I lie on my stomach in Autumn’s bed, recovering from the last round of sex with her. Her hand traces lazily along my back, fingertips brushing the scar. I don’t know why I even told her about it. It’s a part of myself I keep hidden away, locked up from anyone who knows me.
But Autumn...there's something odd about the way I’m so quickly comfortable with her. It’s easy being with her, which is fucking strange because she’s probably the most tightly wound chick I’ve ever met. But hell, I’ve never stayed in someone’s bed like this, fucking and hanging out and talking, without wanting to get the hell out of as I was finished getting off.
"Did you always want to be a smoke jumper?" she asks, her voice soft.
“Not really,” I say, looking at the small painting that hangs on the opposite wall, palm trees and water and bright colors. I wonder if she lies here at night, looking at it.
“Not really?”
“Nope.” How do I explain that I never imagined myself doing anything -- being anything? The Saint family’s name was shit in this town, and we weren’t supposed to amount to anything. We were always outsiders here, and that was only worsened by my father’s shittiness. "I just needed a way out of this place. I like being outdoors, working with my hands. I like the land. And the rush. I always liked being on the edge.”
I leave the second half of that sentence unspoken -- because when you grow up the way I did, you never know if the next breath you take is going to be the last. There’s something about that fact that just sits with you. You get used to it. And that’s how you live.
I don't say that part, because I think that part is pretty fucked up, and Autumn isn't the kind of person who would understand my particular brand of fucked up.
“You were running away,” she says. When I roll over, she’s lying on her side, her head propped up on her hand.
I’m not sure if she’s talking about when I first left West Bend, or every day since then. “I guess.”
“I ran away, and found this place,” she says.
“Who runs away to West Bend?" I ask, shaking my head.
She shrugs. "It was an accident," she says. "I didn't go out looking for West Bend."
"You threw a dart at a map or something?"
"Almost," she says, laughing. "I ran out of gas."
"You ran out of gas, so you decided to stay?"
"I had kind of a meltdown," she says.
"A mid-life crisis, you mean."
"Shut up," she says, punching me in the arm. "I'm not middle aged."
"Hey, you're the one who keeps going on and on all the time about how old you are," I say.
"I was having a shitty week," she says. "Not a mid-life crisis."
"Must have been some week to land you in West Bend."
She laughs, but there's no joy in the sound this time. "You could say that."
Then she tells me about her ex-husband, and how she walked in on him and his secretary, the same day her father died. When she was going to tell him about her pregnancy. And all I can think about is what a total asshole that guy must be, how fucking blind and stupid you have to be to miss what you have right in front of you when the woman with you is someone like Autumn.
"I just walked out," she says. "I didn't have a plan. Everything in my whole life has been planned out – the right schools, the right experiences – and I've never deviated from it. That was the first time I've ever not had a plan." She looks at me for a long moment. "Except for now."
I've never had a plan for jack shit in my life, and Autumn was sure as hell not a part of my non-plan. "Why the hell did you buy an orchard?" I ask.
"I ran out of gas right now the road from here," she says, grinning. "And June, this girl – she owns a bed and breakfast right near here – gave me a lift down to the gas station. When I saw the orchard, I made her pull over."
"So you just up and bought an orchard," I say.
"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds crazy," she says.
"You're slightly more spontaneous than I thought you were."
"Thanks," she says, her tone sarcastic. Then she's quiet for a minute. "I needed a change. My father left everything to my brother and I – my mother passed away a couple of years before. We didn't agree on how to run the company anyway. I let my brother buy me out. He thought that my coming out here meant I'd really had a nervous breakdown or something, that I'd honestly lost my damn mind."
"Do you regret it?" I ask.
"Coming here?" she asks. "No. I don't know anything about cider, or about orchards, not really. But my whole life, I never took a leap of faith before that. I'd never had to close my eyes and just jump."
Close your eyes and jump.
"Besides, this place just gets under your skin after a while."
I look at her for a long time, before I reach out and brush a piece of auburn hair off her shoulder. "Yes," I agree. "You try to get away, but it never leaves you."
Autumn laughs. "That just sounds creepy."