There was something bittersweet about end-of-summer nights, Owen thought. Maybe it was the cold that crept in and stole the sun’s warmth with waves of clouds, the darkness that splashed across the sky early, a feeling of absence as though something unattainable had slipped away with the sunset. The way people retreated inside to fill their homes with artificial lights and heat, an inside-out version of summer. But there was also something comforting about autumn approaching, the routine of early alarms and crisp air, the slow sway of power lines over cornfields on pale mornings and the clean scent of the freshly scrubbed school. Somehow, something about fall felt halfway hopeful.
Owen was optimistic about the start of school, something he wouldn’t have thought possible a few years ago. Their schedules had been mailed out last week and he had most of his classes with his friends; he’d managed to coordinate his volunteer commitments with his work hours. He liked the structure of it all. It kept him motivated, made him feel like almost everything was falling into place.
And there were all the traditions to look forward to—Halloween movie marathons with his friends and driving up to the mountains with his family, admiring trees awash in colors stolen from dreams as they hiked their favorite trail, before sampling fresh maple syrup and sharp cheddar cheese from a farm on a dead-end dirt road on the way home.
All of those were good things, Owen kept reminding himself, listing them over and over in his mind every time something dark tried to creep into his thoughts.
The nights were beginning to cool down lately and as the event ended, he noticed that the slow shift into autumn had already started. People leaving the community center had replaced their light summer clothes with the heavier fabric of fall, swinging their arms into long sleeves as they ambled outside into the parking lot. Angela was the only exception, wearing a pale yellow sundress like she could defy the almost-autumn air if she dressed like summer sunlight. The other volunteers had begun cleaning up but she was standing against the wall, watching and clutching her bare, thin arms close to her body.
“Are you cold? Do you want this?” Owen asked, indicating his sweatshirt.
Predictably, Angela shook her head. Owen briefly wondered if it was because she didn’t want to give in to the idea of autumn or because the thought of wearing his clothes repulsed her.
There was a bright red poster on the wall nearby, its bold white letters detailing upcoming events in celebration of the town’s tricentennial. Owen pressed its curling corners back against the paint, trying to think of something else to say to her.
Part of him still couldn’t believe she was here, even though it made perfect sense. Everyone knew that the Witney family could trace their roots in Westview to the town’s beginnings and they were proud of their history. They were important and they let everyone know it. Angela’s father spent his days in a beautiful old office in the town center, and his evenings in the white-painted town hall, just like the generations before him. Her mother was from another old, wealthy family with a legacy here, too. She was the president of her family’s company and was involved in countless local initiatives, coordinating almost every event in town from weekend farmers’ markets to school fundraisers.
All evening, people had been coming over to talk to Angela and he’d watched her light up with a smile that looked practiced. That was how it always was here. Owen knew, or at least wanted to believe, that the Witneys had good intentions for their hometown but they seemed to think of themselves as New England royalty, and frustratingly, most people here acted accordingly. It seemed like every reputation in this town was designed or destroyed by the Witneys.
It was like that at school, too. Almost everyone wanted to be part of Angela’s group of friends. She was always surrounded by beautiful, smiling people. But it seemed so easy to fall from grace.
“Let’s go,” Angela said now as Owen started folding up a row of chairs. The way she spoke always commanded attention, quiet yet sharp-toned, and she sometimes abandoned the edges of words, clipped syllables short in a way that was more effective than shouting.
“We’re not done yet—”
“It’s fine. Look, they have plenty of people to help,” Angela interrupted, already walking toward the door. “We’re leaving,” she called to Jan, who was popping balloons with a pair of scissors, shriveled rubber and coiled ribbon sagging to the floor.
“Thanks for your help! Have a good night,” Jan answered.
They stepped outside together into the golden glow of streetlights. The town was quiet, the nearby stores dark inside. They crossed the silent street to where Angela’s car was parked. Owen glanced over at her cautiously as she backed out of the parking space. A girl in yellow silhouetted against the town her family built, windows rolled down to let in summer air and the scent of evergreen trees, a soft breeze kissing her hair.
Last summer, in city archives, Owen had pieced together an almost century-old secret that could change everything but he couldn’t imagine ever using it against her. Because the truth was that he’d been infatuated with Angela Witney since freshman year, when his life was falling apart and hers looked perfect. Every time they passed each other in the hallway, he’d look away but he’d memorized all the little details of her. The flower perfume she always wore, the way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger when she was bored in class. How when she laughed, you could see it in her eyes first.
She didn’t talk on the way back to his house. Her phone was placed in the cupholder between them and Owen could see it light up with unread messages as the car glided across the dark curves of the town’s topography. He hated driving at night here. Minimal streetlights made it necessary to know these roads like muscle memory. Last year, the town had made it even worse by permanently shutting off half the streetlights to save money, most of them in the northern part of town where he lived. All the lights in the center of town and neighborhoods like Angela’s were still aglow. Late nights, on his way home from work, Owen always thought about how eerily easy it would be to veer off the street, careening into trees and darkness. Sometimes those thoughts brought back nightmares and memories that were further in the past than they seemed.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said as Angela parked at his house. The front lights were on, patterned with the faint flickering of moth wings. Crickets hummed against the late summer stars.
Angela was momentarily silent, eyes scanning her phone screen, and Owen thought he caught a glimpse of something like sadness but then she looked up and gave him the smile she’d been giving everyone in town all night. Curved lips with eyes that didn’t quite mean it. “No problem.”
“See you at school,” said Owen, closing the door and leaving her with that strained smile and the glow of her phone in the dark. He walked toward the house.
“Wait,” he heard Angela calling as he reached for his keys on the stairs. He could see her getting out of the car. “You forgot your backpack.”
Her feet crossed the short length of the front walkway, rhythmic against the delicate stillness of country night and empty roads. She met him at the bottom stair like a shadow. Placed the bag at his feet.
“Thanks,” Owen said. As he moved to pick it up, softly but sudden as static, she touched her fingers—pale with slim silver rings and glossy nail polish—against his hand. He looked down at their hands instead of at her. “Do you want to come in?”
Angela was quiet. Owen could feel the faint beat of blood pulsing in her fingertips as they stood there awkwardly with the innocent intimacy of not exactly holding hands. He wished she would say something. She seemed so distant, as if her thoughts were far away even as she stood there with him, so close, skin so warm.
“No,” said Angela finally. “I need to go home.”
She moved her hand away, erased the lines of her fingerprints from his palm. The sudden absence felt like ice. There was a strange expression on her face, unreadable. Something about her eyes right now reminded Owen of burned-out light bulbs.
“Drive safe,” he mumbled, somehow startled by her abruptness.
He suddenly felt the heat of embarrassment in his stomach, on his face. Of course she didn’t want to come inside to dim lights and dirty dishes like they were five years old again, not when she could get in her car instead and drive back to her picture-perfect life in her magazine neighborhood. She probably had a party to go to, friends whose nights wouldn’t start until she made an appearance. She’d hold the room’s attention the way she always did. She was the center of Westview’s universe, glittering with a delicate balance of sunshine and poison, and that was the way it would always be. People like Angela had better things to do than sit around old houses with people from their past in forgotten parts of town. And he didn’t even know what he would have suggested doing once they got past the doorway. She would have just stood here silently like she did earlier, probably quietly judging her surroundings, the windows his mother kept asking him to clean and he kept forgetting about, all the places where a new coat of paint was long overdue. Wishing she were somewhere else. Dreaming of all the places she could run away to.
He walked into the house. Turned on a lamp. It blinked, slow, filling the room with tired amber and shadows. By the time Owen looked back outside, Angela was already driving away into pitch black, headlights toward clean lines of cul-de-sacs with soft lawns and shiny windows.