If Only I Had Told Her

I wake.

My phone.

It’s ringing, inside the pocket of my jeans, on the floor, where I tossed them when Autumn and I—

She stirs next to me. I hurry off the bed and try to stop the ringing before it wakes her. I see the name I expect. I decline the call. When I look up, Autumn is watching me.

“Hey.” I’m not so sorry to see her awake.

“Was that her?” Autumn asks.

I set my phone on the nightstand. It’s one thirty in the afternoon.

“Does it matter?” I ask. I want it to be only us, as much as possible for as long as possible.

“Yes.”

“It was.”

Autumn looks down. Her pink lips purse. I drop my jeans and climb back in bed.

“Come here.” Pulling her to me is a relief.

Autumn snuggles against me, and when she shifts her face, she breathes in deeply. It feels like she’s breathing in the scent of me the same way I have with her. I’m struck again by my new reality. She loves me. Autumn is in love with me, definitively. It’s so much more than I ever could have imagined.

All these years I’d fantasized about Autumn physically, I never let myself think about what it would be like to be her boyfriend, not consciously at least.

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer though. I could control my thoughts when I was awake, but at night, my brain dwelled on its secret obsession. It was a frequent, recurring dream over the years that Autumn and I were a couple. Always, like my conscious fantasies, there was no explanation of how we got there. We would simply be together.

No matter what the dream with Autumn was about—whether it was set in deep space or in a version of McClure High School with upside-down halls—I always felt such a sense of relief when I dreamed that we were together. It was like the dream was my reality, and when I woke, I was in a nightmare where Autumn and I were both dating other people and weren’t even friends. I’d denied my feelings to Jack, to Sylvie, to myself, but my brain had continued to stubbornly insist that Autumn and I were supposed to be together. I’d thought that it was my lust and jealousy mixing to give me the delusion that an error had been made and the matchups that kept us apart were all a big mistake.

But.

Here we are.

“Do you feel guilty?” Autumn’s voice is feather light, like she’s trying to gently blow the words from her mouth.

The guilt is mine alone. I need her to understand that.

I need her to understand that I had to do this. I had to be with her if the chance was there. My love for her is part of who I am.

“Yeah,” I say. “But I also feel like I’ve been loyal to something bigger.” It’s only the start of what I want to tell her, but I’m interrupted by a beep I should have expected.

I’m going to ignore it, but Autumn says, “You should see who it is.”

“I don’t want to,” I say reflexively.

“It could be The Mothers, and if we don’t answer, they’ll think we’re dead and come back early.”

I would still put the odds on it being Sylvie confirming her flight details before she boards her plane from Chicago, but Autumn has a point. I don’t want The Mothers interrupting our time.

I roll away from Autumn, sit up, and pick up my phone.

ORD > STL Flt#5847 4:17pm Dinner after Y/N?

I’m glad that my back is turned, because I can’t help the tiny smile that cracks my face. It’s such a Sylvie text: the militaristic shorthand, the assumption that I’ll recognize the Chicago airport code. Part of the reason Sylvie underestimates herself is she doesn’t recognize that most people don’t possess her efficiency or candor. Sylvie assumes everyone else knows exactly what they want from life and is strategically plotting to get it as soon as possible. Autumn is the only other person I know like that.

Glad u r safely stateside. Up all night. Need rest. See u alone? 7?

I turn off the sound on my phone.

I lie back down, and we settle in close, facing each other.

“It was her again?” Autumn asks, because she knows.

“I told her that I won’t be meeting her plane. I’ll see her after she has dinner with her parents.”

“Oh. When?”

“We have a few hours.” Four hours fifty-one minutes and counting. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Me neither.” It doesn’t matter what we do as long as I can look at her.

Perhaps Autumn feels the same, because she stares at me, and I do what I’ve longed to do a thousand times: I reach out and brush the hair from her forehead.

Autumn’s eyes drift closed as I stroke her temples and her hair. She looks so happy. How is it possible that I’m making her smile like that with just the tips of my fingers? There isn’t anything else I can blame the smile on: no music, no other sensations.

There must be a catch.

After four years of saying no to Jamie, why did she say yes to me?

I almost laugh because I realize she didn’t say yes to me. She proposed it. I gave in to her request, despite the reasons it was a bad idea.

Autumn trembles under my touch, like the feel of my fingertips is more than she can handle.

“Do you regret it?” I ask, because surely something will go wrong.

Her eyes open. “No,” she says. Before relief can hit me, she continues, “But I wish it had been your first time too.”

Autumn looks away from me, and I freeze.

Without betraying Sylvie, I need to explain to Autumn how significant last night was for me.

I let my hand fall away and concentrate on my words.

“The first time, we were both so drunk neither of us can remember it. And then it turned out that she couldn’t do it unless she was drunk. And if she was drunk, it felt wrong to me. It didn’t happen often or even go very well when it did. So, I mean, in a lot of ways, it was a first for me.”

I hope I don’t have to say more, but Autumn says, “What do you mean ‘she couldn’t do it unless she was drunk’?”

“Someone hurt her once,” I say. It’s true that Sylvie was hurt, but it’s not true to say that she was hurt only once.

“Oh,” Autumn says.

It’s a bit of a bummer to not really remember the first time I had sex, but that isn’t why last night felt like a first time for me. With Sylvie, most nights ended with me telling her she was too drunk for me to keep going. There were nights she was sober enough to consent, but we had to stop in the middle. Success was rare, and I lived in fear of hurting Sylvie.

Autumn lays her hand over mine, and suddenly, I remember all the things that I still need to tell her. I twine my fingers with hers.

“I wanted something better for you,” I told her. “That’s why I made you promise not to do it when you were drinking, but really, the idea of you ever doing it with anybody made me mad.” I need to warn her about the effect she has on me. “Do you remember how you told me that you were going to do it after graduation? And then the day after, you were sitting on the porch, and you said you were waiting for Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“I came up here and punched the wall,” I admit. “I’d never done that before. It hurt.”

“You thought…”

“Yeah.” Also, I need to warn her how selfish she makes me. “Then, after I found out you guys had broken up, it was hard to see you miserable over him when I was so happy. I wanted to pick you up and spin you around.” Like I’d watched Jamie do so many times.

Rather than responding to my hypocrisy, Autumn says, “You were sad that time Sylvie broke up with you. I was so angry at her for hurting you that I thought about pushing her in front of the school bus.”

I almost laugh at Autumn’s hyperbole.

“I was sad,” I agree, “but it was my own fault. I told everybody that I didn’t like it when they made comments about you, and Sylvie got jealous. She asked me if I had feelings for you.” She asked directly that time. “And I told her to drop it and kept trying to change the subject. She could tell.”

I’d tried what had worked before, saying true things in a way that hid what I didn’t want to say. Again and again, I tried to get Sylvie to pretend that I’d told her what she wanted to hear, but that time, she wouldn’t play along. Sylvie dumped me, as I deserved. She was cool and brisk.

Sylvie said, “Finn, even if you weren’t being purposefully obtuse, that would still be a problem. I’m tired of the charade.” That had hurt because I hadn’t thought of my relationship with Sylvie as a farce.

Part of me wishes I could tell Autumn how much I missed Sylvie those weeks. I missed talking with her about politics. I missed going on runs with her when no one else would go with me because it was too cold. I missed calling her to say good night. I missed our evenings at the library together, working side by side, not talking.

Finally, I lied to Sylvie. I lied again and again. Sure, I’d told her I had a crush on Autumn. But I said losing her had made me realize that I hadn’t really been in love with Autumn at all. I told Sylvie that she was the only one I wanted to be with, and after that, she seemed to believe me again.

“Why did you get back with her?” Autumn asks, surprising me.

“You loved Jamie all this time too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” she says, and I’m amazed that I still feel a flicker of jealousy.

“Then why don’t you understand? I wanted—I tried to love only her.”

Autumn’s face tells me that she understands at least that much, so I continue.

“When I told you last month that I was going to break up with Sylvie, it wasn’t because I thought I had a chance of being more than just your friend. It was because loving you from a distance was one thing, but it wouldn’t have been fair to her if I were in love with my best friend.”

Abruptly, Autumn sits up. She hugs the covers around herself like bandages on a wound. I don’t understand what’s happened. I confessed to punching blameless walls and rejoicing in her heartbreak, and she smiled sweetly at me. Why is she upset now? I sit up too.

“Autumn?”

Her hair is hanging over her face. “What if you see her and realize this was all a mistake?”

“That will not happen.”

“It could.”

“It won’t.”

“If you love her—” Autumn says, but I can’t let her go on.

“But if I have the chance to be with you—” It’s surreal to me, but somehow, after everything, she still doesn’t understand how uncontrollably in love I am. “God, Autumn. You’re the ideal I’ve judged every other girl by my whole life. You’re funny and smart and weird. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth or what you’re going to do. I love that. You. I love you.”

After all these years of feeling like I was holding back the most eloquent words of love, my big speech sounds weak to me, but I try to let all my emotion show in my voice.

Her brown hair parts over her face, and her huge eyes peek up at me from under her eyelashes.

I don’t know how I’m still breathing.

“And you’re so beautiful,” I hear myself say.

She ducks her head again, and I laugh aloud.

“Now, I know you already knew that,” I say. I’m laughing because I’ve seen her shrug off that exact compliment so many times.

“It’s different when you say it.” She speaks so quietly I can barely hear her.

I laugh. “How?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

Sweet Autumn.

“You’re so beautiful.” I reach for her face and tilt her chin up. I need her to see me say this. “Last night was the best thing that ever happened to me,” I tell her. “And I would never think it was a mistake unless you said it was.”

“I would never say that,” she whispers.

I smile and lean my forehead against hers. I close my eyes as I reply. “Then everything is going to be okay. We’re together now, right?” I need to hear her say it. No more mistakes.

“Of course,” Autumn says, and I can’t help my laugh again.

She pulls away.

I explain, “I never ever thought this would happen, and then you say, ‘of course,’ like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“Doesn’t it feel like it?” she asks me.

It does, and it doesn’t. Being with Autumn feels natural, but it also feels supernatural. I think about the way her novel captured and displayed my love for her so perfectly without her having consciously known all that was in my heart. I think about my recurring dreams of having returned to the right timeline, where she and I have always been together.

“How did we ever get here?” I wonder aloud. How is it possible that two people could simultaneously seem to be both destined and not destined to be together?

Again, I have that feeling that there must be a catch, that fate will not allow me to be with her; but when I look back at Autumn and see her quietly and calmly watching me, waiting for whatever I say or do next, I realize that it doesn’t matter.

My face must change because she smiles and clambers into my lap. We wrap our arms around each other and settle in. After a moment, she says, “You know, I never thought this would happen either. When Jack told me—” and then she stops.

I move my face away enough to look at her.

“Oh. I didn’t explain that part last night.”

“What part?” I hope I don’t sound as panicked as I suddenly feel. What did Jack tell her?

“It was a couple of weeks ago, after the horror movie we went to with Jack, remember? You went inside to get pretzels or something, and he was all, ‘It took Finn forever to get over you last time. Are you messing with his head?’” Her Jack impression is decent, but she’s still talking. “I was like, ‘Whaaat?’ because I had no idea that you’d ever felt that way. But Jack said you were over me, that he was only worried. So for the past couple of weeks, I’ve thought I’d missed my chance with you.”

I don’t say anything in reply. My head is too full of opposing thoughts and feelings.

“Finny?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I was trying to decide whether I should kill Jack for telling you I was into you or if I should kill him for telling you that I wasn’t into you. Tough call.”

“Noooo,” Autumn says. She kisses my cheek. “Don’t be mad. He was looking out for you. It was sweet. He loves you.”

“Yeah,” I admit. Jack was protecting me, but there’s no way he believed that I was over Autumn. I’m wondering now though. “What would you have done if he’d told you the truth, that I was”—I try to remember how Jack put it before—“bonkers in love with you?”

Autumn rests her head on my shoulder. I can’t believe this is real life, holding her like this.

“Hmm,” she says. “I think I would have had a hard time believing him.”

“Really?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not exactly your type.”

“I—” I decide to skip over the whole “type” comment. “Let’s say Jack convinced you. I’m certain he could have eventually. Then what?”

“I guess I would have…” Autumn trails off and begins again. “I guess I would have flirted with you?”

“How?”

“I have no idea,” Autumn says. “But when I gave you my nov—Oh.” Before I can react, she’s sliding off my lap and looking at me with frantic eyes. “With everything that happened last night, I almost forgot you read my book.”

She’s looking at me like I’ve turned into a wild animal she does not trust.

“Autumn, it was great,” I tell her. She’s still looking at me dubiously. “Really.”

“It’s a first draft,” she says. “It can’t be great. But if you liked it okay, that’s a good start.”

“I loved it,” I say.

She shakes her head, brushing off my praise.

“Why were you so nervous to share it with me?”

“Because.” Autumn picks at the blanket in her lap. “It’s all of me, dissected and splayed out. I’m not nervous about how you interpreted Izzy and Aden’s relationship anymore, but last night, I thought it might be the end of our friendship. Because you got over me. After I abandoned you.”

“But I didn’t,” I say. “I couldn’t get over you.”

She looks back at me.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she says, and a smile cracks her worry briefly. “So you liked the book. Obviously, you’re biased.”

“You remember how furious I was last night? I thought you’d recorded my devotion in perfect detail and then dropped it in my lap without considering my feelings. And I still loved it as a story. You’re a good writer, Autumn. You’ve always been good.”

Autumn shrugs and looks away, but her smile is back. “Thanks,” she whispers.

I can’t take it anymore. I lean over and kiss her deeply. A few minutes are lost to that, and then I gasp as I feel her fingers close around me.

“We can’t double our chances of you getting pregnant,” I say, even though I’m kissing her neck now and doing nothing to stop her hand.

Autumn pulls away and puts her other hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “I know what to do.” Autumn pushes me down on the bed, and for some unknown period of time, I am entirely at her mercy.