I had a dream once where I knew I was dreaming. It was right after Dad was diagnosed with cancer, but in the dream, he wasn’t sick. In fact, my dad could fly. Not only that, he could take me with him. Even though I knew I was asleep in my bed, I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to exist in that dream forever—with me and my healthy dad and his invisible wings.

I find myself in that same place now, except this time, I’m not asleep.

Between my duties at the clinic, planning a wedding, and helping with the Fall Harvest Festival, avoiding reality has not been as hard as one might think. People around town congratulate me about my engagement and, somehow, I smile and say thank you with a genuineness that borders on alarming. The only thing threatening my happy delusion right now is time. Sighing, I pull two bottles of Baumeister root beer from my fridge, remove the caps with the souvenir bottle opener Lily gave me last Christmas, and scan the calendar magnetized to my freezer.

Despite the hustle and bustle October has ushered into my life, I’ve done my best to protect each day, draw it out. Resist the rush. I’ve set new hours at the clinic, closing every Friday at noon so I can enjoy the afternoons and evenings with my parents and Jake. Last weekend we picked pumpkins at Sawyer Farm and had fun carving them while Mom baked the seeds. We’ve even gone to a couple of high school football games, rooting on our alma mater with Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate. But a day will only stretch so far. Time keeps marching onward, and somehow, here I am, the Fall Harvest Festival today and the wedding next weekend. Like that dreaded alarm clock, it’s only a matter of ticktocks before life wrenches me awake.

As far as the wedding goes, Lily and I have managed to finalize most of the details. The ceremony will take place outside at Sawyer Farm. The reception will immediately follow, with barbecue pork sandwiches and a makeshift dance floor in the large barn. We’ve wrapped burnt peanuts in bright orange plastic wrap for wedding favors. Sent rustic gold invitations with bold red print to family and friends, most of them Dad’s. We met with the florist to put together bouquets of red roses, orange calla lilies, burgundy Oriental lilies, and soft green hydrangeas. And we met with Eloise at her bakery, deciding on a caramel cake with ribbons of dark chocolate and buttercream frosting. If Lily rightly suspects I’m catering more to my father’s preferences than my own, she keeps it to herself.

The sound of a pounding hammer filters through my opened kitchen window, and a flash of what my dreamworld future could be fills the contours of my imagination—Jake fixing the front porch, a dark-haired, blue-eyed little boy crouching nearby with a toy hammer clutched in his pudgy fist, a girl with blonde curls playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, and my parents stopping by for a Saturday morning visit, enjoying every moment of grandparenthood. My yellow Lab, Samson, nudges his wet nose against my hand, and the vision pops, leaving an empty, sad space in its wake.

Not wanting to be alone with it, I pick up the two bottles of root beer and head out to the porch, Samson on my heels. The screen door creaks open, then whaps shut behind us. I inhale the autumn air deep into my lungs, relishing its freshness. Fall is never long enough, not in northern Wisconsin. Here, the world is all too eager to rush into the cold days of winter. But this year has been a treat. Along with the perfect temperature for sweatshirts and jeans and stocking caps, the leaves have stayed on the trees longer than usual, turning into vibrant shades of gold, yellow, and red. Fall is a season of waiting. A long, drawn-out pause before the world falls asleep, and I find myself cherishing every moment.

Jake finishes wrenching up a loose floorboard, then slides his hammer into his tool belt. I offer him a root beer and he sits down beside me on the step. Samson licks Jake’s arm, receives a scratch behind his ear, then trots off to sniff around the bushes.

“To a better porch,” I say, raising my bottle.

He clinks his against mine and we drink in comfortable quiet, savoring the frothy sweetness that is old-fashioned Baumeister root beer—nostalgia in a bottle. Finally, when our drinks are half gone, he nudges me with his shoulder. “What are you thinking about so intently over there, Tate?”

I smile down at the step. It’s not the first time he’s asked the question, one I’m dying to reciprocate, because I never know what he’s thinking. Not when it comes to Jake Sawyer. I misread his cues back then, and I still do now. He’ll press his hand against the small of my back or whisper something in my ear, and I never know why. To play the part? Or is there something more to it? “I’m thinking that I’m glad the festival is tonight.”

“It’s kept you and Lily busy.”

“Next year when she asks me to be on the committee, I think I’ll say no.” Next year is something I don’t want to think about.

He takes a sip of his root beer. “We should go.”

“To the festival?”

He nods.

“We go every year.”

“I mean together.”

“Oh—yeah.” For some reason, my ears turn warm.

“I’ll stop by around seven. We can walk over.”

“Sure.”

“Good.” He tips the bottle up to his lips to finish off what remains of his root beer, showing off those ridiculously cute dimples in the process. “It’s a date.”