Page 17 of End Game

She leans over and grabs her pants from the floor to pull out her phone and then smiles at me. “It’s fine, we’re good.”

I drag both hands down my face and pull up the speech I’ve rehearsed for this conversation more times than I care to admit.

“Are you okay? What happened with your family?”

“I’m doing better than I was before,” I admit. “Not completely okay, if I’m honest. But my family believed what Ben did—even his wife. So at least the problem is isolated to just him.”

She nods slowly, but her eyes stay on her dangling feet.

“Cami,” I say quietly and wait until she looks at me to continue. “Are you okay? That is my biggest concern.”

“I’m doing better now too,” she says with a soft smile. “I think, from talking to Alexis, which I’ll tell you about later—but she’s been doing this a little longer than we have—she has gotten some comments and situations like that as well. I hate to say it, but it might be something I need to anticipate and learn how to respond to as we tell more people about us.”

“You shouldn’t have t—”

She cuts me off. “No, I shouldn’t have to, but if it’s a known reaction to this from some men, I need to be prepared to deal with it.”

I hate that. I hate it for her.

And a thought I don’t particularly like follows immediately—Dex may need to be prepared for the same thing.

Then I have to examine why Dex is the first person my mind supplies. Because he’s the most flamboyant of us? Because he’s so openly pansexual? Because he presents differently than Micah or me?

That’s an assumption worth examining on my part.

And probably another conversation we need to have as a group.

“Before I get into this next conversation with you, do you need to check in with Griffin?” I ask, seriously. “He was pretty upset, and I’m sure he wants to make sure you’re okay.”

She smiles softly. “No, he’s good. I talked to him.” I nod, and then she adds, “And he knows where I am.”

It surprises me for half a second. Then it doesn’t. She’s been almost aggressively transparent with Griffin about all of us, and I think she figured out before any of us did that information settles him.

“You hungry or thirsty?”

She smiles slightly, probably because she knows exactly what I’m doing. But I’m not starting this conversation with low blood sugar, dehydration, or anything else avoidable muddying the water.

“I’m okay for now; I will probably need something in an hour or so, though,” she answers.

“Okay, so talk first, eat later,” I confirm, and she smiles in response.

I lean forward, forearms braced on my thighs, fingers steepled against my mouth.

The speech is there. I’ve rehearsed it enough.

Somehow, actually saying it to her is harder.

“Cami, you know I’m autistic, but I want to talk to you about part of that which might explain some things,” I begin. “I have what is generally called touch aversion or tactile defensiveness, but mine is selective. Intimate touch is where it becomes much more complicated.” I pause, because the clinical explanation is easier than the personal one. “Which is why I needed you to keep your hands to yourself.”

She nods in contemplation.

“I’ve learned, over time, to mask my response to everyday touch—handshakes, occasional hugs, someone placing their hand on my arm during conversation—without overtly reacting to it,” I explain. “That doesn’t mean my brain stopped reacting. I just got better at making sure no one else could tell.”

My eyes study her, making sure she’s listening.

“I want you to know—I want all of you to know—that it isn’t that I never want to be touched. It’s more that if I’m touched unexpectedly or in a way or a place I’m not expecting, it can completely pull me out of the moment. It’s like being overstimulated. My brain suddenly has to process the touch instead of everything else that was happening, and sometimes my body just shuts down.”

“Like your whole body?” she teases.