Autumn

"Hey, Em?" I call from the living room couch. The sound of sizzling onions fills the small room, and my stomach growls. 

"Autumn?" Emery replies, yelling over the loud grinding noise of the blender. I get up off the couch and join her in the kitchen, grabbing a peeler and a bag of potatoes. Cooking was always therapeutic to me. I would have a horrible day and I would walk into the kitchen, nose alight with the smell of spices and something cooking. I would grab vegetables to cut or spices to measure out and I would get to work.

It got to the point where I would start  to cook obsessive amounts of food for us. I became good at cooking quickly, but music was still my passion.

After all, I am a Henningsen. Music is in my blood.

"We might need a new blender," Emery sighs, unplugging our old blender and putting it back up in our weathered cabinet, "This one is getting old."

I nod, not taking my eyes off the potatoes. I place them down and grab some salt from the counter. "Can I ask you something?" I say, putting down the peeler and massaging my sore hands.

"Of course you can." she replies, pulling her hands away from the oven, wincing as the heat touches her soft fingertips.

"Why haven't Mom or Dad reached out to us in the three years since we've been alone?" Emery freezes, fingers hovering just upon the oven knobs. Her eyes widen and she takes a deep breath.

"I don't know, Autumn," she sighs,  tying her red hair back into a ponytail, "Mom tried at first, but Dad didn't even reach out."

"Why not?" I finish peeling and begin to dice the potatoes, dropping them into a bowl. 

"They're both selfish people. Mom left for a Russian sabbatical as soon as she abandoned us and Dad has been having sex with every woman in the Tri-State area. They don't care about us." Emery sits down at the seat across from me, taking my hand. "You shouldn't hope for anything from him. From either of them."

"I know," I say.

"I know you know. And I know that you deserve real parents, not your older sister acting as a substitute for your real mother." She takes my hand. "I also know that you've been looking at that article."

I roll my eyes, smiling "How'd you know?"

"I'm your older sister. It's my job to know," She smiles sadly and moves over to the oven, stirring the pot with a large wooden spoon, "I wouldn't look at that article again if I were you. All it'll bring you is pain."

"That's pain that I'm willing to experience. I miss them, Em, even though they were terrible parents," I say, looking at my phone just as a text comes in.

Faye: Heyyy. Cafe in 20?

Me: I'll see

"Can I meet Faye at the cafe?" I ask.

"You can go. Just be back by eight." Emery replies.

"I promise we'll talk later." I say to her, noticing the downcast look in her eyes.

"I'd like that." She smiles back, fixing her ponytail.

I wave goodbye as I grab my phone and my jacket, running out of the house.

"Seriously? You walked here?" Faye meets me outside of the Corner Street Cafe, a bookstore/cafe just at the edge of Main Street.  I walk up, out of breath, and nod, hands on my knees.

"Well, you're late for the show," she says, taking my elbow and dragging me inside the cafe. The cafe is lit up inside, fairy lights strung around every surface. People gather around the little corner tables, sipping coffee, eating sweets and gathering around the tiny stage used for performances and the occasional book readings. The place buzzes with life. 

"Why are we here?" I ask, suspicious. Faye's only response is to beam and shove me towards the stage.

"It's Open Mic Night," she sings, as people standing closest to the stage begin to clap upon seeing me struggling to get up there.

"I can't. Faye-"

"Guitar's in the corner. Good luck, sweetie. You'll do great." Faye steps back as I nervously make my way to the center of the stage. The bright spotlight shines on the top of my head and I squint, holding a hand up to my eyes.

Spots dance across my eyes. Someone hands me a microphone and I take it, almost dropping it on the stage.

It's not that I don't love being on stage. I do. Performing gives me a rush that I can't seem to find doing anything else. The butterflies give me strength to go on, and instead of feeling weak, I feel powerful. But I don't perform well last minute. I need to prepare a song first, take the time to make sure I sound good and not like a piece of garbage.

I still find myself in the center of the stage, knees shaking, fifty pairs of eyes trained on me. A brown haired employee at the bottom of the stage is shouting over the clamor, and I try to hear him.

"What song?" he asks, and the room goes quiet, waiting for my response. I take three deep breaths, giving myself three seconds to get my head on straight.

One... 

Two...

Three...

"Landslide by Fleetwood Mac," I say into the mic, grabbing the guitar and putting the mic on the stand. The room erupted with applause, and then goes deathly quiet, waiting for me to begin.

Deep breaths Autumn, I think to myself, Stage fright is nothing. You've done this hundreds of times before.

The background music begins and I strum the first chord, heart pounding. "I took my love, I took it down. I climbed a mountain and I turned around."  Someone in the back claps loudly, and I smile. 

"And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills Til the landslide brought me down."  

This was the first song I learned. Dad sat me on his lap and placed my chubby fingers down on the strings of his guitar. He sang softly in my ear, and I giggled, feeling the scratchiness of his mustache against my cheek. He moved my fingers to the chords and we sang along, happy.

He was a good father, once.

"And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills. Well, the landslide bring it down. Oh-ohh, the landslide bring it down." I finish the song to a round of applause, place the guitar down on the stage and walk off, feeling giddy. People I don't know pat me on the back, congratulating me on an amazing performance and I smile at them, heart full.

It isn't until I make it to the bathroom that I realize my mascara is running.

"Autumn! Oh my god, that was amazing!" Faye yells at me as I make my way back to our table. People crowd around us, ignoring me and dancing to the new act on stage, a portly, middle aged man with a massive beard rocking out to Van Halen. 

A drawback to performing: you get your five seconds of fame and when the crowd decides you aren't good enough, you're forgotten. Gone. Cast to the back, forgotten and unused. 

I sigh, pushing those thoughts out of my mind. All my life, I've known that I had the talent to make it far in the music industry. Back when the paparazzi was constantly stalking Emery and I, they'd always comment on how 'talented' I was, how I would grow up to be 'the next Daniel Henningsen'. 

I had relished in their praise, once. But I'm not that girl anymore. 

The girl who was desperate for her father's approval died when he left her that January night, not looking back once.

"Is this seat taken?" A silky voice interrupts me from my thoughts. I look up from my phone. A boy dressed in crisp khaki pants and a blue button down with sleeves rolled up to the elbow stands next to us. His glasses fall down his brown nose, and he pushes them back up again. He's handsome, tall, his hair and eyes a deep, warm brown. 

And he can't keep his eyes off of Faye.

"No, we have a few spots left," I say. He nods, distracted. He then shakes himself out of it before thanking us and sitting down. "My name is Autumn and that's Faye." I say, talking to a brick wall. The boy sitting next to us is quiet, a thinker from first glance, some sort of genius at the second. He doesn't seem like the type of boy who'd be interested in a bright, bubbly star like Faye.

"I'm Jayden." He turns to me, dipping his head in greeting. He turns his head again, back to staring at Faye. I smirk to myself, noticing her discomfort. Her blue eyes meet mine in a panic, and I change the subject, fiddling with the lid on my coffee cup.

 "You don't seem like the kind of person to be at a club," I shout, drinking the last of my iced coffee.

"My friend wanted me to come. He's been miserable, holed up in his house, barely even coming out. He's what you'd call a-"

"A hermit." A voice says from behind me, shouting over the old man on stage. I turn, instantly wanting to punch myself in the face once I see who it is.

"Hello, Harley," I stand, pretending to check my phone. 7:30. It's the perfect time to leave. It takes me about a half hour to walk home anyway.

Not having to talk to Harley is an added bonus.

"Where are you going?" Faye asks, grabbing my arm. I pause for a moment, before yanking my arm out of her grip.

"It's almost eight." I wave to her, but she stops me again. Our eyes meet, and hers are concerned.

"Let me walk you home, then," she says, fumbling with her bag, dropping practically everything in it. Her face goes red and she drops to the floor, but someone is already down there, picking up the last of her things. Jayden hands her her car keys and then extends his hand, helping her up. "Thank you." She whispers, face still bright red.

"I can walk myself home. It's not far." I stand, shifting from toe to toe, impatient to get home. Faye nods absentmindedly and I wave goodbye, walking out into the cold night air.

I hear jogging behind me. I'm on the corner of the street, about to cross when he calls me.

"Autumn, wait." I turn around.

"Harley," I sigh, rubbing my bare hands together, "What do you want?"