“That’s a good thing, George,” I reassure.
He nods. “But there is a downside to it. I can get incredibly anxious if I don’t feel like I’m being useful, and I worry that no one will want me around anymore.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course you’re wanted.”
“But I can’t run an entire farm by myself. I’m terrible with money. I wouldn’t know the first thing about paying all the day laborers and the bills, or planning a budget.” His words are laced with worry.
“Hasn’t your grandfather tried to teach you these things?”
“Yes. At first, he was hopeful. But then I think he realized the business part of farming was too much for me to handle. He told me my expertise was needed in other more important places on the farm.”
“Like the lavender,” I interject with a smile. “I heard that you and you alone are responsible for the huge bump in profits because of your knowledge of how to grow and harvest the lavender and flowers.”
“I guess so.”
“George, Iknowso. What you’ve done is incredible.”
“Yeah, but it’s just that—” He stops mid-sentence.
“What?”
He looks over at me, his blue-eyed, worried expression causing my heart to quicken in my chest.
“Here’s the thing. After spending my youth feeling like I was crazy or weird, we found a doctor who explained how my brain works differently from most people. He told me I was okay and my autism was perfectly natural. After that, I could suddenly breathe again. Instead of wasting my time trying to fix myself or act more like the others, I was able to embrace who I truly was. Since then, I’ve relied on my strengths, and it’s worked for the most part. But…”
“But, what?”
“But I still know I’m not equipped to run this farm by myself. I know this to my core.”
“George, don’t sell yourself short.”
“I’m not.” He stands and paces, his angst coming out in a slew of heart-wrenching words.
“Even as an adult, I’m still bullied, talked down to, and talked into things. And the worst part is, I don’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late. Normal people are puzzled by me. Just ask some of the tourists who stop by the produce stand. Most folks can’t figure out autistic people like me. People get confused and sometimes afraid.”
“Afraid of you?” I ask, overwhelmed by what he’s saying. “Why would anyone be afraid of you?”
“I don’t show my emotions the same way that neurotypical people do. I could be falling apart on the inside and look totally fine on the outside. I smile too much. I’m not good at reading emotional cues. I’m obsessed with sameness and my routines. When I was younger, I’d have meltdowns, which were misinterpreted as temper tantrums. And I’ve had classmates who thought I was strange because I brought the same thing for lunch every single day of high school, the same thing I now eat as an adult every Saturday at noon.”
“There’s nothing wrong with loving peanut butter and strawberry jam.” I stand and offer him an empathetic smile.
George stops pacing and runs his hands through his dark hair, messing it up. “My grandfather has done his best to protect me my entire life.”
“Of course he has. He loves you.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “But what he doesn’t know is how isolating it can be to live your life in a community of people who will never understand you like he does. And when he’s gone, I’ll have no one.”
I scroll his moonlit features and try to come up with something to say. But I can’t find the right words. I quickly realize I don’t need words.
Coming up to him, I meld my body against his in a hug and hold him tight. His quiet sniffling annihilates my spirit, and I dig deep to keep it together. I’m pulling for him. Rooting for him while knowing he’s up against a huge wall.
“I want to help you,” I whisper into his ear.
George stiffens in my embrace, his voice cracking. “How?”
“I don’t know yet. But we’ll figure something out.”
I want to bottle up this moment in his arms, the sounds of the summer evening settling around us. Porch boards creaking underneath my bare feet and wind chimes tinkling in the corner.
