Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ezra
Okay, so I didn’t love watching Autumn walk away with scrawny, buzzed Kip. Not one little bit. But between me and Autumn, I’m the only one who could get the man’s name right. So, I can’t get too jealous. Right?
I go home, taking my plate of Autumn's insanely delicious chicken parmesan with me. My sweater did not deserve the goodness or the assault it received tonight. And I'm pretty sure Autumn's right. I don't think it'll ever recover. But that's okay because Autumn's expression when I came out half-dressed will be burned into my memory forever.
I’ll just wait for the girl to get home, then we can finish what we started. This house isn’t lacking in windows and I’ve got every single one of them open, letting in that sweet September breeze and any noise indicating that Autumn might be back.
I can hear Phil in my head telling me to find something else to do. Because sitting here waiting for the girl is doing nothing for my mental health.
There’s always a hole to be dug or a tree to be trimmed on a Christmas tree farm. Or… why not drive into town and get something to eat—because half a chicken parmesan serving isn’t cu tting it for me. I hear the bowling alley has great nachos. If I happen to run into Autumn and her friend Chip , so be it.
Okay, maybe that isn’t the healthiest plan either. But of my two lacking plans, I go with option number two.
I drive into town, passing Love High School where I met Autumn. I pass the old lumber shop where I spent way too much of my savings on wood to practice building things—things like birdhouses that my father took into the backyard and practiced shooting with his shotgun. He destroyed more than one of my sixteen-year-old masterpieces.
I’m still four blocks from the bowling alley, but I turn left past the lumber store as if I’m on autopilot. I’m a kid again, headed home.
I slow on Birch to three miles an hour, my eyes zoning in on the lights spilling out the living room window of the old brown house. The lawn is dead, and the baseball bat I left on the grass ten years ago is still lying there. The light from the TV flashes out the window, but I can’t see him sitting in his chair, whiskey in hand. I look, heart pounding, but I see nothing.
I’m just past the house when red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror.
“Great.” I drop my eyes to the speedometer, but I’m not speeding, not even close.
I shift my Civic into park and dig out my license and registration. My eyes dart back to the brown house and the trail of memories I’d like to forget.
The cop behind me exits his car and walks up to my vehicle with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” he says, his tone low and cool, his brows knit. His wide mustache is flat, no hint of a smile on the man’s face.
“Aw,” I scoff. “Not very.”
“That’s right. Did you know that an accident can be caused by someone going too slow just as easily as someone driving too fast?”
I replay his words in my mind. “I highly doubt that.”
He slides his dark glasses down to the edge of his nose. Glasses he doesn't need to be wearing—it's evening. The sun is setting, and the sky is dim.
“What did you—” he pauses, and I recognize those eyes.
“Ezra?” Canelo says. I never knew why my Mexican friend went by the nickname—in Spanish, the word means ‘cinnamon’.
“Canelo?”
He smirks. “It’s plain old Antony now.” Canelo opens up my door and leans against the open edge. “What are you doing here, man? It’s been years.”
I unbuckle and stand up to tell my old track friend hello. Canelo wraps me up in a hug before I’m completely upright.
“You’re a cop now?”
“I know, right?” he says. “Thought I’d spend some time on this side of the law to see how I like it.”
I laugh and look over the grown man in his uniform. I went away and everyone at home grew up. It makes me wonder if Mav has grown old. How unfair that someone like Mav is alive and well, while Mr. Green died five years ago, leaving behind his wife and young daughters.
“You look good,” I tell my friend. And he does.
“Yeah. Well, you look like you were about to knock over some mailboxes or something.” Canelo throws his head back and laughs. “Driving that slow, it’s pretty sus, man.”
“Nah. No vandalism tonight. Just—just driving by my old house.”
“Visiting the old man?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Just taking a drive.”
Canelo nods. “I get it. He’s been up to no good since you left.”
“He was never up to any good.” But then, I don’t know what he means. How does he know what Mav’s been up to? “So, you come by here often, then?”
Canelo’s dark brows raise. “Some. I put him in jail last year for shooting his gun in a residential area. Turns out his old TV broke. Pissed him off, so he took it out back. He just wanted to dispose of it.”
Canelo gives him an excuse—but I can picture a dozen birdhouses built by me being shot to bits for no reason at all.
My insides turn to jelly. I haven’t had to deal with the alcohol and aftermath of Mav Bennett for ten long years. My body doesn’t know what to do with this information. “He shouldn’t be allowed to own a gun.”
“Bah. He’s harmless.”
“He’s not. At least, not when he’s intoxicated, which is how he is most of the time.” I rub my hands together, then shove them into my pockets. The truth is, I can’t really say how Mav is most of the time, not anymore.
“That’s true.” Canelo’s dark eyes lift up to mine and a smile spreads across his lips. “So, you and Autumn, back together?”
“Oh, um.” I run a hand over the back of my neck. “Well, I’m at the farm and—”
“Nice. I always thought you two would make it. It was weird when you didn’t.” He shakes his head. “You know?”
I do know.
I clear my throat and run a hand over the scruff of my chin. “Yeah. Weird.”
“Well, glad it all worked out for you two.” Canelo checks his watch. He’s all grown up now. “Hey, listen, if you want to spy on your dad, maybe do it on foot. For real—I don’t want you to accidentally run over old Mrs. Olson because she’s walking her cat at night and you don’t see her coming.”
“I—I wouldn’t—”
“On foot, okay?” Canelo gives me a serious I’m-in-charge nod. That’s new. Then, my old friend offers me a familiar smile .
“Sure. On foot.”
Canelo slaps my shoulder. “Hey, my number hasn’t changed since high school, if you ever want to hang out. Tell Autumn hello for me. I haven’t seen her since I bought my Christmas tree last year. See you, man.”
“Sure. Thanks, Canelo.”
I drive around for another half hour, revisiting places and things I haven’t seen in years. And somehow, I end up at the cemetery. It’s not a huge graveyard, but still, Love’s been around a while. The town is small—probably only a few thousand have been buried here.
And Mr. Green must be one of them. Autumn and her mom would have wanted to keep him close. I wander for forty minutes before I find his headstone.
Edward Green
Husband, Father, Friend
I plop down and stare at the dates. I stare at his name. I can only imagine how Autumn’s heart broke. My throat chokes up at the thought. Ed Green was the best man I knew. He gave me a chance when a lot of fathers wouldn’t have. I’ve spent the last decade thinking that, in the end, he never really approved of me. But it wasn’t true.
Realizing that Autumn said that just to get me to leave makes me braver when facing him now. Even in this way.
When my phone rings, my mind doesn’t feel like it’s all there. Like I had one too many drinks when actually I’ve had zero.
“Autumn?” I say without bothering to look at the screen.
“No, darlin’, it’s Dess,” Dessie says over the line. “Ezra, honey, where are you? I thought you and Autumn were going over business things tonight. I went by, but both houses are empty.”
“Uh. We were, but she had a date show up.” I run one hand down the front of my face and stifle a groan. “Does she date often, Dess?”
“A date?” Dessie scoffs. “Not possible.”
“Well, he came with flowers, saying they had plans. And she left with him. That sounds a whole lot like a date to me.”
“Where is she now?”
“Heck if I know.” Except that I do—don’t I? Unless good ol’ Kip took her for food after all. Autumn is known for getting hangry. “Love’s Lanes, I’d guess.”
“Where are you?” my friend asks, with the tone of a mother bear worried over her cub. Though, I’m not sure why. Autumn’s the one out with some guy she shouldn’t be. Not me.
“I’m at the cemetery.” My eyes drift back up to Mr. Green’s stone. “I didn’t know he’d died, Dess.”
She doesn’t ask me who.
“He was my friend too. No one told me.” My throat aches.
She is quiet for a minute. “We were all so caught up in Autumn’s loss. We had Summer and April to help too. And we put it all over Facebook. That’s how we let people know. We all assumed you’d see it.”
“Yeah.” I cough. “Well, I didn’t.” In my efforts to avoid Autumn by not keeping in touch with anyone from Love, I never heard the news by word of mouth either. If only I hadn’t cut off that part of my world.
“Oh, darlin’—”
“I’m gonna hang up, Dess. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before she can protest, I end the call.
The grassy floor is littered with leaves falling from their trees. It smells like fall. Love always had a scent for every season. And fall smells like dried leaves and clove. Fall was always my favorite in Love—as short as it may be. Though that may have to do a whole lot with the girl I’ve loved most of my life and the excuse of the farm to spend the majority of our time together.
I sit a few minutes more when a black car pulls into the yard, down the path, and parks just beside my Honda Civic.
I squint, not recognizing the vehicle. But then short legs, long wavy hair, and loathing eyes step from the passenger seat. With one hand on her hip, Autumn stares at me, her jacket looped over her arm.
“What are you doing here?” she says. Then, swooping her head back into the car, she says something I can’t hear before closing the passenger door.
Kip drives away—without another look back. Idiot . He has no idea what he’s running from.
Autumn walks over to where I sit next to her father’s grave. “Dessie said you sounded like you’d been drinking.”
“Drinking?” I choke out with a laugh. “You know me better than that.” It’s hard to touch the stuff when it literally made my childhood a nightmare.
Her face softens. “You haven’t?”
“Autumn.” I shake my head. “No.”
Her shoulders fall. “Well, what are you doing out here, Ez?”
I peer back at the stone where her dad lies. “I never got to say goodbye.” I read his name again and again. Edward Bennett. “It should have been Mav,” I say.
A small puff falls from her chest and she plops down next to me. “It absolutely should have been.”
I huff out a laugh. It isn’t funny. None of it is.
“Ed Green told me to take care of you.”
She swivels her neck to look at me. Her words are thick with emotion. “He did?”
“He did. A week and a half before we’d planned to leave. I came to pick you up for work and he took me aside. He told me he knew I was a good man. A man who’d been dealt a hard hand but had risen above. And he asked me to look out for you in New York.” I lift my eyes to hers. “I promised him I would. ”
She nods, her amber eyes swimming behind unshed tears. “He never said anything.”
“I thought he’d changed his mind about me when you sent me away.” A tight ache constricts in my throat.
“I know,” she says, eyes dropping to the grassy floor. “I’m sorry for that.”
“You’d made up your mind. I could see that.” I look at her, remembering her face all those years ago—only this time, I see her that night with new eyes and new information.
“I’ve always been stubborn. When my parents asked—” She blinks over to me. “When he asked, I just told him I’d made up my mind. I wanted to stay.”
I nod. “And we all know that when Autumn Green makes up her mind, there’s no changing it.”
“Only Dad didn’t understand that he was the one who had changed my mind.”
I wait and pray for more. Dr. Appleby would tell me to ask for it. If you want it, ask for it. But I can’t. Not with this. This is tender and difficult, an open wound for Autumn. She’s the only one who can give herself permission to speak.
“I couldn’t leave him. Not when I knew how much he and Mom would need me. I couldn’t leave Summer. That little girl deserved some semblance of a normal childhood. I was determined to see that she got it.”
“Little girl? She’s three years younger than you. You were kind of a little girl yourself.”
“I grew up the day I overheard that conversation,” she says, eyes on mine. “But Summer didn’t have to. And Mom couldn’t handle it.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” I tell her.
She turns to face her father’s stone. And though it’s small and difficult to hear over the rustling leaves, I hear her. “Me too.”
"Autumn," I say, small and quiet. But it has the desired effect. I want her attention. I want her to face me .
I lean a little closer and the tears brimming in her eyes spill onto her cheeks. I press my lips to hers, needing to comfort her in this moment, for all the times I couldn’t. At the same time, finding my own comfort within the connection of our lips, breaths, and hearts. She cups my cheek, holding me there, her warm breath mingling with mine.
And I kiss her—not the girl that I loved and left all those years ago, but the woman who has lost, endured, and risen above. And somehow, all of that makes this kiss sweeter than any other before.