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He swallows roughly as he glances back my way. His eyes dance between mine. “It’s your fault. You’re rubbing off on me.”
My smile deepens. “Sorry I’m such a terrible influence.”
“Not forgiven,” he mutters, back to staring out the window, his gaze traveling the rink. “We got sidetracked again. You were…explaining what it means for you, being autistic.”
I pick up his keys where they sit in the console and turn them over in my hands. A few players and their guests are leaving their cars, joining up with each other. Talking, hugging, laughing. I suppose we could join them, too, but I don’t want to get out yet. I want to tell Sebastian. I want him to know this about me, because I can’t do this anymore—judge him the way the world has and use that judgment to hold him at a distance. I have to decide for myself, based on what he shows me, how I’m going to see him. And trusting him with this part of myself will certainly be the litmus test. He’ll either be a jerk about it, or he’ll be…the way I hope he is, the way he’s shown me he can be. Curious. Kind. Caring.
The way he was when he comforted me as I fell apart at yoga last Saturday, when I started to spiral tonight, no words, no pressure to do anything except stand there and let him offer me grounding, strong touch, a sure, steady presence.
Maybe this is all just pretend, what he and I are doing. But just because something’s pretend doesn’t mean it can’t hold within its deceptive shell a kernel of truth. That’s why I love Shakespeare Club, why I read books, because those made-up worlds contain some of the most tender, scary, beautiful human truths, navigated in the safety of imagination, whose wisdom and hopes I take with me bravely into my own life.
Maybe when this is done, Sebastian won’t look back twice, won’t see me as anything beyond his best friend’s little sister who served a purpose for a time, who made him suffer through angry yoga, kicked his shins for swearing, and hogged his chocolate milkshake. Maybe I’ll do the same and look back on this with fond memories of the foul-mouthed, sardonic man obsessed with his hair, who had a penchant for surprising me with kindness, yet ultimately who was never meant to be a lasting part of my life.
But right now, while we’re doing this, I want truth. I want trust. I want it to be real, when we’re here, sharing space and life, however brief that is.
So I take a deep breath and tell him, “I explained I have a lot of social anxiety, that I don’t find it intuitive or…particularly straightforward to learn and understand people. That means I don’t make friends easily. I’ve been able to figure out how to get along with my teammates, and I have my best friend, Charlie. But mostly, I just focus on my family and soccer, and that’s it. On top of that, busy events can overwhelm and overstimulate me. So, tonight, I’ll have to pace myself. I might be a little awkward, a bit quiet; I might disappear briefly to reset before I can return to the action.”
He’s watching me with that way he has—knuckles grazing his mouth, silver eyes locked on me, his expression inscrutable. “Is it…hard, spaces like this? Is that why you don’t normally go to them?”
My heart’s sprinting in my chest. I can’t read him, can’t tell if there’s judgment hiding beneath the surface of his curiosity. “Yes. They are hard. I have a lot of sensory issues that I have to navigate in busy settings. Different sounds overlapping each other—complex noise—they hurt my brain. Flashing or harsh lights make me nauseous. If people touch me when I don’t expect it or in ways that I don’t like, I start to feel like my skin’s crawling with fire ants, and I can’t breathe well. With strangers, I get nervous I’ll say the wrong thing—and honestly, I often do—so I get so quiet, it’s uncomfortable for people. In short, I’m terrible at this kind of thing.”
His jaw clenches. He drops his hand. “Then why the fuck are we doing it?”
“Zounds!” I yell. “No f-bombs tonight, you hear me?”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t acknowledge me. “This is not happening. I’m not taking you in there, not somewhere that upsets you like that.”
“Sebastian, I agreed to this event for a reason. I can handle it. I know the team, so it won’t be talking to strangers. I love kids, and I can focus on interacting with them. I’ll let you do the conversational heavy lifting, the small-talking and being charming. And I have—” I reach for my purse and pull out my saving grace. “Earplugs.” Gently, I wedge them into my ears. “They’ll help with the auditory issues. And it won’t matter that I might talk a little too quiet and then a little too loud, since I can’t hear myself well, because it’ll be chaotic in there anyway. Everyone will be talking over the music and other people’s conversations, having to repeat themselves anyway, right?”
His mouth lifts at the corner, a hint of a smile. His eyes travel my face. “That’s right. So there’s the conversational aspect, the overwhelming sound. Now, the unwelcome touching?”
I ease out my earplugs. “I usually just keep my space from people.”
“Not at a roller race you don’t,” he says, adjusting his rings on his fingers. “Well, at least, it won’t be easy. But I’ll manage it. No one will touch you who you don’t want to. It might involve…me staying close, though. Is that all right with you?”
A swallow works down my throat as I stare at him, as he stares at me, spinning that ring on his fourth finger over and over. “Yes.” My voice is faint, cracked. “That’s all right with me.”
“Well, then—” He leans in, brushing back my hair from where it’s fallen around my face into a curtain, my familiar hiding place. Carefully, he smooths it away until it’s behind my shoulders, spilling down my back. “No hiding, tonight, Sigrid. Time for you to shine.”
14
SEBASTIAN
Playlist: “Too Late To Say Goodbye,” Cage The Elephant
“Look who it is!” Tyler, my teammate, wraps Ziggy in a hug and squeezes her close.
My hands are fists in my pockets as I watch her for any sign that this hug is unwelcome, but goddammit, to my annoyance, she hugs him back, smiling at me over his shoulder and mouthing at me, I’m okay.
I nod tersely.
“Seb!” Another teammate, Kris, slaps me on the back. I glance his way and offer a hand, which he takes. “You actually came.”
“Shocked?”
He grins, then wrinkles his nose. “Kinda, yeah. But I’m not mad about it.”
I glance around at the roller rink we’ve secured for the event, decorated to be colorful and bright, clearly with kids in mind. The music isn’t too loud and the lights aren’t terribly bright, which is good for Ziggy. The crowd’s noise is low as players mingle with their guests, the staff, and the kids who are our guests of honor.
