Page 9
He lifts up his arm, the bulk of his muscles pulling the cotton of his shirt tight around his biceps as he runs his fingers through his shaggy hair. His skin is golden tan, except for the strip of pale skin that pokes out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt. Because of my fair skin and red hair, I long ago became familiar with the statistics of skin cancer. I hope he uses SPF with all those hours spent under the sun. I almost tell him so, but that is probably not what he’s looking for here. So, I stick with honesty, “You want me to tell you about myself? I’m twenty-eight, a single mom, addicted to Diet Coke, and according to TikTok and internet checklists, I’m Autistic.”
“You’re Autistic?”
“Probably, yeah.”
He studies me for a while; his attention is unnerving. Between the stories about him, his big build, and two different-colored eyes, I can understand how he’s earned his reputation.
“Probably?” he finally repeats, his gaze roaming over me. His left eye is bright blue, almost matching the color of the sky, while his right eye is a deep, dark brown. I’m guessing it might be difficult for people to meet his stare, but I’ve been overcompensating my whole life. If he thinks I’ll be the first to blink, he’s wrong.
“I’ve never been formally diagnosed, but at this point, I don’t really need it,” I explain, and he grunts.
Though, I can’t decipher what the sound means. Before I can ask, he has a question of his own.
“Is TikTok really the best place to get information?”
I lift my shoulder. “Sometimes. There are a significant number of late-diagnosed women who haven’t been able to find community anywhere else except online forums.”
“I’m not sure what to do with you,” he says, and I thought I was doing so well.
Feeling my cheeks heat with embarrassment, I take a step back from him. “Most people don’t.”
He stops me from moving away with a rushed, “I meant it as a compliment.” Then he takes an audible breath, swipes his hand over his hair, and offers, “How about every time I say something that’s a compliment or a joke, I tell you?”
The thing I have the most trouble with is other people’s tone of voice. I don’t understand sarcasm and a lot of “humor” goes right over my head, so his idea would actually be really helpful. “That would be perfect. Thank you.”
He nods once. “But I don’t joke a lot, so…”
I give in to a smile. “I’d guess not, if you’re trying to keep this bad-guy act going.”
He arches a brow. “You think it’s an act?”
“Evidence suggests yes.”
He purses his lips like he’s fighting his amusement then gestures for me to continue. “I’d like to hear this evidence.”
“Well, for one, you’re here today. There are only ten of you.”
“I was voluntold to be here.”
“Yes, but you’re actively participating. And you were kind to my son.” When he doesn’t dispute that, I continue. “You could’ve been an asshole today, but you weren’t.”
He inclines his head and crosses his arms over his chest, and I glance down to his forearms, muscled and tanned with veins a phlebotomist would love.
I am not one, but I’m suddenly very interested in those veins. I curl my fingers into fists and force my eyes up to his once again. “I’ll acknowledge that you might appear physically intimidating to people, but I think we can both agree that you appear meaner than you really are.”
The longer he stays silent, the more I think I’m right. The more I think he’s trying really hard to make people believe he’s an asshole. And a giggle escapes my throat.
“What’s so funny?” he asks with more of that pointed glaring.
I try to stop laughing, but after the roller coaster of having my embarrassing attempt at a cartwheel caught on the jumbotron, then breaking down while watching Noah today, and now this guy? I am drunk with emotion.
“I’m sorry.” I cover my smile with my hand. “This is too much.”
“I’m too much?”
“All of it. You and today and…everything.” The severity of my situation hits me all over again, and the silliness drains from my face and limbs as I spot Noah in the crowd.
As if he can feel me watching him, my son turns over his shoulder, waving at me, pointing at the player who’s currently signing a baseball for him. I give him a thumbs up, and his responding grin cracks my heart in two. My boy.
