And I mean it too, my mouth turning up into a beaming smile, matching his. If this is what getting to know George Jamison looks like, I’m all in.
Chapter Eleven
George
I quickly unload my truck, tucking the excess produce and flowers I hadn’t sold into the cooler confines of the barn for later. Madison and I walk toward the cottage, relief spreading over me like butter on a hot biscuit. Even with the blinding midday sun high in the sky, my day suddenly seems brighter, if that’s even possible.
I did it. I managed to not completely make a fool of myself in front of beautiful Madison. In fact, she was the one who suggested we continue to hang out. I sigh with happiness.
“You must be starving after working all morning outside,” she says. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in some lunch in town before we get started? Anything you want, George. My treat.”
I stop at the stairs leading up to my tiny front porch. Two Adirondack chairs are the only things that fit in the outdoor space overlooking the sparse yard, the deep, red-stained wood standing out against the white clapboard siding of my home.
“Madison, you should probably know something else about me.”
“What?”
The way she looks up at me with those pretty doe eyes has me melting in my boots.
“You said it yourself. I’m different. I’m not like the other guys…”
I don’t know how to tell her that, according to my grandparents, I’m “special.” That’s how they explained it to me in my youth, back when I yearned for nothing more than to belong in the tiny town, to grow, to love, and to be loved. But my brain was… different, and my neurodiversity impacted my communication and social skills.
Sure, I’ve come a long way since those painful days of youth trying to find my path. And I also know my diversity is a normal, healthy part of my humanity. I have a network of support from over the years, ongoing therapy, and the right amount of medication to soften my severe OCD.
“But I’m not disabled,” I proclaim a little too loudly, interrupting my silent dialogue.
“I never said you were.” She palms the porch post, and right away, I notice her painted fingernails, the white stripe across the edges highlighting the length, each lovely finger perfect.
“I know,” I reply.
“What exactly are you trying to tell me, George? Are you sick or something?”
“No. I’m not sick. I’m… I’m on the autism spectrum.”
“Oh.” She seems to ponder my words for a moment. “Is it fatal?”
No one has ever been this blunt with me, and I can’t help but chuckle. “N… no. It’s not fatal. It’s not a disease.”
“Good.” She smiles. “So, what’s the problem?”
I shift nervously and have a hard time looking her in the eye. “We can’t go into town for lunch because I struggle with crowds, noise, and talking to people. I have difficulty finding the right words in the right sequence at the right time. It’s very frustrating. And when I go into town, I feel like everyone is staring at me, feeling sorry for me.”
“Well, they are probably staring at you because you’re handsome, and they’ve known you for your entire life. They’re also probably shocked because you made a rare appearance that wasn’t at your produce stand.”
The strong column of my throat moves in a heavy swallow. Madison thinks I’m handsome.
“Folks around here know I struggle with certain things. It’s never been a secret.”
She confidently walks up the porch stairs, turns around, and says, “You want to know what I think? I think some of your struggles are in your head.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I'm caught off guard by her directness. “Maybe. But there’s another reason why we can’t go into town and have lunch. And fair warning, this is where things get kind of… weird.”
“Lay it in on me, George.”
I clear my throat. “On Saturdays, I always make the same thing for lunch. A peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. It’s part of my routine. I’m obsessed with sameness. There. I said it.”
I’m now sweating profusely, my nerves on edge with being so blatantly honest with Madison. But as hard as it is to admit my idiosyncrasies, I’m oddly at ease talking to her about it.
