“What kind of training?” Sayo asks.
“Hard. Excruciating, probably, but there is no way in hell that I’m letting us lose. You guys don’t have to agree, but I’m doing it.” My voice strengthens with every word and I know my friends can sense my determination. “He can’t make us do the auction if we lose, but I’m not taking that chance. We’re going to work our asses off and we’re going to win. I swear to God, we’re going to win.”
Another silent discussion and I wait, concerned that I’ve irrevocably fractured our bond. But Layla smiles and my heartbeat slows. Wait. She’s smiling. That can’t be good. “Autumn, the level of shit you owe us for this is epic. You get that, right?”
“I do.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Now Sayo’s smile is wide, wider than Layla’s.
“What?”
“Halloween,” Mollie says. They’ve been conspiring behind my back.
“Shit. I’m the slutty fairy?”
“No. You’re Eliza.” It takes me a moment to catch Sayo’s meaning. Then I remember the steampunk book series she’s currently obsessed with and realization crashes down on me. Crap. “You have to go all out. Corset and all.”
“What? I can’t wear—” Sayo silences me with one challenging look. “Fine. It’s because I’m a redhead, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s because you bet our tits against Tucker,” Layla says. “Dude, that is not cool.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry.”
Mollie’s phone chirps an alert and she grabs it, nodding once at the screen. “I gotta jet. I’m DJ’ing at Fubar’s tonight. Y’all in?”
“Hell yes,” Layla says.
“Sure.” Sayo watches me.
“You don’t want to hit McKinney’s?” It’s our traditional post match pub, but the second I mentioned it, I regret it.
Sayo’s voice is latent with surprise. “I thought you’d want to avoid it since you know the whole damn rugby team will be there.”
“True.” No, I definitely didn’t want to go anywhere near McKinney’s. In fact, if I had my way, we would head out of Cavanagh altogether, maybe go into Chattanooga. The last thing I want is to be reminded of long lost fathers and alpha male would-be boyfriends.
“But you need a bath. You smell like sweat and flour and I’m not going anywhere with you looking like that.”