Finley
God, send blessings upon Mason and Karoline for bailing at the last minute and giving me this weekend with Lorelei…
“Are you sure this is where you’d like to set up camp?”
Lorelei gives me a look that saysYes, Finley. Now will you please stop questioning my guidance?
I toss my hands up and divert my attention back to setting up the tent meant to sleep four comfortably that I had purchased from Walmart after leaving Lorelei at her office Thursday evening. My heart skipped a beat at the thought of camping with her, and now that we are doing this out here alone, I might die from the anxious tension. We’ve built a good friendship, and she’s obviously grown comfortable with me, but that’s not what I’m after. I’m after a lifetime of loving this woman. I’m after the opportunity to tell her I love her without her freaking out on me.
I’ve learned the woman is just as anxious as me, just in a different capacity. She gets upset with herself for not being able to process events and emotions quickly whereas I process at lightning speed,leaving me to daydream a million and ten different scenarios before whatever it is I’m distressed over actually happens.
Which I have done since I walked out of her office. There are thousands of ways I can mess this epic date—she isn’t calling it that, but I am—up.
“There. All done,” Lorelei clasps her hands together, and my jaw drops at the record time it took her to pitch her small, single-person tent. I drop the poles I was finagling around with and move to stand by Lorelei.
“Leilei, I am impressed. Your brain and skill continues to stun me. Could you possibly help me with my tent?” I look her over. Her hair is in a high, curly ponytail, little curls and flyways spinning around her face in the light breeze. She wears black joggers and a light gray athletic t-shirt, the hints of a black sports bra peeking through the wide neck of the shirt. Sweat glistens on her face, but she’s not drenched…
Like me.
Whose white t-shirt might turn yellow.
I run a hand through my hair, and it doesn’t flop back in front of my face as usual, the dampness keeping it slicked back.
Lorelei’s accomplished grin widens as she crosses her arms. “No, Finley. If you’re going to sleep in a tent, then you put your tent up. Every man for himself.”
“And if I don’t put my tent up? That means I can sleep in yours?” I waggle my brows. It’s hard to see the butterfly blush blooming on her face due to the fact the sun and seven hours of hiking have turned her pale face pink.
She turns her face away and huffs. “No. You may not sleep in my tent. You will sleep on the ground with the bugs.” She begins to march away, waving a hand and stating that she’s going to go scavenge for mushrooms and other plants.
I chuckle, thinking over the day we’ve had. While actually hiking, conversation was limited. When we stopped for snacks, hydration, or to simply rest, however, we talked.
Conversation was natural, flowing easier than the river we are currently stationed on the bank of for the rest of the evening and night. We talked about her childhood, how she’s always wanted to be a lawyer, how she misses her parents who are off gallivanting around the states, how she wishes to do that one day, how she’s never had a romantic relationship, and how she spent her high school years in cognitive behavioral therapy because she thought something was wrong with her.
That one boiled my blood a little. It was at the nudging of her parents, who seem like really great people and I hope to meet them one day, but why do people assume something is wrong with someone simply because they are shyer, quieter, have “abnormal interests and obsessions,” and do not date-slash-attempt to befriend the entire world in order to be liked and accepted? Autistic or not, Lorelei is still Lorelei. And there are plenty of people who struggle with the same things she does even if they aren’t autistic.
If you ask me, Lorelei is more normal than the lot of us in this world. She knows who she is, accepts it, and is happy. Sure, she trips up on emotions, but she works through them. She does know how to identify them in the long run. She proved that today. When I've gotten tired, she plainly asked me if I was because of how my body beganto droop, and then she recommended we rest. She’s caught on to most of my flirting attempts because she can read me better now, which has flustered her because she doesn’t know what to do with it. (She openly admitted that to me, and I told her I’d be her teacher on how to flirt. She threw leaves in my hair.)
Overall, Lorelei is underestimated. And I think she does it to herself at this point. She’s not just book smart. She is emotionally smart. She simply operates slower, which, if you ask me, is a grand thing. It proves she thinks through her thoughts and feelings and decisions. She isn’t rash, like me.
Lorelei is mymysaa. My comfort. My grounding. My home.
And I know all those things because my brain and heart leap and jump to latch onto the idea of love. And then I hyperfocus on it…
Enter: I am already in love with her.
Yes, it’s chemicals in my brain.
But also, I choose her. And I’ll choose her when the chemicals fade.
I’ve never met a woman like her, and well, when you know, you know.
Shaking my head clear, I set to work on my tent. The sun is well on its way to setting; the rustling of the river settles a peaceful feeling into my soul. Ten minutes later, my tent is up and I unpack my hiking bag, rolling out my sleeping bag and setting out clothes to change into later.
The forecast said it is supposed to rain later, so I walk over to Lorelei’s tent and check to make sure it’s sturdy and secure and completely covered so that there will be no leaks. After that, I beginto build a fire spot.
Eventually, Lorelei hollers out, “I found several different mushrooms, but they aren’t quite ready for harvest. We should start a fire, though. And start preparing dinner. Oh, and make tea!” She appears from a trail off in the woods, a small twig sticking out of her hair.
I laugh and meet her by the wood pile I gathered earlier. She begins to bend down, but I grab her wrist and take a step nearer. She sucks in a breath as I move closer, my lips quite capable of touching her forehead. She tilts her chin up and closes her eyes, and I bite my lip to resist the urge to kiss her. I pluck the twig from her hair, but it pulls a chunk of her hair with it. She winces and her eyes fly open as her hand wraps around mine, hovering an inch above her scalp.
