Weston
“Goddamn,” Connor grumbled as he came out of his bedroom in flannel pants and an undershirt the following Friday morning. He tossed his cell phone onto the designer couch his parents had bought us. “It’s too damn early in the morning for their bullshit.”
I looked up from where I knelt by the front door, tying my running shoes. “Whose bullshit?”
Connor yawned, scrubbed his hands through his dark hair. “Dear Mom and Dad have decided that they want monthly reports on how I’m doing in my Econ classes.”
“What for?” I tied my other shoe, then bounced up and down on the balls of my feet to warm up.
“To make sure I’m not fucking it up. What else?” Connor yawned again and squinted tiredly at me. “Christ, Wes, it’s not even light out.”
“Ten miles, rain or shine,” I said.
“I know, but I’m usually not awake to witness it. I’m exhausted just looking at you.”
“I think jealous is the word…”
He snorted a laugh. “Seriously, though. I’m screwed. I suck at math.”
I leaned on the console table near the door, arms crossed, giving him my full attention. “Exactly what did they say?”
“They said I needed to demonstrate responsibility. And to prove that I can apply what I learn in Econ, and that I didn’t choose it as my major only because you did.”
“Busted.”
He laughed. “Shut up.”
“So do the work,” I said. “When you’ve got the degree, you’ll be able to use it to run your sports bar.”
Connor’s normally mega-watt smile was bitter. “On top of that little ultimatum, they gave me an earful about how Jefferson’s going to graduate Harvard with honors. As if I’d forgotten that since the last time they told me. And he’s dating some socialite from Connecticut. Looks like they’ll probably get engaged.”
“Poor bastard.”
My gut told me Connor would be better off without his parents’ money. I was grateful for all the times they bailed my mom out of trouble, and Connor and I lived like goddamn kings in the off-campus apartment the Drakes paid for. But it all felt like unpaid debt.
I moved to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to stay at Amherst?”
“Of course I do,” he said, his grin returning. “You’d be lost without me.”
I smirked. “Do your best. I’ll help you out if you need it.”
“Just like old times?” he asked. “Except not as many papers to write.”
“True. But I’m pretty good at math.”
“You’re pretty good at everything.”
“No argument there.” I went to the door.
“Hey, Wes?”
I turned. “Yep.”
“Thanks.”
A smartass remark was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it down. My best friend slouched on the couch, pressed down by the weight of his parents’ expectations.
“No problem, man,” I said.
“Enjoy your torture.” Connor stretched out on the couch, slung his arm over his eyes. “Which reminds me, I hope Autumn shows up at your meet tomorrow.”
My hand gripped the doorknob. “Oh. Right.”
Connor’s worry melted away into a sleepy smile. “Can’t stop thinking about that girl.”
Take a number.
Without another word, I stepped out into a chilly September morning. The dawn was just beginning to glow in the east. I shivered a little in my black long-sleeve shirt and fitted running shorts that came down to my knees. The coppery sunlight spread as I started my run along the outskirts of the campus.
Running was like meditation. It cleared my mind and burned through some of the anger and pain that still haunted me. If I wasn’t in the mood for music, I paced myself with a mantra:
Fuck him.
Forget him.
He’s gone.
But since meeting Autumn, my feet hit the pavement to a new chant while the streets slipped underneath me.
Get over it.
Forget her.
Move on.
It made no fucking sense that I couldn’t stop thinking about this girl. Amherst was filled with smart, pretty women, many of whom I’d known in the Biblical sense. Yet Autumn Caldwell’s beautiful smile and sweetness suffused my every waking moment. Something good and whole in her spoke to something rotted and broken in me.
Get over it.
Forget her.
Move on.
I blended the words into the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement. Slipped them between the huffing of my breath.
It didn’t work that day. Autumn Caldwell was alive in my thoughts and I couldn’t run away from her.
Later that afternoon, I sat in my favorite course: Poetry, Essay, and Lyrical Writing. I hid behind my Econ major with an English Lit minor, where I could take the classes I truly cared about.
At the end of his lesson on form, Professor Ondiwuje assigned us a poem.
“Object of Devotion,” he said from the front of the lecture hall. He was in his mid-thirties, with smooth, dark skin and eyes that were sharp with intelligence and observation. Dreadlocks spilled over the lapels of his gray suit.
“I want you to expand your creativity. The object can be a person, of course. Or a dream. A goal. A physical item. The latest iPhone…”
A current of laughter rolled lightly through the class of sixty students.
“Dig deep, and leave nothing on the table,” he said. “Because in art, there are no limits. If you have only one takeaway from my class at the end of the year, let it be that poetry—the words by which we give shape to our thoughts—is as limitless as our thoughts themselves.”
The small auditorium rippled with enthusiasm.
“Mr. Turner,” Professor Ondiwuje called over the shuffling of students leaving after class. “Can I see you a moment?”
I shouldered my backpack and took the side stairs down to his desk. Trying to keep my cool. Michael Ondiwuje was quite possibly the only man on the planet I looked up to. He had won the William Carlos Williams Award for poetry at the age of twenty-four. A well-worn, dog-eared, highlighted and underlined copy of his collection, The Last Song of Africa, resided on my bookshelf.
The professor sat on the edge of his desk, rifling through some papers.
“I read the essay and the poem you submitted two weeks ago,” he said. “They were both very good. Excellent, even.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, every cell in my body screaming, Holy shit. Michael Ondiwuje just said my work was excellent.
The professor raised his eyes from the papers to meet mine. Studying me. Taking me in. “English Lit is your minor, yes?” he finally asked.
“That’s right.”
“What do you plan to do with an Economics major?”
“I don’t know. Work on Wall Street.”
“That’s what you wish to do?”
“It would be better for my family situation,” I said slowly, “if I had a good job and steady income.”
He nodded. “I get that, but I can’t let talent like yours slink out the back of my class without saying something.”
I shifted my bag. “Okay.”
“When I read your work, I sense a young man with deep fires burning within and a cold wall around him.”
Professor O’s stare was relentless but I didn’t look away. My head moved in a faint nod.
“A guy with poetry in his blood,” the professor went on. “But he keeps his blood from spilling where anyone can see. He sits in the back. Doesn’t talk. All the while, words pile up inside. And to a mind and heart like his, all that emotion is hard to take. It’s too much. Dangerous. It hurts.” His eyes bored into mine. “Doesn’t it?”
No one had ever talked to me this way. As if he were trying to pry open my chest, and get at what I kept locked up. The words and thoughts I kept to myself. My instinct was to walk away. Or run. But a deep well of longing stirred inside me to stand in the presence of someone who had crafted a life out of writing. A reality I could reach out and touch too, if I wanted.
I shifted my bag again.
Professor O’s smile returned. “I see you, Mr. Turner. And I want to hear you. For this Object of Devotion assignment, give me your blood and guts and fire. Give me everything.”
“Everything?” I smiled nervously. “That’s all, huh?”
He touched a hand to my shoulder. “I know you have it in you.”
After classes, I went back to the apartment to drive my piece of shit car to the Panache Blanc bakery-café for my pre-race routine: carb-load with a big sandwich the night before.
My car was a fifteen-year-old silver Dodge Stratus I’d bought when I graduated high school with some of my tuition money. The Drakes had tried to buy me something better, but I’d refused. It was old, it took three tries to get it to turn over in summer, ten or more in winter, but it was mine.
At our apartment, it was parked next to Connor’s brand-new, chick magnet, eight-billion-horsepower Dodge Hellcat.
A Tale of Two Dodges, I thought, as I climbed into my old sedan and turned the key. After three tries and a belch of smoke, the engine came sputtering to life.
At the Panache Blanc, I sat at a corner table with a sprout and cucumber on wheat and a side of fruit, contemplating an empty notebook and the give-me-everything poem I was supposed to write in it.
Professor Ondiwuje had X-rayed my damn soul, missing nothing. He knew I wrote my feelings instead of speaking them. Speaking out loud felt like weakness. I’d loved my dad. I’d told him in my own voice, and screamed it after him as he drove away. He took that love and tossed it away like garbage. Never again would I let myself feel that naked and exposed. Not out loud, anyway. Writing was different.
It hurts, doesn’t it?
Too fucking much. Which meant I had plenty of blood, guts and fire to write about.
I put my pen to paper. Let’s do this, motherfucker…
Five minutes later, I had doodled an impressive Bruins logo.
I turned the page and let my mind wander. Lines about coppery red hair and eyes like gemstones started appearing on the page.
“Hell, no. We are not going there.”
I scribbled those out and tried again. My pen doodled and then a sentence emerged.
Her eyes were the season, personified…
I tore the page out and balled it up.
For the next hour, customers came and went around me. A slow, lazy weeknight. Edmond, the big Frenchman who sang opera and recited sonnets on the regular, wasn’t there, but Phil lounged over the counter, scrolling his phone.
I finished off half the sandwich, and took up my pen again.
Pick a fucking subject that’s not her. Running. Write about running.
Safe. Easy. I could describe the adrenaline that coiled in my muscles right before the starting gun fired. Or what it felt like to fly over a hurdle. Or that last leg of the baton race with my lungs on fire and my legs driving to the finish line…
Where Autumn waited for me to wrap her arms around my neck, not caring if I was all sweaty, and she’d kiss me…
“Christ…”
I was about to call it a night when my Object of Devotion walked in the door. With her red hair and green dress, she looked like a handful of rubies and emeralds. My stupid heart took off at a gallop and then nearly stopped short when her exquisite face lit up to see me.
“Hey,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah,” I said, my eyes drinking her in as fast as they could before looking away. “Small world.”
“Small world? I’ve been working here for two years and I’ve never seen you.” She started to sit in the chair across from me, then froze. “Oh. Are you busy? I’m just here to pick up my schedule. I won’t bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me.” I moved my shit from her half of the table so she had room. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
Autumn sat sideways in the chair, her purse in her lap. “Most mornings, and a double shift on Sunday.” She glanced at my plate with the half-eaten sandwich. “Carb-loading for your meet tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
“I remember Connor mentioned it at Yancy’s.” Autumn’s cheeks turned pink. “God, I was a mess that night. I didn’t say anything terrible, did I?”
You said I had ocean eyes.
“Nah, you’re safe.”
“Thank God. When I drink I have no filter and amnesia,” she said with a laugh. “The worst combination.”
Which meant she probably didn’t remember saying I had ocean eyes. Or much of our conversation about poetry and music. Erased by booze, and all that was left was laughing and playing pool with Connor.
Disappointment bit at me, but I brushed it away. Better that way. For her.
Her glance landed on my doodle-filled paper. “Working hard or hardly working?”
“I have a…paper due.” I flipped the notebook to a clean page. “Advanced Macroeconomics.”
“That’s right, you’re an Econ major. Do you have an emphasis?”
“Not yet,” I said, and struggled to fill the silence; to give her something so she didn’t have to drive the conversation. But the girl left me damn tongue-tied while my brain was firing off a thousand thoughts a minute.
The paper due is about you, with an emphasis on how beautiful you look in every light. In sunlight, in a bar, in a dim café. The object of my devotion. I’ve only been in your presence for a handful of minutes, and the only fucking thing I want to write about is you.
“…tomorrow?”
I blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“How many races do you have tomorrow?”
“Three.”
“Three in one day?” she said. “Is that hard?”
“They’re spread out so I have time to recover. Two are short—the 60-meter and 110-meter hurdles. Then one baton relay.”
“How long have you been running track?”
“Since I was a kid.”
“And Connor’s been cheering you on the whole time?”
“He comes to every meet,” I said. “Hasn’t missed one. He’s had my back for a long time, actually. Since prep school, when other kids gave me shit for…lots of things. Not having any money.”
Connor did all that for me because he’s my best friend and he’d never screw me over. Not over a girl, not for any reason.
“He’s a good guy, isn’t he?”
“One of the best,” I said.
Autumn blushed prettily at this and propped her chin on her hand. “What was prep school like?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
Her shoulders rose in a shrug. “Can’t help it. Like Einstein says, I have no special talents. I’m just passionately curious.”
“I doubt that.”
“You doubt my Einstein?”
“I doubt you have no special talents.”
Autumn’s smile softened. “That remains to be seen, playing a mean round of pool aside. So. Prep school. Was it as uptight as it sounds?”
“Worse. Bunch of wealthy kids in uniforms. I felt like I’d wandered onto a movie set by accident.”
“How did you…?”
“Afford it? I got in on a scholarship for that too.”
Autumn reached over and tapped my hand, like a mini high-five. “Good for you. Track?”
I nodded and took a sip of my coffee. Autumn had no clue about Sock Boy and with any luck, he’d stay safely locked in the drawer where he belonged.
“You’ve been running a long time, then,” she said.
Chasing, not running. I’ll be chasing that fucking car until I die.
“Yep,” I said. “Speaking of which…?”
“Am I coming tomorrow?” She sighed. “I’d like to, but…”
I leaned forward slightly. “But…?”
“But this is awkward. You’re his best friend. I just…” Autumn bit her lip. “I don’t know if I should be talking about this with you.”
“Talking about what?”
She tapped her fingers on her chin. “The other night was fun. Ruby, my roommate, tells me fun is what I need. But I don’t know that I should be pursuing anything with someone right now. Especially knowing how I get.”
“How you get?” I raised my brows. “Should I start looking for you in the bushes outside our place?”
She balled up a napkin and tossed it at me. “Yes. I’ve set up camp already. You should remember to turn your lights off when you leave the house, by the way. Saves energy.”
I grinned. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Autumn grinned back, then sighed it away. She leaned her arms on the table, and her chin on her arms. “But for real, you’re going to think I’m such a girl.”
“You don’t leave me much choice.”
She laughed but didn’t look away; held my gaze steadily. “I want romance. I want holding hands and love letters. Fireworks. I want all that and I’m not going to settle. But that’s a lot to expect, so I’m going to try my hardest to not expect anything and just roll with it.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re going to take all this covert knowledge straight back to Connor, aren’t you?”
I smiled, though it felt like knives in my cheeks. “I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t.”
“Which is precisely why you’re the wrong person I should be talking to about him.”
No truer words…
“He likes you,” I said, pushing the sentence past my teeth. “I mean, he’d like to get to know you better.”
Her eyes brightened, showing sparkles of gold in the hazel irises. “He would?”
“Yeah, he would. All expectations aside, Connor’s a good guy. Easy-going. Likes to laugh and make other people laugh. But he’s not a clown. He’s got a lot to offer.”
“You’re quite the wingman, aren’t you?”
Yes, because he’d do the same for me. Without hesitation.
With a war of emotions in my stomach, I asked, “Does this mean you’re coming to the meet tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I am. One, because I want to see you race. Two…”
“Because if you go and Connor’s there, it wouldn’t suck.”
“It wouldn’t suck, and I’ll just leave it at that,” she said, but her blush was back as she stood up and shouldered her bag. “Is it bad luck to say ‘good luck’ in track and field?”
“The worst. You just cursed me. Thanks a lot.”
She grinned. “Sorry. Break a leg.”
“Now I’m fucked. Get out of here.”
Autumn laughed and plucked a sprout off my plate. She tucked it in the corner of her mouth like a wheat stalk, and I had a sudden, desperate wish to see her on her farm; this wildflower that dressed in expensive-looking dresses, but who wore scuffed shoes and carried a bag that had probably been new ten years ago.
“Bye, Weston,” she said with a little wave.
“Bye, Autumn.”
I watched her greet Phil, then go in the back and come out with a folded paper. She gave me another little wave and a smile, then stepped out into the dying light of day.
She’s into Connor.
This was no longer debatable. A fact as black and white as ink on paper.
It hurts. Doesn’t it?
I put my pen to the blank sheet in front of me and began to write.