Before You Say Goodbye

Chapter 1

Autumn didn’t like 8 a.m., but she loved the way it looked on New York. She enjoyed the predictability of the corporate coffee-shop-chain client base. Powerful and stressed-looking business types, sleepy teenagers, and bleary-eyed revellers dressed in snazzy outfits who looked like they hadn’t been to bed yet. Their auras collided dramatically and Autumn — a writer — loved drama. It made the morning worth the effort. It fizzed from her fingertips and across her pages for the rest of the day. Almost everyone she saw at this hour ended up represented in her writing in some way, even if she only wrote about the creases on their faces, or the poise of their nostrils at the whiff of a freshly baked bagel. She was frequently tempted to announce to the crowd how deliciously their extraordinary normalness inspired her — to declare them the only reason she dragged herself out of bed at this time — but she doubted they’d appreciate it.

She drank them in silently instead, eagerly waiting for her turn at the till, stifling a yawn and wishing she enjoyed the morning itself half as much as she enjoyed the spectacle it brought with it.

Bored, she took time to admire a pretty blonde woman waiting beside her. Autumn winced. She wished she too could wear her hair up in a messy top knot and still look like a diamond. She wished she had the confidence to wear curves like this woman did. She wished she had feet so disproportionately small it was a wonder they could hold her upright. She wished she was the type of person who could commission a tattoo of a semicolon behind her ear without feeling like an attention-seeking idiot.

She felt a familiar wave of sadness and forced herself to stop. There were lots of things she liked about being Autumn Black, she reminded herself. She was ambitious and independent, attractive, clever and funny. She was not obsessed by social media or driven by love.

Temporarily satisfied, Autumn watched the exceptionally animated coffee server, swallowing nervously as she realised she had forgotten her purse. She wondered if she could get a free drink by pretending she hadn’t realised before now and pay for it next time. She went back to wishing again ― this time that she was a better actress. She felt guilty and worried it would be written all over her face. She shook her head slightly, banishing her negativity by reminding herself all women had to use femininity to get their own way every now and then. She wasn’t sure how that aligned with her values, whether it was empowering or hypocritical. She only knew she’d been awake most of the night with a man who’d shown her over and over again that he very much liked the way she looked — her waist, her feet and every other part of her — and she needed energy in the form of caffeine. She hadn’t intended to avoid paying — she wasn’t doing it on purpose — she just didn’t have time to go back to her apartment. She really did intend on settling her tab next time she was here, though she knew not everyone would believe that when the time came to declare it aloud — she just hoped the server might. He looked friendly enough. Autumn suspected he would give her a drink temporarily free of charge if she got the timing between ordering her beverage and declaring herself cashless just right.

When it was her turn and he asked for her name — a permanent marker poised readily over a large paper cup — she gave it to him in the same sickly-sweet voice she used when talking to people on the telephone.

“Like the season,” she added.

“Beautiful name,” he said, flashing her a smile.

“Thank you.”

She fished through the contents of her bag as though she had every intention of paying him. He seemed really nice and the feeling of guilt deepened, but not enough. She needed this coffee. The prospect of not having it had increased her desire.

“You know, I love seasonal names,” he said. “My favourite girl’s name has always been Summer.” He was flirting with her. It was really bad flirting, but it was flirting. Encouraged, she shoved her hand deeper into her bag, forcing an expression of mild irritation across her face.

“Really?” she asked. “Is that your favourite season, too?”

“No.” He shook his head, placing her drink on the counter. “That’s got to be autumn, I think.”

She flipped her hair dramatically and smiled, wondering if she’d spent an unnatural amount of time looking. She reasoned she’d definitely done enough to do the trick.

“Oh, damn, I’ve left my purse at home.” She wrung her hands in fake frustration. The barista looked down at her drink, then up at her. She worried she might have overdone it. An actress she was not. The blonde woman in dungarees with the envy-inducing waist stirred beside her, throwing her side-eye and a smirk. It was a supportive gesture, Autumn could tell, and this stranger’s encouragement made her feel empowered. She fought the urge to look at her because she knew she wouldn’t be able to maintain her composure.

“Oh,” the barista said. “Well, I already made it now. You can have it.”

He held it out for her to take.

“Really?” she asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, quite sure, Autumn.”

“Thank you. I swear I’ll pay for it next time I’m in.”

She meant it, too. Forgetting her purse had been a genuine mistake.

“No need. This one’s on me.”

She thanked him again. He nodded kindly, turning to the next customer. The dungaree woman. Autumn expected her to sound like a bird, but she didn’t. Her voice was deep and came straight from her chest. She spoke with an eloquent British accent, loud enough to drown out the hum of the coffee grinder.

“I’ll have a green tea, please.”

“Two Brits in five minutes.” The barista smiled, nodding between the woman and Autumn. “My lucky day. What’s your name, sugar?”

“No, it’s Bluebell,” the woman said snippily. Autumn stifled a laugh, but Bluebell was not smiling. The barista winced, but didn’t argue. Bluebell watched him make her drink without another word, mumbling a courteous ‘thank you’ when he handed it to her. Autumn hid a smirk from the line of riveted people and made her way to her favourite place to sit, right by the window. She was pleased to see her first choice of seat — one that allowed her to watch customers inside and commuters outside at the same time — was free, despite the fact there was hardly an empty chair in the entire place.

“It’s my lucky day,” she murmured to herself. She took off her coat and sat down, reasoning she’d allow herself a few moments of unproductivity before she settled down to write the morning away. She crossed her legs and sipped her drink, content. Across the room, the woman in the dungarees was searching for somewhere to sit. She spotted Autumn and smiled, marching towards her with such friendly purpose Autumn worried they’d met before and she’d forgotten who she was. No. It wasn’t possible. Bluebell’s smile — framed by lips Autumn was certain had led her in and out of all sorts of trouble — was one she would remember, she knew.

“Hi there,” she said.

“Are you free?” Bluebell asked. Autumn didn’t know if Bluebell meant unpreoccupied or single. Luckily, she was both.

“Yes,” she said, a little stupidly.

“Good, can I sit beside you?” Bluebell asked. “I have to warn you, I’m a talker.”

“Sure,” Autumn said. Like most writers, Autumn loitered in cafés, but not usually this one. She was alone in New York and she liked it that way. Her quest for solitude was the reason she’d moved as far away from home as she could get. She hardly ever haunted the same place for long because she was afraid people would try to get to know her. She had a whole day of writing planned and rarely broke away from her routine. But there was something about Bluebell. She looked like a dream and felt like an answer. Autumn wanted to be near her. She’d never felt like this about a woman before. There was something there she could not explain. A pull. Some sort of draw.

“I hate it when men do that.” Bluebell pulled Autumn from her reverie. “He seemed like such a top bloke at first, giving you that drink when he knew your purse story was bullshit.”

Autumn frowned in confusion.

“He winked at me when you finally admitted you didn’t have it. I thought the whole thing was sweet. Then he called me ‘sugar’, and I just . . . ugh! It’s one step too close to patronisation station and it makes my skin crawl.”

Autumn laughed at her phraseology, making a mental note to use it in a book one day. Bluebell smiled.

“You don’t think I’m being a prick, do you?” she asked. “Overreacting or some shit?”

“Absolutely not,” Autumn replied reassuringly. Bluebell looked relieved.

“I like your shirt,” she said, gesturing to Autumn’s plain white blouse. “I wish I was the type of woman who could wear stuff like that, but anything white I wear always ends up covered in coffee or food.”

Autumn wished she was the type of woman who could approach strangers in cafés and strike up a conversation, but she didn’t say that aloud. She wanted Bluebell to think she was friendly and inquisitive. That wouldn’t happen if she was her usual self, right away. Autumn had a talent for speaking to men, but not to women. She always felt as though they were judging her. If she wanted Bluebell to like her, she really needed to concentrate.

“I don’t eat a lot,” she said, admiring the bright white of her favourite piece of clothing. “But I do drink a lot of brown drinks.”

“Ah.” Bluebell nodded her understanding and Autumn thought she saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. “I get it. I used to ‘not eat a lot’, too.”

Autumn tensed, but then Bluebell smiled, flashing dimples so flawlessly formed they were almost a cliché. Autumn was relieved. She’d expected her new acquaintance to launch into some sort of recovery speech. That had happened to her before and Autumn hated it. It was the reason she’d learned to hide her issues so expertly.

A few moments passed, just long enough that Autumn was starting to panic about what they would discuss next. She opened her mouth to say something — anything — but before she had a chance to say something stupid, Bluebell mercifully heaved herself into conversation.

“I noticed you ordered almond milk.” She nodded at Autumn’s drink. It sounded like a question, so Autumn answered.

“I’m vegan.” she said, bracing herself for an onslaught of irritated questioning. Bluebell grinned.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said. “I was raised vegan.”

“How cool,” Autumn said. “I don’t think my mum knows what a vegan is.”

“My parents are as liberal as they come.” Bluebell shook her head as though she was embarrassed. Autumn could tell somehow that she was not. “They’re opinionated and unafraid. Strange and unashamed. They forced us to think about the serious stuff. My siblings and I are all crammed full of verdicts because of it. Like not-so-mini-anymore versions of our parents. Still, we never have uninteresting dinner conversations.”

“It must be nice to have people to talk to about the things you care about,” Autumn said, slightly jealous. “There’s not a single person in my life I want to be anything like.” She’d discovered a long time ago that her opinions on sexism, racism, homophobia and other social-justice issues often invited an argument, so she’d learned to keep them mainly to herself.

“And I bet you’re not.” Bluebell raised her cup to Autumn, who was thrilled by the gesture. She hadn’t felt this comfortable in the presence of a stranger for a long time. She hadn’t given a great deal away — she tried not to because she worried people might judge her based on her family and their behaviour — but Autumn felt like Bluebell knew her. She felt seen.

“I’m really lucky.” Bluebell was sounding a little sheepish. “I was raised in a house full of love.”

Autumn nodded through her jealousy. Her experience of youth had been entirely different. Her mother barely bothered with her kids, her sister loved her but didn’t understand her, and Autumn was quite sure that her father could not possibly care any less about her. That was fine. She didn’t like him either. She’d had a stepfather once. He’d cared about her a little too much. Autumn shuddered at the memory of his perverted glances, wandering hands and fag-ash breath. She distracted herself from her painful musings by paying closer attention to Bluebell, who was watching her, concern spreading slowly across her features. Autumn didn’t like that. She didn’t want — or need — any pity from anyone. Desperate to change the subject, she blurted out the next thing that came into her head.

“I’m a writer.”

“Cool,” Bluebell said. She looked relieved, like she’d been avidly searching for something else to talk about too.

“I’m from the north-east of England,” Autumn continued. She knew she was babbling irrelevant facts, but she was terrified they’d slip back into silence.

“Hertfordshire.” Bluebell pointed to herself.

“Why are you here in New York?” Autumn asked.

“I live here. With my brothers. Bowie works here.”

“That’s nice,” Autumn said. There was a franticness to their conversation now and Autumn suspected she and Bluebell hated conversational awkwardness with equal ferocity.

“Yeah.” Bluebell nodded. “We have a lot of fun.”

They stared at each other, passing understanding, reassurance and respect back and forth. Autumn wasn’t sure how she knew that was what they were doing — she’d never been able to do it before — but somehow she knew that they were. She felt inexplicably understood. Safe, even in their silence. Still, she would prefer it if they could carry on talking the way they had been before she’d accidentally revealed that her soul was unsettled. Luckily, her brand-new friend was on hand to distract her. To wrench her brain from a pit of torturous thoughts. To calm her fluttery guts with friendship.

“So,” Bluebell said, swirling her tea. “Tell me what you read.”

* * *

They talked about books, then bloggers, then books again. Jobs they’d done. Politics and the news. Once she was sure Bluebell had no plans to force her to talk about her choppy childhood and troubled teenage years, Autumn relaxed again. They tumbled effortlessly into new conversations, consumed with each other in that inexplicable way people sometimes just were . They talked all through the morning, across lunchtime and all afternoon, until the early evening presented itself, cool, orange and pleasant.

There were no more awkward silences. In fact, Autumn and Bluebell found they were so desperate to chat they were constantly interrupting each other. They paused their conversation only half a dozen or so times so that Bluebell could skip enthusiastically to the counter and replenish their refreshments, insisting every time Autumn winced guiltily that it was no big deal, they’d square things up next time they were together. By the time the barista was packing up the café to close, Autumn had been pitching her positive traits for almost ten hours. Her independence, her drive, how well-read she was, plus how different she was from her family. She found that conversation surprisingly easy now.

“Ah,” Bluebell said. “I’m different, too. It makes me feel strange when people tell me that, because I’m not driven by a desire to be like or unlike anyone else — it’s just that I am. My family are all for it, though, so that helps.”

“Mine aren’t. They wish I was like them. They’d be happier if I’d stayed living in our town, met a boy, had a kid, and perhaps got a council house.”

“That’s because you make them uncomfortable. You make them realise they had a choice. Not much of a choice, mind you, because privilege is real, but it isn’t your fault you broke the mould and they should be proud of you.”

Autumn nodded. She was really glad they’d met. She’d given up an entire day of writing, something she never did for anyone, but she was so bewitched by her new friend she’d hardly noticed she’d done it. When Bluebell checked her watch, Autumn wondered if she could read minds.

“We’ve been here all day. Did I keep you from something?”

“Writing.” Autumn smiled. “Basically the only thing that matters to me.”

She expected Bluebell to take that as a joke — people usually thought writing was silly and pointless — but she didn’t.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said. “I appreciate you giving me your time. I’m having fun, though. Are you?”

Autumn nodded. She was having fun. Bluebell paused to check her phone, read a text message, replied, then dropped it idly back into her bag.

“Do you want to go for dinner?” she asked. “I really want pad Thai.”

Autumn hesitated. She was tired and had been planning on an early night. At around this time yesterday, untempted by a night on the couch by herself, she’d headed out to look for a willing New Yorker to pound her against it. She’d chosen the third bar she’d passed, one she hadn’t been in before, and had spied a tall, dark-haired man sitting at the bar by himself. She’d noticed him right away. He looked unthreatening, like an elementary school teacher. Pretty eyes, nice hair, a sweet smile. She was afraid of him at first, not because she felt like he posed any physical threat to her, but because she already knew he was the type of man who heard wedding bells whenever he saw an attractive, well-presented female. Five foot six and slender, with thick dark hair cut just below her shoulders and deep green eyes, she was exactly the type of woman men like that liked. She could tell by the way he changed his posture when he saw her that he would have been looking for someone like the woman he thought she was for at least a little while.

“Thomas,” he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. He looked relieved and she knew he would have been working up the courage to introduce himself. Autumn didn’t have time for games. She already knew what she wanted from him. The worst thing he could do was decline her advances, though she already knew he wouldn’t. She introduced herself.

“Pretty name.” He nodded. “It suits you.”

She let him talk about himself for half an hour, then asked him if he’d like to come home with her. He said exactly what she thought he would say.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She ran her hand across his chest. “I’m sure.”

He tried to be gentle with her at first, but she steered him into rampant sex. He was a little too kissy for her liking, but his physique was good and he tried desperately to please her. He listened to her body and reacted to her praise. She rarely asked for much more from a lover.

But, in the morning, he did exactly as expected. He stroked her hair and tried to stare into her eyes. He told her that she was amazing. He said he felt a connection to her, something celestial, and he hoped she felt it too. He told her he was sure this was fate and he thought she might be ‘the one’.

Autumn tried hard not to openly cringe. She hated the idea of destiny. It implied you didn’t need to work hard for everything you had in your life, that good fortune fell from the sky. It reduced everything anyone ever achieved to nothing more than a series of preordained events, instead of a mixture of hard work, unshakeable curiosity and fortunate coincidence.

“Thomas,” she said. “You’re lovely. Any woman would be lucky to have you. But I’m not looking for anything beyond what we had last night.”

She didn’t want him to spend all day thinking about her only to be disappointed when she ignored his calls. Perhaps he would turn up at her apartment, like so many before him, with flowers and a hopeful grin, and would need to be told in person that she wasn’t interested in seeing him again. Maybe he would cry, like some, or become violent, like some others.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’m just not ready,” she replied. At this point she wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready, but she refrained from telling him that.

“You’re not getting any younger,” he said.

Back-handed nastiness. Despite her experience, Autumn was always surprised by how vicious even the nicest of men could become when they were rejected.

“Goodbye, Thomas,” she said.

And, now, to her delight, that seemed to be that. He hadn’t bothered her since. Autumn had completely forgotten about him until he’d crossed her mind only long enough for her to remember she was supposed to be exhausted. She was surprised to note that Bluebell had stimulated her away from writing and into a level of spontaneity she typically mustered up only when she was searching for satisfaction from men. Continuing their conversation over dinner felt like a splendid idea, though she had no means of paying.

“It’s on me,” Bluebell reassured her.

“Are you sure? I feel awful.”

“Don’t,” Bluebell said. “You can pay next time.”

“Yeah.” Autumn nodded. They hadn’t eaten properly all day. “Let’s do it.”

“I’m not keeping you from creating stuff, am I?”

“No.” Autumn laughed. “I mean, maybe.”

“Screw it.” Bluebell grabbed her hand with effortless and admirable affection. She tossed a twenty-dollar tip on the table, and they left.

* * *

Bluebell took them to a restaurant Autumn had been to before, with a man whose name she could not remember.

“These guys do the best tofu,” Bluebell said, ordering a peanut stir-fry. Autumn asked for the same. “So, what’s the dream?” Bluebell asked.

Autumn thought about that. Her dream was that her second book be at least as popular as her first. She didn’t think any further ahead than that. She didn’t feel as though she had the right to. It was the way she’d always operated and it had worked well for her so far. She lived day to day. If someone had told her three years ago she’d be here, in New York, she wouldn’t have believed them, but she wouldn’t have been surprised, either. She’d learned life had a habit of unfolding when you let it. In the most practical way possible, of course. If you took chances. If you did what was required. If you were in the right place at the right time. Not through fate. She didn’t say that last part. Bluebell was wearing a rose-quartz crystal around her neck. Autumn was almost certain her new friend believed in hocus-pocus.

“That’s so fucking cool,” Bluebell said. “I wish I could make stuff. My brothers are musicians and I’m always in awe of the music they make. I just never had that level of talent.”

Autumn smiled. “You’re a good talker. Perhaps you should do something like that.”

“If they paid people to rant, I’d be raking it in.”

“They do,” Autumn said. “You should start a social media page.”

Autumn was serious, but Bluebell laughed.

“The world according to Bluebell,” she said. “Who on earth would pay attention to that?”

“Plenty of people. You’re really interesting.”

“Thank you.” Bluebell chuckled. “My brothers would love it. Marley teases me enough as it is. The louder and more opinionated I get, the more sarcastic he is. I might tell them I’m going to do it later, just for kicks.”

Bluebell talked about her brothers a lot. There was great love between the siblings, Autumn could tell.

“What about love?” Bluebell asked Autumn. “Is there a person on the scene?”

“No.” Autumn shook her head. She hoped Bluebell — who had alluded to same-sex attraction several times — wasn’t interested in her romantically, because Autumn had deciphered that wasn’t the way she felt. “I’ve never had much interest in relationships. They’re a waste of time. People fall stupidly in love for a year or so — adamant they’re more in love than anyone else has ever been — but they all wind up complaining in the end that he or she doesn’t do the dishes.”

Bluebell laughed. “True,” she said.

“I take what I need when I need it. That’s good enough for me.”

Bluebell dropped all chat about romance after that. Autumn was glad. She hated it when women let their love lives consume their conversations. There were so many other more interesting things to talk about. Over dinner, Bluebell regaled Autumn with tales of her family, who sounded entertaining and lovable. Autumn didn’t mention her own family this time and Bluebell didn’t press her. The restaurant was closing by the time they stood to leave. It was the second venue that day to interrupt their relentless friendship-building by pointedly switching off the lights. Autumn was enthralled. This type of platonic obsession had never happened to her before. Bluebell was the most interesting person Autumn had ever met. Funny, clever, friendly and interesting.

But then, as she walked Autumn home, Bluebell blurted something silly.

“Do you believe in fate?” she asked. Autumn stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She wanted to give Bluebell the benefit of the doubt, something she did not award to many. Autumn supposed it was easy to assume life had been designed for you when it had always been perfect, so she shoved aside her annoyance at the question to answer.

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

“Absolutely.” Bluebell nodded. “And I listen when it sends me a message. Something told me I should talk to you. I had a feeling, right here in the pit of my stomach. Don’t you ever get that?”

“No. But I spend most of my time trying to shut myself up.” Autumn was an introverted overthinker. If she paid any attention to her head she’d never get anything done. She wouldn’t have written her book or published it online. She wouldn’t be here in this busy city by herself.

“That’s no good. You should listen to your gut. If I hadn’t listened to mine when it told me to talk to you, we wouldn’t be here.”

Fortunate coincidence. Autumn internally explained their chance meeting away.

They stopped beside her apartment building. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet.

“Do you want to come up?” she asked.

“Sure, I’ll come up. Do you have wine?”

“Always.”

Giddy from more than enough merlot, they giggled their way towards Autumn’s top-floor apartment. The lift, which only went part way up the building anyway, was broken today and they had thirteen floors to climb. Luckily, they were not short of conversation. Bluebell raved through hiccups and howls about things that were ‘meant to be’. They were supposed to meet today ― she was quite certain. The reason would become clear in due course. Despite Autumn’s dramatic groans and comical eye-rolls, Bluebell paused on the sixth floor and turned. She stared straight into Autumn’s face.

“Can’t you feel it?” she asked in earnest. Her expression was deeply serious. Autumn let her cheeks fill with air, then guffawed. “Don’t laugh!” Bluebell scolded her, hitting her playfully. They turned to continue their ascent.

“Sorry,” Autumn said. “But it’s all bollocks.”

Bluebell ignored her. “The universe is sending you signs. I really believe that. Pay attention, Autumn. Listen to that feeling you get in your chest. You know the one I mean. We all have it. It tells us when someone is dodgy. It lets us know all isn’t as it seems. Let it guide you. Why don’t we climb quietly for a bit and focus really hard on it?”

They tumbled into silence. Autumn resolved not to speak until they reached her apartment. Even in her drunken haze, she knew letting Bluebell think she’d won was the easiest way to get her to shut up about what was essentially magic. They climbed quietly for a minute or so.

“My gut is telling me you’re not actually doing it.” Bluebell smirked.

Autumn sighed. Well, why not? What was the worst that could happen? It was all hocus-pocus, anyway. Mumbo-jumbo. The climb was long and boring. Slightly fatigued — and looking for a distraction from the dull ache in her legs — Autumn took a deep breath and asked her inner self, a little irritably, how she felt.

She was surprised. There was something there. A little glow. A feeling of safety. And, buried deep somewhere in a place she hadn’t known existed, the dim knowledge that she’d never be lonely ever again.