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As for men, I’ve never dated one, only hooked up using apps or at a bar a couple of times. But in the last few years, even that has fallen to a very low place on the priority list.
“Well,” Jackson says thoughtfully. “You might want to keep your eye out for certain things. Like, if he touches you a lot, casually, that can be a sign. If he leans toward you while you’re talking, smiles a lot, that kind of thing. I have an acting book that lists a lot of emotions and common body language that goes along with them. I’ll bring it over for you.”
“That would be great, thanks,” I say. “But even if I get that far, how do I know if he wants to date or if he just wants to hook up?” Hearing the words come out of my mouth, I let out a bitter laugh. “Jesus, how pathetic. I’m a forty-three-year-old man, and I feel like a goddamn middle schooler. Stupid fucking autism.” I stand abruptly and march into the kitchen for a glass of ice water, feeling my emotions go a little wonky. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this whole thing up.
When I get back to my chair, Mason leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, and levels a stare at me.
“Okay, Dylan, here’s what I think,” he says. “I know you don’t always like to tell people about your autism right away, but I think in this case, you should tell Reed off the top. For one thing, he’s a doctor, so the chances of him flipping out are smaller than average. Plus, if he doesn’t know much about autism, it will give you a chance to teach him the basics. Then, if he behaves in a way that’s confusing, you ask him about it, and he’ll understand why you’re asking. If he’s anyone worth being with, he’ll try to communicate with you honestly, and he won’t judge.”
I never hide my autism, but throwing it out there almost before getting to know someone isn’t something I do often, and I’ve never done it in the context of dating. But everything about Reed Morrow feels different. I don’t know why, but I really want to get to know him, and I’d like him to know me. I can’t remember ever feeling that way about anyone before.
Blowing out a breath, I run a hand through my hair, pulling on it just hard enough that it stings a little. It’s one of those little actions that can help ground me when I’m starting to feel stressed.
“Maybe I’ll try that. Keeping note of his reaction when I tell him I’m autistic will probably give me some information too, right?”
“Absolutely,” Mason says as Jax nods. “I mean, I wouldn’t make telling him into a huge, big deal, but drop it in somewhere, and then watch how he reacts—but try not to be too obvious about it. If he does anything that confuses you, try to remember what it is, and you can ask us later. Maybe we’ll be able to help.”
“The thing is, Dyl,” Jackson adds, “I don’t think there’s a formula for this kind of thing. I think you need to get comfortable with playing it by ear. Being uncertain’s a bit of a theme in relationships at the beginning. It’s not fun, but it does help you trust each other. Things can get really brilliant from there.” He grins, leaning in to kiss Mason on the cheek, who instead turns his head at the last minute to steal the kiss from Jackson’s mouth. They both giggle, and a strange warmth settles in my belly. Their connection to each other is steady and strong, their love shining out from both of their faces for everyone to see—even for those of us who struggle to see that kind of thing. I want to know what it feels like to be that connected to another person.
The good thing is that once I decide I want something, I focus on it like a laser—and when that happens, I often get what I want in the end.
Chapter 7
REED
Takingaslurpofcoffee, I close my eyes as the first hit of sweet, caffeinated goodness hits my tongue. Shifting my energy back to the iPad lying on my kitchen table, I try to read theNew York Timeswhile working to ignore the restless energy skittering through my veins. At least it’s cutting through some of my exhaustion that comes from obsessing all night over Dylan’s visit today. The word “nervous” doesn’t exactly apply; maybe it’s excitement. Preventing myself from wondering why I’m reacting to him this way is easier said than done.
My phone pings, and I jump to grab it from where I left it on the counter beside the coffee maker.
Dylan: Hi Reed, this is Dylan Campbell. Does 4 PM work for you today?
Reed: Hey Dylan, 4 is perfect. I’ll be here.
Dylan: Okay, great. I will see you later.
Reed: See you then.
Okay, so I have a few hours to kill. God, I want a cigarette so bad I’m about to climb the walls. My chest has that irritating, empty sensation, and I can feel a headache coming on. My stomach is flopping around like it’s full of break-dancing butterflies, and the whole thing is beginning to annoy the fuck out of me. I can’t tell you why, after a million years of feeling completely justified in my choice to smoke, I suddenly decided last night to try cutting back—except that I totally can tell you. I want to be a better man.
I get it. I’m attracted to Dylan Campbell. I mean, come on, the man is physically as close to perfect as I’ve ever seen. But it goes past physical attraction. I thought about the guy for months—months—after we first met. Often, I don’t even remember a guy’s name after we’ve fucked each other into the mattress, so for me to spend months thinking about some random guy I only talked to for a few minutes…. Well… it was out of character, to say the least. I ignored it, and eventually, I stopped thinking about him so much, and that was that. Until he blew back into my life yesterday like some kind of hurricane, and now my whole world feels just a bit off-center.
It’s not like I can do anything about these weird feelings anyway. Someone like Dylan deserves a whole lot more than what I’m able to provide. I am 100 percent not cut out for love and relationships. I know that, and it’s never bothered me since I’ve never had any desire for a serious relationship. I’ve been pretty content for a long time as a single man. I get my life satisfaction and sense of purpose from my job, and when I have an itch that needs scratching, I never have an issue getting guys into my bed. Whatever it is that’s going on in my head around Dylan Campbell is not a normal thing. And this sudden, unexplained desire to grow as a person and “be better”… is uncomfortable and weird, and I really need to figure out how to shut that shit down.
The sun is shining, the leaves on the trees just beginning to turn from leafy green to magnificent yellow and red as the days get shorter and the nights get cooler. I love the seasons in Seattle. The dusty, crappy little desert town on the Arizona–New Mexico Border where I grew up couldn’t be more different than the lush Pacific Northwest, and thank god for that. I decide to go for a nice long run instead of letting my thoughts continue down this particular dark path.
This neighborhood is great. The only problem is that my schedule keeps me at the hospital so much I’m not home enough to enjoy it. With almost every spare second tied up with the renovation, I haven’t been able to just hang out in the neighborhood and get to know it.
Throwing on some running clothes and queuing up my favorite playlist on my phone, I head out the door. Pausing in the front yard to spend a couple of minutes stretching out a tight calf muscle, I let out a deep sigh. It’s possible I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with this house. And oh, dear god, what my father would do if he knew about it. I’d be able to feel his disappointment in me all the way from Arizona.
My father always wanted a son. Not just a kid, but ason.It was made clear to me almost from the get-go that I wasn’t living up to his expectations for that son he’d always dreamed of. I wasn’t particularly good at sports, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I tried every damn sport out there, even though I hated them all. I wasn’t a macho, burly cowboy interested in the rodeo, and I sure as fuck wasn’t interested in the damn 4H club or Future Farmer’s club, where they were all into raising livestock. I was the stereotypical nerd, short and scrawny, not interested in anything my father thought was an “appropriate” activity for a boy. I was content to sit in a corner and escape into the pages of a book, and since my father wasn’t the most educated guy, he did not approve of me spending so much time with my nose in books. Even as a kid, I sensed he was threatened by my desire to learn and to read; I just didn’t know what to call it. I stopped wondering what my life would have been like if I’d grown up in a supportive family a very long time ago.
Walking the last couple of blocks back to my house to cool down, I glance at my watch, startling when I see it’s been an hour and a half—way longer than my normal runs. No wonder I was feeling it toward the end. But the exercise has done its job. My head feels clearer, and I’m less tense about this afternoon’s meeting.
After stretching for a few minutes, I head into the house to shower, puttering around for a while until, finally, it’s almost time for him to arrive. My stomach is balled into knots, my nerves returning in full force.
At 4:00 p.m. on the dot, he pulls into my driveway. Sucking in a deep breath and heading to the front door, I wrench it open eagerly before he even has a chance to ring the bell, and a look of surprise crosses his face.
“Oh, hi,” Dylan says.
