HATTIE
I have a boyfriend.
Me. Hattie Mercier. The Aspie-dazzled!
I have a boyfriend, and he is normal.
Well, he may not be normal. Normal is usually boring. He’s better than normal. The point is he’s neurotypical and yet he chose me as his girlfriend.
When he asked last week if we could be exclusive, my jaw could’ve bounced off the ground.
Exclusive.
As if guys are beating down the door to date me.
But, honestly, that’s how Beck treats me. Like I’m the kind of girl who has all sorts of options. Like—and these are his words—he’s the lucky one.
Holy crap.
Make no mistake, I know the truth of it. Who has two thumbs and is the lucky one?
This gal.
The Tism-tacular, a.k.a., The Lucky One.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I smile when I see his name on the screen.
Beck: Happy Saturday, Beautiful.
It’s two weeks before Margaret and Merrick’s “Big Day,” and I’m in the back seat of Mom’s Tahoe, but Dad is driving. Odd, but not unprecedented.
Mom and I just had the final fitting for our dresses. It’s also odd that Dad joined us for this because he sure as heck didn’t come to any of the other fittings or the ten thousand places we went dress shopping after Margaret and Merrick got engaged.
Of course, this was probably the fastest fitting appointment we’ve had during this whole ordeal. The dresses fit exactly the same as they did last time we tried them on, and I don’t think the seamstress did anything different in the interim, so I suspect Mom was worried I’d put on weight before the wedding and would need an emergency alteration.
But that didn’t happen, thank God, because I’m putting that scratch-fest on one more time and only one more time.
Now the scratch-fest is sleeved in plastic and hanging from the grab bar on the other side of the car where it can’t touch me, and Beck just texted, so, all in all, it is a Happy Saturday.
Me: HAPPY SATURDAY! HOW’S THE HARVESTING?
I know Beck is working the harvester today because he said they were skipping the Farmer’s Market this week. When we talked on the phone last night, he told me he has some big decisions to make for the farm and bringing in the rest of the harvest sooner was critical to that.
He seemed stressed but didn’t want to talk more about it, so I didn’t press.
Beck: Making good progress. Breaking for lunch. So, tell me. How were they??
He doesn’t have to clarify. He’s referring to the sweet potatoes—the ones he sent home with me last week. This was a smart move on his part because I think it impressed Dad. Mom might have been impressed too, but she still made noise about them being carb heavy and full of sugars.
In fact, when I asked if we could have them with dinner that night, she wrinkled her nose and said she’d think about it.
Yes. I know. They are my sweet potatoes, and, even though I’ve never done it before, the internet says that baking sweet potatoes is pretty straight forward. Line a cooking sheet with parchment to catch the excess syrup so it doesn’t turn to caramelized charcoal in your oven, and bake at 425 for forty-five minutes. Voila.
But as I may have mentioned, Mom is weird about me using her kitchen. Most likely because she’s happier when she’s the one prepping my food.
You know. Because of the macros.
I bugged her for a week and a half before she caved and said she’d make sweet potato pancakes for breakfast today for my Saturday Splurge.
