She’s quiet, processing. I can practically see the gears turning.
“Your parents,” she says finally. “They weren’t good to you?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. So I busy myself gathering up the last of my food, dropping it in the trash, wiping down the surface with a napkin, buying time.
“They were fine. Just... busy.” I shrug, aiming for casual. “Dad’s a surgeon. Mom runs a lot of charity boards. They weren’t around much when I was growing up, but they made sure I had everything I needed. Best schools, best opportunities.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was what it was.” I toss the napkin into the trash, avoiding her eyes. “We’re not super close, but it’s not some tragicbackstory. They’re proud of me. They just show it differently than some families do.”
It’s not a lie, exactly. More like a carefully curated version of the truth. The version I’ve learned to tell so people don’t look at me with pity or, worse, start asking follow-up questions I don’t want to answer.
Audrey’s quiet for a moment, studying me in that way she has—like she’s running my words through some internal algorithm, checking for inconsistencies.
“Is that why your friends feel like family?” she asks. “Because your actual family was more... hands-off?”
She’s too smart. Always has been.
“Maybe.” I meet her eyes. “They were the first peer group who made me feel like I belonged. And maybe that’s just because we were closer in age than my MIT cohort—I was only fifteen when I started there—but either way, with them, I didn’t feel like an alien for the first time. I was just me. No translation necessary.”
She nods slowly, and I can see her filing this away, drawing conclusions. But she doesn’t push the family thing further, and I’m grateful for that.
“So…MIT at fifteen. Do you think that’s why you never learned how to...” She stops herself, shaking her head. “Sorry. That’s not my business.”
But she was going to ask. I can see the shape of the question behind her eyes—is that why you never learned how to be with someone? Is that why you blocked my kiss with your hand?
“I skipped all the years when people figure that stuff out,” I say quietly. “I was in labs while everyone else was at dances and parties and learning how to… be. By the time I realized I’d missed something important, it was too late to go back and learn it.”
The words hang. I’ve just told her more than I’ve told anyone—circled so close to the truth that she could probably see it if she looked hard enough. Part of me wants her to ask. To force the confession out of me so I don’t have to figure out how to volunteer it.
Part of me is terrified she will.
The silence stretches. I’ve said too much. I always say too much or not enough—never the right amount, never at the right time. Story of my life.
Shit.
“I like this,” she says suddenly.
I look up. “What?”
“I like this version of you.” She gestures at me—at the mess I’ve just laid bare. “Less guarded. More real.”
She pauses, and I watch her choose her words carefully.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always liked the brilliant mind. The guy who solves problems no one else can see. But this—” She meets my eyes, holding them. “The person underneath all that brain. I like seeing him.”
I don’t know what to say.
My whole life, I’ve operated on the assumption that the real me is the problem. That the brilliant mind is the only acceptable part—the rest is just liability.
And here she is, saying she wants to seemoreof that.
Well,fuck.
It doesn’t compute. It’s like finding out the error in your code was actually a feature all along.
“I don’t—” I start, then stop.
