Page 81 of Leaving the Station
“Of course,” they said, concern evident in their voice. “Where are you?”
Ten minutes later, we were sitting in a restaurant called Jack’s Grill just off campus.
Autumn picked up our cheese fries from the counter and slid into the seat across from me. I ate as if I’d been lost in the wilderness for days.
She pushed the basket toward me and ordered a second for herself.
“Of course I wanted to be your friend,” Autumn said after both baskets of fries were demolished and all that was left were tiny specs of cheese and pepper. She ran her finger over the oily paper, picking up the crumbs absentmindedly. “I may have wanted to bemorethan that for a minute.”
Autumn, at one point, wanted to be more than friends. I’d even thought to myself that they were the kind of person who I would normally have a crush on. But I felt nothing for her then, other than thinking she was beautiful.
It was Alden I had feelings for. Complicated feelings but feelings nonetheless.
So I continued to deflect. “How are Rex and Shelly?”
Autumn’s lips thinned into a line. “I haven’t been talking to them much.”
“Really?”
“My architecture classes have been kicking my ass,” they said, not quite a response.
I had a real talent for finding people who were experts attalking around.
“We’re learning how to do this thing called three-point perspective in my representation class,” she began, speaking quickly. “You have to do these calculations and make all these lines so that you can give your drawing depth.”
They continued like this for a while, and when they were done, I asked, “Why aren’t you talking to Rex and Shelly?”
She brushed a face-framing curl behind her ear. “I didn’t like how they talked to you that night.”
We both knew the night.
“But I didn’t like how you spoke to them either,” Autumn continued. “I didn’t like anything that went down.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?” I asked, swirling my finger in the empty fry basket as well. “Why didn’t you defend me? Or them? Oranyone?”
“I didn’t know how,” she said. “But I should’ve. And I’m sorry I didn’t.”
I nodded and pulled my hand away.
After a moment: “So, how’s your boyfriend?”
It was the worst thing she could’ve said. I’d almost forgotten about what had happened earlier that night. That was why I had called Autumn, after all: to forget.
She was just trying to be supportive, but I didn’t want support.
I wanted to be told I’d made a huge mistake. More specifically,what I wanted was for her to read my mind and see that I’d called her because Ididn’twant to talk about him.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said finally.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Autumn said with genuine concern in their voice. “You broke up?”
It was a yes or no question, but both answers felt wrong.
I began to cry.
Blubberingwould probably have been the right word. I was making incoherent sounds, and fat, wet drops were falling onto the sticky diner table.
Autumn reached their hand out again, but I pulled away.
