He and I decided to meet on a Saturday.

I was sweating profusely, partly because of the fading afternoon heat and partly because of anticipation. I was glad to be in the shade of a tall apartment building. Fanning myself with my hand, I felt a presence watching me, and I turned to my right to see Finn. He was in a simple long-sleeved shirt, faded jeans, and white sneakers, and he was carrying a plastic bag and a paper cup holder in one hand.

When we were close enough to hear each other, he said, "Hey. Did I make you wait long?"

"Not at all," I said.

He lifted the items that he was carrying. "I got us some food. Meat sandwich and hot cocoa."

That reduced the tension in me. I smiled in amusement and narrowed my eyes in confusion. "So... you prepared that, and you wanted us to meet here. What is this all about? What are you up to?"

"Nothing," Finn replied in his most innocent tone. "You said you wanted us to talk, so that's what we'll do... in a while. There's a perfect place for it." He cocked his head at the towering structure next to us. "Are you afraid of heights?"

A moment later, we found ourselves in an elevator moving up to the highest level of the apartment building. He and I didn't talk until we reached the rooftop, where my jaw fell to my chest. Standing near the railings, we could see the view of the downtown area and the park. It was like a garden of orange and golden trees from up there. Some stores had begun to put up Christmas decorations, a reminder that autumn was ending. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the calmness and beauty of my hometown.

"My dad always brought me up here when I was a kid," Finn said, which made me open my eyes. "And he'd tell me stories about the town."

I felt a pang of envy upon hearing about the kind of childhood he had, but I tried not to show it. Instead, I smiled at the view and breathed again. "That's nice. I've never been on the roof of a building before, so this is an interesting experience for me," I said.

"I'm glad that it is."

We sat in a shaded part of the rooftop, got out our sandwiches and drinks from their packaging, and began to consume them.

"I still don't get it, though," I said, tucking my hair behind my ear when the wind blew. "Why the food and this place? Did you just... trick me into going on a date with you?"

Finn stopped blowing on his drink to give me a flat look. "Autumn. If this was a date, I would've chosen a fancier place and dressed more appropriately."

We smiled at that and even chuckled a little. However, while both of us were relieved at how easily we could talk about it now, I could tell that it was a possibility that he'd been tossing and turning in his mind. I was sure that he was consumed with all the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens—because he and I were the same.

He shook his head. "I just thought it would suck if we talked at school. Too many distractions and people spreading rumors around."

"That makes sense."

"Besides, I wanted to show this place to you as some sort of a peace offering or something."

Biting on my food, I eyed him curiously. "Peace offering?"

"For giving you the cold shoulder." Finn glanced at me. The wind was blowing his hair back, revealing the solemn expression that was washing over his features. "I thought I had become mature, but it turns out that I'm still the same brat who throws something away just because it doesn't work the way I want it to."

"I understand how I feel." And I truly did. I had gone down the same path as he had. "You have the right to be upset, Finn. You're my friend, and I hurt you."

"And you're my friend and my actions must've hurt you, too. I wish I had taken the time to understand why you rejected me instead of getting angry and storming off."

I stared at the vast blue sky before us. The half-eaten sandwich was starting to get cold in my hands, but I couldn't take another bite because of the lump that had formed in my throat. With great effort, I squeezed the words out.

"There's someone I like."

"I see," he said. A moment passed before he asked tentatively, "What... what kind of person is he?"

He didn't ask the person's name. Perhaps he didn't want to hear it. If he were to ask me, though, I probably wouldn't be able to speak Michael's name.

What's he like? I pondered the question. There was a multitude of adjectives that could describe Michael, but I could think of one word that could describe him adequately.

"A puzzle."

"What do you mean 'a puzzle'?"

"He... he's as much a mystery to me as he is to everyone else."

His voice dropped to a lower, gloomier key. "Sounds like he's a very special person to you. The way you speak about him."

"He is."

"Is he the first?"

"Yes."

"He made lots of differences, then? Like he opened your eyes to new things? Feelings?"

I chewed my lower lip and concentrated on keeping my emotions under control. The more he asked, the more the lump in my throat grew.

"Yes."

Finn lowered his eyes to the floor that we were sitting on. His face was steeped in a mixture of hurt and regret, but he tried to conceal these emotions with a gentle smile.

"How can I compete with a guy like that?" he mumbled to himself.

I felt like my chest was being torn apart once more. I looked away from him and didn't speak. I thought about telling him that there was someone out there who would give him the love that he deserved, but then I realized that it would be like stepping into Michael's shoes and recreating that conversation at the lake, replaying that first heartbreak.

We didn't speak again until we finished our food and let things sink in. I don't know how long we stayed on that rooftop, but the sky was turning from blue to pink and purple by the time he said the words that had stayed with me for a long time.

"Listen, I'm not saying this because I want to change the way you feel about me. Even if I wanted to, I still couldn't do anything about it. I'm sure. You can't love someone into loving you back, right?"

Finn gazed at me and smiled. It wasn't a smile of hurt. It was one of acceptance. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't smile back. I could only do a nod.

"I just want to make my feelings clear to you before things get awkward again." He paused and swallowed. "I've liked you for a long time, Autumn, so this will continue to sting for a while. My timing must've sucked so badly, and I don't know if I confessed to you too soon or if I did it too late. But there's one thing that I can't stop thinking about. I wonder..." He turned his gaze forward to look at the sky. "I wonder if things would've turned out differently if I was the one that walked you home that night."

──────

I didn't want to eat dinner. However, my mom scolded me for trying to skip a meal, saying stuff like I was starting to look too thin and sickly, so I forced myself to eat the small portion of food that I had put on my plate.

It wasn't until I finished my dinner, did my chores, and led myself up to the attic that I finally sat down and cried. That place was my safe haven. Its grimy timbered walls had been hearing my muffled sobs over the years. I couldn't let Clover and Mom see me cry. Much of my life had been devoted to trying not to cry in front of people, though that devotion had once been broken because of Michael.

It may seem like I was crying over some silly little thing, but all the negative emotions I'd been storing up for days had become strong enough for the tears to break through the wall that had been holding them. I needed to cry.

Nearly half an hour must have passed before I heard footsteps climbing up the stairs. Sniffing, I wiped my damp cheeks and nose with the tail of my shirt. Clover muttered something about the darkness until she turned on the light bulb, casting orange light around the room.

She sat down on the floor beside me and handed me tissues. "Here."

"B-but I wasn't..."

"Sis, I'm well aware of what you do every time you come up here."

I took the tissues and blew my nose into them.

"I know the feeling," she said, "it sucks."

I looked at her. "Do you even know what I was crying about?"

"Uhhh... no. But I'm practicing how to comfort people, and one way to do it is to acknowledge their feelings. At least, that's what I learned from my science teacher when he talked about how his friend's pet lizard died." Clover pinched the skin between her eyebrows. "Sorry. That was, like, totally off-topic. I don't know what to say to make situations like this less stressful."

"You're doing great, though." I smiled. It felt better to be smiling after crying my eyes out.

"So... would you like to talk about what's... going on with you? I don't make the best and most sympathetic pieces of advice, but, uh..." She shrugged. "I can force myself to shut up and listen."

With that emotional release, I could finally breathe and think clearly. In that quiet and crammed attic, I poured the things that I had been afraid to talk about, starting from that moment with Michael at the lake up to the conversation with Finn earlier that day. All the while, Clover kept moving her jaw and balling her hand on her lap, seemingly gathering all her self-control not to criticize Michael or punch his guts the next time she saw him.

True to her word, she didn't interrupt me while I was talking. It was only until I exhaled that she let out a low whistle and said, "Wow. I can't believe my litter sister has a much more interesting love life than I have. And I'm the boy-crazy one here."

"Why are you saying that? Aren't you happy with Clint?" I asked.

"Of course I am. But I wish I had more high school drama to tell people when I graduated."

"Really?" I laughed in incredulity. "No one, as in no one, says that, Clover. Except you."

She chuckled. "Good. Now you're laughing. So, with all that drama with Michael and Finn, who's your heart beating for?"

"That's weird to ask. Myself, of course."

It is a guarantee that love comes with pain—I knew it, I know it, I will always be reminded of it—but no matter what happens, no matter how much pain it puts me through, I am my own anchor. No one else shall ever be.

"Now that's the savage Autumn that I know." Clover squeezed my cheek.

"Aw!" I shoved her hand away and rubbed the pained spot. "I thought you hated my 'savagery,'" I said, making air quotes around the word.

"Yeah, kinda. But it sucks to see you going emotional all the time, too."

I smiled at her. Yes, I could be my own anchor, but if someone wanted to help me pull myself up, I wouldn't mind taking their hand.

The cardboard boxes on the opposite side of the room piqued Clover's curiosity, so she pushed herself up and walk toward them. Blowing the dust off, she opened the lids and motioned me to scoot over, which I did.

"Look, there's so much stuff here," she said. "Mom is such a hoarder. I doubt she ever spared these a second glance."

The boxes were full of rat-eaten magazines, books, postcards, some dusty clothes, newspapers, and other keepsakes. Nostalgia hit me hard when I opened a small bag in which some of our family pictures had been tucked. They were the pictures that Mom had hidden for so many years because Dad was in them.

I hadn't forgotten his blonde hair, but I had forgotten his hooded eyes, crooked nose, and grayish stubble. My memory of his entire appearance was becoming clear again. Before I could check out the pictures further, Clover took them from my hands, put them back inside the bag, and tossed it aside.

An awkward silence fell in until I said, "I know you don't want to talk about him, but I want to ask one thing."

"What?"

"Are you still mad at him?"

Clover looked me dead in the eye. "Not as much as before. But if he ever, ever, came back, I would punch his face. Just once. Hard."

She shifted her gaze away. I continued to stare at her, and at that moment, I realized that despite her always saying that she didn't care about our dad, that she didn't care about him leaving at all... between the two of us, she was the one that was affected the most. Her apathy was all just a mask.

We didn't talk about him further than that. We moved on to the other items in the boxes and talked about the memories that were more positive. All the while, I couldn't shake off the odd feeling that I had to find something in those items. So, when I found another stack of newspapers and books, I felt a sudden sense of intrusion brought on by my curiosity. Picking up the first local newspaper, I found myself rediscovering the past and facing its puzzling stories.

"What's that?" Clover peeked over my shoulder. "Newspapers, again? Wow. Mom is sure paranoid about what's going on in the world."

"Read this." My quivering hands handed her the paper.

Her head dipped to examine the article. "'Child hit and killed by a semi-truck; driver arrested,'" she read, and her eyes lit up as she looked up at me. "Oh! She told me about this before. I thought big trucks were not allowed in this town?" She checked out the date on the paper. "Oh wait, this news was three years ago..."

"Clover."

"Okay, okay, I'll read." She cleared her throat. "'A seven-year-old kid was fatally struck by a speeding semi-truck while crossing the main street in the town center...'" Her eyes scanned the rest of the article, and I watched as they took notice of something significant. "Holy crap, Elodie Summer? I know Michael's little sister is dead, but I haven't been told it was this tragic."

"Neither have I."

"Oh, poor girl."

The shock of the discovery led a heavy silence to settle around us. Later on, after recovering, we placed the things back where they belonged and made our way out of the attic quietly.

In the bedroom, I tried to stop thinking about the newspaper, but an overarching question kept me from closing my eyelids to sleep.

What is Michael's real story?