“Because I would,” I admit. “When I think about you and touch myself six months from now, I want solid memories, not a frustrating pile of ‘if onlys.’”
He finally looks straight at me, eyes almost pained.
“I know, I’m very blunt,” I add, smiling ruefully. “ADHD nuked my filter years ago. But it’s saved me a lot of time and misunderstandings over the years.”
He clears his throat. “It’s fine. You’re right. Honesty is…” He trails off, folds his arms, stares at his feet. “You have… I mean, you’re…”
“I like the termneurospicy,” I say. “Would you say you are? It’s a spectrum. Everyone’s somewhere on it.”
He closes his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I think so.” His voice is so quiet I have to lean in a little to hear. “I find… being around people… stressful. Working out what to say. How to react. It makes me… edgy. I can’t understand why people socialize forfun. I find it confusing and exhausting and the exact opposite of enjoyable.”
He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for half his life but hasn’t been allowed.
“DoImake you edgy?” I ask.
He’s silent long enough that I’m proud of myself for not filling the gaps.
“Very,” he says at last, with a tiny, apologetic glance.
“OK.” I nod. “Is there anything I can do to make you feellessedgy?”
His mouth twitches. “Your very existence nearby puts me on edge, so no. But that’s not your responsibility. It’s mine to… cope better.”
“Nothing wrong with adjustments.” I shrug. “Have you thought about getting assessed?”
He shakes his head. “Not sure I see the point. And my father would -” He stops.
Aha.
“Your father would…?” I prompt.
Jacob makes a low, frustrated sound that goes straight between my legs. “I shouldn’t care what he thinks,” he mutters, “but he’d be… Christ, he’d bedisgusted,if it turned out I was. Never mind I spent most of my life twisting myself into knots for his approval so he wouldn’t shout at me. I worked myself to the bone for good grades, a solid job, promotions… just so he wouldn’t raise his voice.”
He shifts his weight side to side, over and over, and scratches at his rolled up sleeve.
“Being yelled at is a sensory nightmare,” I say. “It’s not surprising you feel that way. I hate it too, I just go into fight mode instead of freezing.” I nod toward his feet. “Do you do that a lot?”
He stills. “Do what?”
“Rock side to side.” He nods, wary. “You know about stimming, right? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what that is. I do it too, but in swivel chairs; I go side to side. Plus endless doodling. Plus muttering the same lyric on loop when I’m stressed.”
His frown this time is curious, not defensive. “Any particular song?”
“Whatever’s stuck. The other day it was the first two lines ofTwinkle Twinkle Little Star.” I grin. “Thanks, kids.”
He looks like he wants to say something and isn’t sure if he should. I stay quiet.
“I…” he starts, then lets out a breathy, self-conscious chuckle. “I have a passage fromRomeo and JulietI mutter when I’m really angry. To calm down.”
My grin turns into a beam. “That is socool.”
“The ‘do you bite your thumb at us, sir?’ scene. All of it. I don’t know why it helps. It just…does.”
“Like I always say,” I shrug, “whatever works, do it.” And I like him even more now than I did ten minutes ago. “Thanks for telling me. It’s nice not to feel like the only weirdo in the room.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You seem like you’ve never been alone in your life.”
“Not true.” I take another small step forward, close enough to touch now. “Not true at all.”
