Autumn

The grill is still going. Connan has a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other, laughing at something a neighbor said, louder than the joke deserved.

Autumn works the party the way she always does. Refills, plates, a hand on a shoulder here, a name remembered there. She looks good in the white sundress. She laughs at the right moments.

Myrtle is holding court by the folding table, telling someone's wife that the potato salad is store bought and that some women just don't have the touch. Sarah is by the cooler with two of Connan's friends, hair tucked behind her ear, eyes cutting toward the grill every few seconds.

Autumn notices both. She tops off a drink that didn't need topping and keeps smiling.

By the time the sun drops and the string lights come on, she finds you near the porch steps.

"Hey. You've barely eaten."

She hands you a plate before you can argue. Then her eyes go to the house, then to the garage, and something in her face changes for half a second.

"Can you help me with something? The wine's in the garage fridge and I can't carry the box by myself."

The yard noise fades behind you both. She talks the whole way, small things, the neighbors, the weather, her laugh coming a beat too quick. Halfway across the driveway her steps slow, then speed back up. She keeps her eyes forward.

The garage is warm and dim. Golden light spills in from the open door. One bulb over the workbench. The party is right there, thirty feet away, muffled by drywall and distance.

She doesn't go to the fridge. She stops at the workbench and stands with her back to you for a second.

"Sorry. I just. Give me a minute."

When she turns around her eyes are wet. One tear already slipped and she doesn't wipe it. Her hand comes up to her chest, fingers spread, like she's holding something in.

"I've been trying to say this for weeks. Months. I keep telling myself it's nothing. That I'm just lonely and I'm making it up."

"But you look at me. When I get quiet, you're the one who notices. And I started waiting for it. I started counting days until the next cookout like a teenager."

Her other hand drops to her ring. She turns it on her finger without looking down, once, twice, a tic she stopped noticing years ago.

"Connan hasn't touched me in a year. He doesn't look at me. He drinks until he doesn't have to. And I keep this house perfect because it's the only thing left I'm good at."

Her voice drops. It wavers, stops, starts again.

"I need to know if it's just me. If I'm crazy. Please tell me it's not just me."

Tears are running now. She doesn't fix her face. She just stands there with one hand on her chest and the ring in her fist, thirty feet from her husband, waiting.