One Summer With Autumn

by Julie Reece

  Some valve in my chest gives, steam hissing in my chest where the connection broke.

  To my rear is a storage bin at my end of the skiff. I pivot, lift the lid, and remove the red, flannel blanket from inside. Careful not to rock us too hard, I wrap the blanket around her shoulders, then take a seat on the bench across from her. I mean to leave her alone, but somehow my hand stretches out. My fingers try to quiet her shaking knees, and that’s when I notice her chin trembling.

  One slow blink from her and I’m lost. Before reason takes hold, I do what I wouldn’t back at the restaurant. I’m off my seat, picking her up, and putting her in my lap. Ignoring her gasp of surprise, I secure my arms around her shivering form. “Shh, I’ve got you, Cricket.” I’m not sure where that came from. Maybe it’s cheesy, but I decide not to care, a near death experience will do that to a guy. Besides, the name suits her better than Pygmy, which is counterproductive to say to her face.

  She shifts in my arms, but the effort is so weak, I know then that she doesn’t want me to let her go any more than I want to. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m—”

  “Fine? Yeah, I know.” I ease her against my chest. “I’m going to get you warm, and then we’ll go home.” She continues to shake, but doesn’t argue.

  Relief extracts the tension from my muscles. There’s more going on inside me than gratitude that my intern didn’t drown today. Something new takes root, scaring the shit out of me. I push the thought away, allowing my brow to rest against the back of her head. I breathe deeply as her head slips down, nestling into the crook between my neck and shoulder.

  She feels too good in my arms. Warm and fragile and right somehow. I can’t think about that either. Her. The pretty girl with anger issues, and my ticket to redemption with my mother and freedom to choose what I want. I can’t get involved. Hell, I don’t even want to, do I?

  I hold my breath as she presses her face into my neck, nose grazing my skin. The wind picks up, beats at my back as the sun fades into an endless gray sheet. My heart gallops in my chest, and I wonder if she feels it. Fear gone, the emotion blurs into something else altogether, excitement.

  I shift again. My lips brush the sensitive skin at her temple. My lids slide shut, my arms hold her tighter against me as I try to control the thoughts ripping though me at our contact.

  Gus pants at the bottom of the boat at our feet.

  “Silas?”

  “Hm?” Autumn’s lungs expand against my chest sending more chills through my body. Her voice is so quiet, I’m not sure she actually spoke. “Did you say something?” I want to place my palm on her head, gently pull back until the pulse beating in her neck is exposed, and press my lips to the spot. I don’t. I’ve got to dial this monster down. There’s too much riding on this summer to screw it up. I’ll be professionally firm and friendly—tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to enjoy holding her a little while longer.

  “Autumn, are you okay? Did you say something?” I repeat. A bird cries somewhere overhead, announcing the end of the day.

  Another long pause and she breaks her silence. “I said, thank you.”

  14

  Autumn

  Maybe it’s symbolic, the marking of time or whatever. I’d like to be deep and philosophical, but I suspect the real reason I love a colorful sunrise is purely aesthetic. Let’s be real. Artists paint and photograph the sky because it’s pretty first, unfathomable second.

  Sitting in the red corduroy chair in my quaint, little shack, I stare out the picture window at the still lake, sipping my coffee. There’s a mist lying over the gray water like a spirit. Nothing’s moving. No sound. The echo of past events on the lake exist only in reflection. Silas swimming hard for me. We’re together in the boat, on the bench. His arms wrap my body, gently rocking and warming me. The memory haunts my thoughts.

  I shake my head of the images and glance down. Beside me on the end table are my new sketches, a dozen papers, and one letter. Most of the stack is comprised of completed Behr Mountain feedback reports. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the best, how do you rate our: Bee Mine body spray, Merrell Moab Mid-Waterproof Hiking Boots, Bending Branches Arrow Canoe Paddle … the list goes on. I answered as honestly as I could, according to the products I’ve tried so far over the last few weeks—and for someone who has no clue what they’re doing.

  In more ways than one.

  I set my mug down, shrug off my comfy throw, and step over Gus who’s asleep on the floor. My mind is a painful, spinning cyclone, and when I get like this, only a long run clears my head.

  Slipping on the new running shorts from Silas’s prize box, it occurs to me how much I need a release. Sure, as long as I’m getting out, I might as well keep testing the merchandise—two birds, one stone, and all that crap. My shoes were a bit loose, but I figured out how to adjust the laces until they fit snug. The trainers are epic.

  Walking toward the front door, I glance at the personal letter folded on top of my reports. The one from my father. Someone must have shoved it under the door late last night, but I didn’t see it until this morning. I resist another reading. Three is enough.

  As I step onto the porch, I breathe deeply of pine, and mulch, and early morning breezes. Then I sneeze. Ugh, will it ever stop? My fingers twist my hair until the length forms a sloppy bun that I secure with a band from around my wrist. I stretch out my legs and back to get the blood pumping, skip down the stairs, and stretch again. Gus follows, of course. He’s stuck to me like glue ever since my “incident” on the lake. Good old dog.

  I jog down the path next to the big house, down the gravel drive, and across the meadow. Apparently, Gus is a swimmer, not a runner. Once I pass the gate, he stops and Deets the Coonhound takes over. He’s not unwelcome. I might rescue my own dog one day, if I can find one like Silas has.

  There’s a nice, wide path that runs along the lake, and I head in that direction. I never know where I’m going when I run and couldn’t care less. Like everything else in my life, I pretend it doesn’t matter.

  Which brings my thoughts back around to Dad. The words in his printed letter are burned into my cerebral cortex.

  Autumn,

  Because of your behavior at the job fair, certain parameters were set between Mr. Behr and me for your summer internship. Apparently, the Behr’s philosophy is to steep their interns in the culture and mindset of the great outdoors and a simpler, uncomplicated lifestyle that their customer base aspires to. They insist on unplugging their employees, if you will, from technology and certain, worldly conveniences. I understand you may keep your phone for emergencies. Otherwise, I feel our contact this summer should be limited. In fact, I mean not to phone you at all.

  This is not a condition of your hosts. I’m hopeful the solitude will keep you focused on your future, as you are very nearly an adult. As your father, I am committed to paying for a secondary education, with the goal that you might earn a suitable degree and be able to support yourself. Please know that offer will not stand forever. Think long and hard about your options and the consequences.

  Good luck in your endeavors.

  Yours,

  Dad

  The yours was a nice touch, and it only took him three weeks to speak his mind. Sterile and to the point, that’s Dad. My feet pound the packed earth as my pace quickens. Well, he’s right about one thing, I can’t live at home forever. Not that I wanted to, but what then? Sydney will leave for college. The thought of living at home and working for tips at the Tastee Freeze gives me the horrors.

  As usual, after any sort of proclamation from my father, I feel I’ve been doused with emotional turpentine that leaves me cold and wet, skin raw and smarting. The chemical treatment makes me shy away from life, stay antagonistic toward anything that could cause a spark and send whatever’s left of me up in flames.

  For the first time in a long, long time, Jesse’s repeated kindness birthed a new idea, teaching me to hope life might be different somehow. That I could change or recreate myself
. Hell, even Quinn’s been nicer since our first fail of an introduction. I’m seventeen years old. If I don’t want to be me—the armor-plated me I built in high school to protect my gooey center from being eaten alive—who would I be instead?

  Not Sydney. I love my sister, warts and all, but I can’t be her. I swipe at the sweat threatening my vision. My heart beats in time with my steps. Steady pounding on the ground creates the same tempo in my head—mimicking my dad’s voice. Grow up, Autumn. Be like Sydney. Don’t do that, be that, wear that, say that … Ugh! Damn it. I’ve been mad for so long, I don’t know how to be different, or even how it started.

  No. That’s not true. It started with my mother—and her affair.

  My mom worked as an art teacher in the same elementary school we attended and where my dad was vice principal. Back then, they were the perfect couple. Attractive, successful, talented. We were the family everyone envied. Until the janitor caught Mom shagging Mr. Wilson, our beloved math teacher, in the clinic sickbed after school.

  Didn’t take long for the gossips to attack.

  We circled the wagons but were outnumbered. Mr. Wilson quit in shame. My father was pitied, Mother vilified, and by association, Sydney and I were ostracized and bullied mercilessly for years. Until one day. And that’s when it happened, “The Cafeteria Bloodletting of 2012,” cementing forever my reputation as one scary bitch.

  I can feel my angry-self wearing thin. Tired of the fairy glamour it takes to conjure her. Sick of the energy it takes to hate everyone, everything all the time. Alex helped for a while, but that wasn’t real. People lie, betray you, if they ever really care in the first place. The only thing that’s ever brought relief is running. And art, but Dad’s told me often enough what a worthless pursuit creativity is. “Conformity is key, Autumn. Be safe. Toe the line.”

  I push my body harder, jumping over a log, darting around a band of scrub trees. Sweat pours from me, cleansing my body of impurities, but not those of the mind. My father’s voice is still in there.

  Deets barks, taking a detour into the woods. Brush snapping, leaves flying, he’s awfully excited about something. I hope it’s not a bunny.

  For a split second, I wonder if Silas followed me out here. Not that he should. Why would he? It’s just, since that day, the drowning day, he’s been different—starting with all those gifts. Unlike some families, Syd and I don’t receive presents on birthdays. Dad’s not religious like Mom was, and we don’t celebrate holidays. We itemize what we need versus what we want and Dad considers those requests. Within limits, of course. Listed items may (or may not) be granted based on a points system. Earned for grades, chores, behavior, goals met, stuff like that. So when Silas started tossing out prizes, I was almost giddy.

  Also, I don’t use the term giddy.

  Yeah, I know they weren’t really presents, they’re freebies from a multimillion dollar company and I’m being paid to review their products, but it’s the way I got them—the excited look on Silas’s face as he launched them at me. I was silly and girly, and he responded with teasing and sexy smirking. We were goofing off and having fun, and for a minute, the pair of us acted more like friends than enemy coworkers.

  And it was nice.

  Now I usually reserve that insipid word for things like chicken broth or vanilla ice cream, but this is one of those rare occasions where nice does not mean mediocre or generic. On that day, nice meant comfortable in its lack of anger, or contrived-ness, or rules. Nice had a sweet, mellow, longed-for-and-rarely-attained contentment.

  Later, when I was stupid enough to half drown myself in the lake, Silas had been so … cool. I was never really in danger, I mean, sure my boots were too heavy, but Gus was right there, and so was Silas. I was making it back to the boat just fine on my own. Except I wasn’t. And Silas knew it. He helped me, got me to safety, and then he held me. He didn’t have to, but he did. Which was way more than simply “nice.”

  He lifted me, and the next thing I knew I was all wrapped up in his strong, comforting arms. I pretended he cared. His touch was so tender and careful. He made it easy to believe I was important. That he wasn’t just doing his job. For a few sweet minutes, it felt like I mattered to someone. To him.

  I blow out a hot breath. Pathetic. He made it clear he doesn’t date employees. And I shouldn’t want that even if he would. The guy was more interested in the pom-pom car washing action across the street on that first day than in me, anyway. I’m nothing more to him than a paycheck.

  What was it he’d said? Trust me, Teslow, if I wanted you, you’d know it. His words gave me chills. His stormy, blue eyes drilled a path straight to my core when he’d said that. Not on his best day had Alex affected me so profoundly. Silas had my full attention, and I’d wanted to know, in that moment, what being wanted by Silas Reeves would feel like.

  Now the idea seems like a joke. That day is gone, and in the week since, Silas has been neither a jerk nor made more unannounced drop-ins while I’m in my underwear. He’s “nice,” and this time, I do mean in the vanilla sense. He’s the polite, boring model of professionalism when all I really want is to feel his arms around me again. I’m an idiot, because I’m supposed to hate that guy. Guys suck. I should be grateful his distancing himself came in time for me to get a grip on my hormonal insanity. Remember your mantra, Autumn … Try on a new you, except in the area of your boss.

  My mind was so scattered this morning, I left my watch. With no clue how far I’ve come, my body’s tired, my head is clearing, and I’m done running for today. I forgot my water bottle, too, so even bacteria-filled lake water is starting to look good.

  I turn for home with the idea I’ll sit at the end of the dock, stick my feet in the water for a few minutes before getting ready for the day.

  New branches crack and snap, echoing in the woods. Deets flies out in front of me followed by a man. A tall, bearded, shirtless guy in running shorts and shoes stops to gawk. He seems as shocked as I am to find someone else jogging way out here.

  I’m alone, and not a house in sight. The incident with Ball Cap Guy is still new enough to make me jumpy. My heart leaps to clog my throat. My feet slam into the sand, and I yelp. I can’t help it.

  Fear must show in my face because he holds his empty hands high in the air. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I ran into my dog out here and was taking the shorter route home.”

  My gaze flits from Deets to bearded guy. “Your dog?”

  “Yes. I live in the white house … just up the trail here.” He thumbs a line up the dirt path I just came down. “How did you get out here?”

  Crap in a basket. He looks very familiar. Same eyes, but taller and thinner than Quinn, this must be Caden, the brother I told off at the job fair. Figures. I ignore his last question and go for the jugular. “I’m sorry, but are you Mr. … ” I swallow my heart back down. “Caden Behr?”

  “Mr. Behr was my old man until four years ago. Caden’s my little brother. I’m Dexter. Home to visit the fam.” He looks me over in a way that makes my face heat. He’s toned and really cute but a little older. “You can call me Dex, once we know each other better—which I’m hoping will be intense and only take about twenty minutes.”

  My mouth pops open. Tool.

  “Wait a minute … ” He squints, dropping his chin.

  Okay, I think maybe genius here is getting a clue.

  “How old are you?”

  Oops, not the clue I was hoping for. I brush my palms together, ready to set him straight. “I’m Autumn, the seventeen-year-old intern your family hired for the summer, out for a run with your dog. So, there’s not going to be any, you know … ” My hand flops in the air. “Intenseness.”

  Instead of the look of surprise or shame I’m expecting, the guy busts out with a laugh. “I’ll be damned. You’re Caden’s girl? Well … shit.” He laughs again, flashing a huge white smile.

  I doubt Caden would describe me as his girl, since I bit is head off at the job fair. Actually, I dread seeing hi
m again. Normally, I’d tell a guy like Dex to go off himself, but I’m not normal. Or myself. So the gracious new me smiles back. “I think Caden is traveling with his mother?”

  “Shit.” He shakes his shaggy, dirty-blond hair off his shoulders, but his grin remains. “Oh, right, right. You’re working with Silas this summer.” His expression immediately changes from observing me appreciatively—as if I were a potential hookup—to something he’d find on a microscope slide.

  I nod, relieved to know who I’m dealing with. “That’s me. So, hands off. I’m jailbait.”

  He strokes his beard. “Yeeeah, about that. I’m sure you know I was kidding, but can we not mention this … ?” His hand waves back and forth between us as if something actually happened. “ … little meet and greet to Silas?”

  I pretend to consider his request, digging the toe of my shoe in the dirty sand. “Gosh, I don’t know. He’s pretty protective of me as his intern. And as an employee, I hate to withhold such valuable information.”

  His grin is downright swoon-worthy, awful and fun at the same time. “I’ll walk you back, protection from bears as a trade for your silence. We can spit and shake on it, sign in blood, whatever you want. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

  Or the right one? “That depends. Are you going to protect me from bears or Behrs? Or wolves?” My smile is huge. The guy is entertaining; I’ll give him that. Brash and obnoxious—but in a charming, bad-boy way.

  “Bears. Definitely bears.” He laughs, running a finger under his nose.

  “All right then, Dexter.” I spit in my palm and thrust a hand out. “Done.”

  15

  Caden