If Only I Had Told Her
Laura Nowlin
This book is dedicated to the memory of
Aliksir Drago Jaan
And in honor of all parents whose children live on in their hearts.
author’s note
In the winter of 2009, my husband found me crying over my secondhand IBM ThinkPad. He kneeled in front of me in my “office” (a deep window ledge in our tiny studio apartment that I’d claimed as a desk), and I sobbed to him,
“I have to let Finny die inside my brain now!”
As I first drafted Autumn’s narrative in If He Had Been with Me, I crafted Finn’s side of the story within me, and I could feel all his thoughts and passion. I had even written a page and a half of Finn’s story. When my husband found me crying, it was because I had realized that I needed to delete those pages. I had no agent, no literary prospects; I couldn’t write a whole new novel from his perspective when my energy would be better spent revising the novel that I’d already written from Autumn’s point of view. So I dried my tears and focused on making sure Autumn’s story was the best it could be. I let Finny’s voice fade. I let him die again within me.
Over the years, so many readers have asked for a Finny POV, and I’ve always said, “I’m sorry, he’s dead; I can’t bring him back.” And it was true. I didn’t have that power. But Gina Rogers had that power.
I hadn’t planned to listen to the audiobook. The idea of my words in someone else’s mouth terrified me. But then Gina sent me a message asking that if I ever listened, I provide feedback—even if it was negative—because she too was an artist striving for an ideal. I was so touched by her sentiment and dedication to her craft that I decided to give it a listen.
The moment I heard Gina as Finny say “Hey” to Autumn at the bus stop, I felt him stir within me. Before I was done listening, he was alive and, dear reader, Finny was mad at me. Not for killing him—he understood I had to make If He Had Been with Me the best story that I could—but he had a few things that he wanted to say, some things he needed to clarify. Given his miraculous resurrection, his request seemed reasonable, and I was compelled to let him finally have his say.
So forgive me if I ever swore to you that this book would never exist. At the time, I believed it with my whole artist’s heart.
But life is like that sometimes, and that’s a good thing.
content warning
This novel includes depictions of death, depression, suicide, and pregnancy.
If you or someone you know is experiencing mental-health distress or crisis, please reach out for help.
Suicide and Crisis Lifeline:
Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org.
finn
one
Autumn is a terror to sleep beside. She talks, kicks, steals the covers, uses you as a pillow. The stories I could tell if I had anyone to tell them to. Autumn is uncharacteristically embarrassed about her nocturnal chaos though, and it’s one of her eccentricities for which she will not tolerate a bit of teasing. Our mothers—“The Mothers” as Autumn started calling them when we were young—have their own tales of Autumn’s nighttime calamities, and the look that she gives them has been enough to stop me from sharing my childhood memories of her violent, restless sleepovers.
This summer, I discovered just how much she hasn’t changed. The other day, she fell asleep watching me play video games. I had finally, finally, made a specific timed jump when she flung her arm onto my lap, causing my guy to fall to his death. I gently lifted her hand off me and scooted over a few inches, but not too far. I didn’t tell her about it when she woke up; she would say something about going back home when she starts to feel tired, and I’d rather give away all my games than lose a minute of whatever has been happening between us since Jamie broke up with her.
I made sure to insert myself between Autumn and Jack last night for this very reason. It was clear that we were crashing at my house, and I felt it was my duty to be the one to take the blows.
I have to admit: I’d hoped for something like this.
It was her fingers twitching against my ribs that first woke me.
Aunt Claire is right. Autumn snores now. She didn’t when we were children. I’d believed Autumn when, again and again, she insisted that her mother was only joking.
But here we are, in this blanket tent I made for her, her head under the crook of my arm. She’s on her side, curled in a tight ball, snoring, though not loudly. Her breath comes in hot, short puffs.
After Jack fell asleep last night, she and I stayed up talking for a while. Autumn was drifting, but I hadn’t wanted to give her up yet, so I kept her talking until she said, “Hush, Finny. I need to focus on sweeping.”
I turned my face and, in the darkness, saw her closed eyes, her gentle breathing.
“You’re sleeping?”
She frowned.
“No. Can’t you see me with the broom? It’s so messy in here.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Oh, you know…in the room…in between…”
“Between what?”
“Huh?”
“The room in between what, Autumn?”
“Pretend and reality. Help me. It’s so messy.”
“Why is it messy?” I asked, but she didn’t answer me.
I went to sleep much like I am now, on my back, staring at the quilt above us. I remember stretching my arm above my head, vaguely aware of the way she was twitching and mumbling a few inches away from me, presumably cleaning the space between this world and the next. We weren’t touching, but it felt like the atoms between us were warm with my love for her.
Later on in the night, I woke up when she smacked my face. I pushed her hand away and turned my head toward her. She was close but not touching me, the covers bunched in her other fist, the hand that clocked me resting between us. I made myself look away and close my eyes, go back to sleep.
But now…
This is heaven: her forehead pressed into me, her head under my arm, and my hand on her shoulder. We found each other by instinct. Even if I was half-asleep, I would never have done this knowingly. I wouldn’t know if she was okay with it. I don’t know it now either, but I am unable to move.
My penis, based on very minimal evidence, has decided that today is going to be the greatest day of both our lives. I understand its enthusiasm, but it’s (sadly) vastly overestimating the situation.
If I move, Autumn will wake up.
If Autumn wakes up, she’ll see my body’s assumption.
This is what I get for putting myself in this position. Again.
Not that I’ve been in this exact position with Autumn. But like I said, the tales I could tell.
The toilet flushes. I hadn’t wondered where my other best friend had gone off to.
I am not going to be able to keep up the brave face with Jack. I don’t think he’ll let me this time. He’s always known that I was still in love with Autumn after all these years, in spite of my being mostly happy with Sylvie. He let it slide all through high school, but he’s not going to let me pretend anymore.
A couple of weeks ago, after we went to see that silly horror movie that made Autumn scream three times, both of them—Jack and Autumn—said they had fun. They said they could understand why I liked my other friend so much, and sure, maybe we could do it again.
Autumn had meant it. I could tell.
It wasn’t that Jack didn’t mean it. There was just a lot he wasn’t saying.
I don’t know if last night helped. I want Jack to see that Autumn isn’t a poseur who thinks she’s a princess like Alexis or Taylor make her sound.
It’s more like Autumn is a real princess but from an alien planet. She is the most confident and insecure person I’ve ever known.
Except for Sylvie, of course.
Remembering Sylvie robs my penis of the delusion that a miracle is about to occur and adds to my already bloated guilt.