Her forehead creases, eyes squint, as she taps her chin. “And remind me, babe, because you know how shaky my memory can be . . . umm, what exactly do you intend to be successful doing?”

She waits because this is normally where my defense falls apart.

Except, I don’t know, it’s like spending that time in Q’s room woke up something in me, too. I shrug. “I was thinking I wanna start writing again. Maybe, and don’t laugh . . . but maybe I take some improv classes.”

She stares at me so long I ask her what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’ve just never really heard you talk about a thing you wanna do. And it’s making me happy, but I’m trying not to overreact because then you’ll get all weird and not wanna share more with me.”

“It’s not a big deal. I mean, it’s hardly a plan. It’s barely anything.”

“It’s a start, babe. A start is something.” She brushes my cheek. “Hey, stand up, I wanna show you something.”

“What? But then I’ll have to stop touching you and that sounds terrible.”

She shakes her head. “C’mon, silly.”

I grumble, but I slide off the car, stand beside her. I hunch my shoulders. “So, what are you supposed to be showing—”

But I don’t get to finish.

Autumn wraps her arms around my waist, squeezes me like I’m toothpaste.

Autumn’s hug is a kind of irresistible extraction that compels you to spill your whole guts. Makes you release everything about anything.

Because you know she is refuge and a half.

Because she knows the hurt you’ve inflicted.

Because she also knows how hard you love.

She’s seen you so happy, you were vibrating.

Because she is wholly convinced you are redeemable.

Because she knows the secret to being forgiven is first forgiving yourself.

This is a single, midmorning, standing on a random patch of beach hug from Autumn.

Everyone needs this hug.

And even when we finally pull apart, her right hand slides up, then down my arm, until her hand finds mine, until her fingers every-other my fingers.

We stand there, hands held, waves coming at us like they mean to wash us away.

And then she asks: “What are you gonna do about Q?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I dived into the water for him, isn’t that enough?”

“J.”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still working it out.”

She brings our hands up, kisses my knuckles. “As long as you’re actually working on it.”

“I am. I will.”

And I want to tell her the whole truth.

She more than deserves it.

Because every makeup deserves a peace offering.

But for now, instead, this: “So, you wanna know why they named you Autumn?” I ask her.