“Hardly,” I said dryly. “She loves my best friend. Because of me.”
The professor raised his eyebrows. “How so?”
The old me would’ve evaded the question, but I’d already admitted out loud I loved Autumn. Everything after that was easy, so I told him everything.
Professor O leaned back in his chair when I was finished. “I see. You gave your gifts to your best friend. Why?”
“Because I love him,” I said. “And I want him to be happy.”
“What of your happiness? Does it have any role in this drama? Or are you still sitting in the audience, ready to sneak out the back when it’s over?”
“It’s easier for him to be happy than me,” I said. “I didn’t want to subject Autumn to my shit. My anger. My stupid baggage that makes it so that I…”
“Live every life but the one you want.”
I scrubbed my face with my hands. “I don’t know.”
“I do. A writer who chooses an economics major. A runner who ignores his gift. A poet’s heart now encased in a warrior’s armor.”
Professor O hitched forward to lean over his desk, arms folded on the mahogany. “Wes, I’m going to ask you a personal question, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You ready?”
I snorted a small laugh. “Ready.”
“What happened that made you feel you don’t deserve anything good for yourself?”
A car screeching away, my mother’s curses turning to wailing cries. And me, running down the street. My legs pumping hard and fast, even though I knew I’d never catch him. Even though he was long gone.
“Good feels out of reach,” I murmured. “I’ve had good before and I lost it.”
“So now you only reach for that which doesn’t hurt to lose.”
This introspection was growing painful, like a knife prying into my guts and heart and mind.
The heart hides itself behind the mind.
“You have one life, Wes,” Professor O said into my silence. “What you put in it is entirely up to you. I suggest you put in what you want. Especially now.”
“It’s too late,” I said.
“Is it? You’re sitting right in front of me, flesh and bone, pumping blood and breathing life. That doesn’t look like too late to me.”
We stood together, and he offered his hand.
“Be safe. My prayers will be with you.”
“Thanks.”
“Finish the poem. For your own sake. Put your heart on the page and your signature at the bottom.”
He gripped my hand tighter, his eyes holding mine intently.
“Own this love, Wes. It’s not just hers. It’s yours too.”
Autumn