“I agree. Your fear was irrational. But you don’t seem nearly as afraid anymore. Why aren’t you?”
“Are you making fun of me?” he blurts.
“Not at all. You don’t seem worried about giving the speeches for the McPherson committee. Why?”
He pushes himself off the stool and stalks over to stand in front of me. He looms over me, as huge and overbearing as always. When we first met, I constantly wanted to push back against his strength. Now, I want to lean into it. I want to soak it in and hold it close.
I can’t let myself do that, so instead I push. “Why aren’t you worried?”
He reaches out a hand, using a single finger to brush my hair off my cheek. “I trust you. If you say I can do it, then I can do it.”
It’s the answer I knew he’d give, but it’s not the one I wanted.
I step back from him to pick up the cane again. This time I push it into his hands. “You already have one crutch. You don’t need another.”
He’s still frowning at the cane in his hand when I turn to leave. Even accounting for the fact that people with Asperger’s don’t easily understand metaphors, I know he’ll figure it out. He’s a smart man.
I almost make it out the door when he asks, “Is the idea of being with me really so bad? You don’t want to try, even if it means you get everything you want?”
The way he says it—like the problem is with him—nearly breaks my heart.
“You forget I’ve done this whole marriage thing before. I know how this story ends for me. I may not have two PhDs, but even I’m smart enough not to make the same mistake twice.”
I turn and leave before he can say anything else, because if he keeps offering, I might not be able to resist.
Chapter 25
Max
Istare at the bag of soil samples long after Holly leaves.
Eventually, I get up and transfer them from the insulated lunch bag to the refrigerator. I follow the same protocols I normally would, logging them into the computer, tagging them with RFID chips to make it easier to track them. Normally, the routine would be comforting. Familiar.
Not today.
Today, nothing is familiar.
The bulk of the weekend stretches ahead of me, vast and empty.
I pull out the file folder Holly handed me earlier and start to read the speech she wrote.
For the first time, the thought of actually giving a speech, in front of a crowd, in front of a camera, doesn’t fill me with dread.
I still seriously doubt anything I say on camera is going to sway the committee in my favor. I’m simply not that guy. I will never be that guy.
My work is dense and esoteric. I have trouble making my students understand it.
And, sure, I get that Neil deGrasse Tyson—the example Holly always uses—explains dense and esoteric topics to the public all the time.
But he is charismatic and well-spoken. He’s charming. Everyone loves him.
I am none of those things, and the only person in the world who loves me is my sister.
Dangling a five-million-dollar carrot in front of me isn’t going to change any of that.
But fuck it.
If trying to be that guy will prove to Holly that I might be worthy of her, then I will try. Despite her insistence that she’s undereducated compared to her colleagues, she’s clearly brilliant. If she believes I can do it, then I can. And I don’t think my faith in her faith in me is a sign I see her as a crutch.
