“If you’re interested, Ialwayshave recommendations.”
“Thanks.” I know I’m supposed to be maintaining eye contact, since we’re talking, but I’m also supposed to be watching Tristan. Tristan wins. I continue to angle my body toward Marley, but my eyes are fixed on my new charge.
“Is he always like that? Focused?”
Marley tilts her head. “Tristan? Yeah. He’s got that Canadian Catholic guilt. Works hard like Jesus is watching. And I think he might be slightly afraid of the team owner, unlike Viktor Abbott, who deliberately provokes him. But Tristan’s a good one. You’re lucky.”
Lucky? Me? With Tristan in that kind of a way? Um… no… not happening. He’s my landlord, boss, and benefactor. But my eyes drift back to him on their own.
“Right.” I don’t know what to say to that, so I power on my tablet screen.
Marley opens her phone. I sneak a glance at her work. I don’t want to cheat, but I also don’t know what I’m doing. She doesn’t have that problem, zipping between apps, color-coding and organizing as she goes. I don’t even know what half those appsdo.
Marley catches me watching. “Should I slow down?”
I dip my head. I feel like I’ve been caught cheating. “Sorry.”
“For what? Here, I’ll walk you through what I’m doing.”
I bite my bottom lip.
“I really don’t mind.”
“Would it be okay if I took notes?”
“Sure.” She waits for me to pull up a notes app. “You do that thing where you map data in your head, don’t you? My little brother has autism. High-masking, like you. He does the same thing.”
My thumb skitters across the tablet screen. “I don’t have a diagnosis.”
Neither of my parents would ever consider that I might be fundamentally different, though it’s obvious to everyone else. Marley’s known me for ten minutes, and she’s already singled me out.
She shakes her head, still smiling, but it’s not a cruel Frankie-smile, like a shark who’s scented chum. “You don’t need one for me to respect it.”
Respect. Not tolerate. Not weaponize. Respect. I don’t know what to do with that.
My family wouldn’t think a diagnosis, or the condition itself, would be worthy of respect. They would nag and pick and peck and belittle me until I whittled away to nothing. Even without a diagnosis, they were doing that already. A diagnosis would have given my father permission to put his embarrassing daughter away in some kind of institution.
Marley reads something in my face and reaches behind her for a bottle of water, provided by the arena. “Here, Minerva. Hydrate. You’re vibrating. That’s your nervous system talking.”
I take the bottle from her and chug it down in a few gulps. As soon as the water hits my throat, I feel better.
“How was that?” Marley asks. “Being called Minerva, I mean.”
I smile at her as I tuck the bottle away in my bag. “It was nice. Thank you.”
“No problem. Now,” she holds out her phone with a flourish, “let’s walk you through the process of becoming a kick-ass assistant.”
For the first time in weeks, the panic in my chest loosens enough to let a thread of hope through.
Chapter Four
Tristan
I have mixed feelings about leaving Minnie alone in the house. Yes, she has Kepler, but what if she has another panic attack? I hate the idea of her going through that alone. I wish one of my sisters or my mom lived closer. But they’re a country away.
Despite my concerns, I don’t reach out to her while I’m on the road for an away game. Our only contact comes in the form of very brief texts from her with direct questions about where things are kept in the house, and my equally impersonal responses.
On the plane ride home, I scroll through my messages while I chomp my way through a bag of beef jerky. It’s stupid how fast a few words from her can light up my phone—and my chest.
