Page 21 of Unapologetic Love Story

‘No,’ he exclaimed. ‘Sorry, no. It wouldn’t be one of those articles.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well. I guess, until recently, I thought there were ten podcasts for every single subject you could ever think of, but there actually aren’t a lot like yours.’

Raina watched him steadily.

‘I listened,’ he admitted. ‘It’s good.’

‘So, what’s your angle?’

He shrugged innocently. ‘I don’t know yet.’

‘How inviting.’

Her sarcasm made his lips twitch. ‘It’s just a profile for now. On spec.’

Raina considered him. He was handsome. A little too handsome. He wore dark circles, but his eyes were sharp. His whole face transformed when a hint of a smile appeared. Raina had thought about him more than she would care to admit in the past few weeks.

‘I’m not overly enthused about being studied,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve had enough microscopes on me.’

‘Understandable.’

‘Is it?’ she said, putting a little steel into her voice. ‘If you’ve really listened to my stuff, you’ll know I’m a little tired of allistics categorizing people like me. Why would I want one more?’

He looked mildly taken aback.

‘I get it, all right?’ she said to him. ‘Autism. Neurodiversity. They’re scary words. You’re flashing back to twenty years ago when there was vaccine panic and all of the brainwashing that came after.’

She took a sip of her drink.

‘Or’ – she squeezed a slice of lemon over her rocks of ice – ‘you think, Good Lord, there really is a label for everything these days. Who does she think she is, wanting attention? She seems perfectly normal; she should just shut up. Aren’t we all a little autistic, huh?’

She watched him digest her words.

‘Pick your horse now,’ she whispered. ‘Terrible, tragic, awful thing or woman who wants attention. Both are widely circulated. You’ll read fifty stories about each before an autistic person will ever be asked to comment.’

There, she thought. That will scare him off nicely.

‘Raina,’ Tom spoke quietly, ‘it’s okay. You don’t have to be so tough with me. I fucked up at the museum, but I hear you. No stereotypes. I’m not interested in what anybody else has written or said or thought. I’m not interested in whatever has come before. I’m interested in you.’

Raina was stunned. She’d wanted her defensiveness to make him back off, not press closer. This was unheard of. No one had ever tried to soothe the anger that sometimes bled out of her.

He cleared his throat and added, ‘Professionally, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Tell me about the nuances,’ he finally said. ‘That’s what I try to write about.’

Raina wondered if she should admit to reading his entire portfolio of work since their last meeting. He was right, he did include nuance. Yet his pieces always ended the same way, with the subject exposed and laid bare for all of the world to see.

He just wants a story. He just needs you to be a story for him. A specimen. You’ve sworn off being a specimen to people. Remember?

She was terrified of Tom Branimir splashing her across glossy pages, telling everyone to look at the failed neurotypical. Never could fit in, no matter how she tried. Never could walk the line of saying or doing the correct thing. The popular thing.

The journalistic equivalent of the birthday party she’d had when she was nine, with thirty invitations. She wrote everyone’s names with her special sparkling gel pen that smelled of cinnamon.

No one came.