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“I wanted to get some sparring in,” Michael said as he scratched an ear. He usually spent Saturdays running and lifting weights—things he could do alone since he was tired of people after what he did on Friday nights. Today, however, he didn’t want to be by himself. He knew he’d just think about Stella the whole time. After deliberating through the night and most of today, he still didn’t know how to break things off without hurting her. It had to happen, though. And soon. He should call her after he finished sparring and arrange a meeting. Face to face was best.
“Suit up, then,” Quan said. “Class starts in an hour. Teacher took the day off, so loser leads class—little kids’ class.”
That was the perfect incentive to win. Children brandishing sticks were horrifying. You’d think smaller kids were less dangerous, but they were actually the worst. They spun around the studio like tornadoes, hitting beneath your armor or stabbing you in the balls, all by accident. They
didn’t know any better. Kind of like Stella in social situations.
And Khai.
As Michael put his gear on, his eyes kept gravitating toward Khai as he methodically worked through all his strikes ten at a time. Always the same number and always the same order. If Stella ever took up kendo, Michael could see her doing the exact same thing. After last night, there were a lot more similarities between her and Khai than he’d originally thought. Khai never noticed when he tripped upon sensitive conversation topics, either. He was also horribly honest, creative in strange ways, and . . .
His gaze jumped to Quan as an unexpected suspicion rose. “You asked if I thought Stella was like Khai.”
Quan undid the laces behind his head and pulled his helmet off. Dark eyes regarded him steadily. “Yeah, I did.”
“Did she tell you something I should know?” He remembered that night, how it had felt like he’d interrupted something when he’d found them outside the club together.
“After she finished hyperventilating from overstimulation, yeah. She told me something,” Quan said.
“She was hyperventilating?” he heard himself ask. His stomach dropped, and coldness prickled over him. What kind of ass was he that he hadn’t known and hadn’t been there for her? He should have been the one. Not Quan.
“Too many people, Michael. Too much noise, too many flashing lights. You shouldn’t have taken her there.”
Everything clicked together then. “She’s autistic.”
“You disappointed?” Quan asked with a tilt of his head.
“No.” The word came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat before he continued. “But I wish she’d told me.” Why hadn’t she told him? And why had she let him pressure her into going to the club? She must have known what it would do to her.
And last night. Shit, it must have been awful. The TV blasting, the piano, his sisters shouting, everything new . . .
“She just wants you to like her.”
The words punched Michael in the stomach. He did like her, and knowing this didn’t impact that at all. She was still the same person. Except he understood her better now. At least, on a conscious level, he did.
Subconsciously, he felt like he’d always known. Because he’d grown up with Khai, he knew how to interact with her. He didn’t even have to think about it. That had to be why she could relax with him when she couldn’t with others . . .
A strange charged sensation buzzed through him, tensing his muscles and putting his hairs on end. Maybe he didn’t have to end their arrangement.
Maybe accepting her proposal wasn’t taking advantage of her. Because she was autistic, maybe she really could use a practice relationship before she entered a real one. Maybe he was the perfect one for her to practice with. Maybe he could help her for real.
He didn’t have to take the entire fifty grand. Come to think of it, he didn’t have to take any of it. He had credit cards. He could make up the difference next month. By helping her without financial motivation, he’d finally prove he wasn’t his dad.
He yanked his gear off and tossed it on the floor in a careless heap. “Put that away for me, will you? I have to go.”
* * *
• • •
Stella’s phone beeped, dragging her out from the world of her data. Her office materialized, her desk, the computer screens with the command prompt and all the clever code she’d written, her windows, the darkness beyond them.
The alert on her phone said, “Dinnertime.”
She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a protein bar. Her mother would be angry if she saw Stella eating one of these for dinner, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to work.
Absently chewing on the cardboard-y chocolate mixture, she made small adjustments and refinements in her algorithm. It was good. Maybe some of her best work.
Her phone buzzed, and the screen lit with a text message from Michael.
