Still, I can’t say that I don’t miss them. They were my best friends, most of my college experience was spent with them. They taught me a lot about myself, even if they didn’t realize it.
I never told them—or anyone—about my diagnosis because I didn’t want them to look at me any differently, and I don’t plan on changing that now. My diagnosis doesn’t dictate who I am—I am whoever I want to be, and I don’t need people questioning my motives or thoughts because they know my brain works differently.
It’s bad enough my parents still treat me like a child, still giving me an “allowance” even though I make more money than both of them combined. They’re convinced I’m not capable of working, just like they were certain I wouldn’t make it through high school. College was a shock for them. I wasn’t sure they’d survive it.
They’re in denial, which I find mind blowing, considering I’ve had this job for three years, yet it’s like I don’t… like they don’t believe anything I say. And it’s likely they’re the reason I have this deep-rooted fear of telling anyone about it. I don’t need more people acting like them, treating me like I’m not human.
I’m autistic, not delusional. My job is real. I get a paycheck. I live a normal life. I can take care of myself, and have been for a long time.
Funny enough, it’s thanks to them that I can. Though they didn’t think I was capable, they still had me out there doing all the things. Pushing me to fit in. To work hard at school—which I didn’t have to do because it all came easily to me. But I know it’s why they put me in football from the moment I could walk. Maybe because it was Dad’s favorite sport too. He is proud that I’m working for his favorite team, though I do know he’d rather me beonthe team. I liked playing, but I love working with numbers more.
I’m not bothered for the rest of the day, and when it’s time to leave, I clock out and grab my stuff to head home, where I have a near melt down over leaving.
I can do this. It’ll be fine.
It’s good for me to get out of the house. That’s what my therapist said. She says I’m retreating into myself and that it will be good for me to go out and experience things. She’s pushed me to date, but I don’t find myself attracted to anyone. Not anyone at all. When I was in college, I fucked people because everyone was doing it. I did it because with alcohol, it was enjoyable. Okay, it wastolerable. But I have no need for it now. On the off chance my dick wants some attention, I give it. I’m satisfied. End of story. There’s no need to bring another person into the mix. That’s a lot of work.
Of course, I don’t tell Mariah that… I’m not sure what she would say. We’re down to seeing each other—virtually—once a month, and the last thing I want is for her to think we need to meet more often.
Should I hide things from my therapist? No. But I’m not ready to start another battle. I am fine with how my life is. There’s enough going on.
Her and I have been preparing for this trip for a few months. She’s been trying to convince me to tell the guys about my diagnosis, but I don’t want to. It’s none of their business. It doesn’t matter.
I don’t care about the diagnosis, never really have. It doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s other people who make a big deal about it, and that’s why I like to ignore it.
My bags are already packed and by the door, ready for me to leave in the morning to head to the airport that thankfully isn’t far, so I don’t have to wake up too early.
My flight leaves at 12:23 which will put me in New York around 3:00-3:30.
The group chat keeps going off with the guys talking about all the things they want to do and Mack showing off all the stuff he has been up to since he got in early. I said what I had to say, complained about not getting in until tomorrow, and now I need a break.
If I’m going to deal with these rowdy guys all weekend, I need to find some peace before I go.
Chapter Three
Trey
I run my hand through my hair for the second time, trying to tease my locks just enough to look effortless. Usually, I love my mornings no matter where I am. It’s one of those constants in my life that grounds me, even when I’m across the country, and makes me feel a semblance of normalcy, because my life is chaotic most of the time. I probably spend three months out of the year at my condo back in Miami. Which I have only because Mandy suggested I invest in property— even if I wasn’t going to be spending time there because the value would only go up. And when I was ready to settle down— because she swears one day I’m going to, even though I tell her all the time that’s probablynot going to happen—I could easily move back in or sell it for a premium and buy a really nice place.
But honestly, being home is weird. I’m not there long enough to be comfortable, and hopping from hotel to hotel can get kind of stressful, too, so I’ve learned that as long as I keepsomethings routine—primarily my mornings—I feel better. Mentally. Physically. Which, in order to do my fucking job, I need to beonlike a spotlight.
But today, I don’t feel good. I am nervous as hell, and I know I shouldn’t be. It’s just the guys for God’s sake. It’s not like I’m meeting the love of my life or some shit. But who knows? Maybe I will. Maybe after Austen’s shindig, we can all head out to a club like we used to and I will meet someone.
Or not. Knowing my luck. I don’t know when I turned into the perpetually single guy, considering I’m “Book Boyfriend Material,” according to Mandy. I think she reads too many romance novels, but I digress.
And of course, as if she can sense my disdain states away, that’s the moment my phone rings with the familiar melody of Jack Harlow’s “First Class”.I groan as he continues to spellglamorous,and get to theRbefore I pick up—she won’t quit until I do.
She’s speaking before I can.
“Thanks for calling to let me know you got there, asshole,” she drawls.
I sigh, knowing it’s no use avoiding the obvious.
“You know, you’re starting to sound like my mother.” I put her on speaker and set the phone down as I lean my head, trying to see how my hair falls.
It’s flat. Fuck.
I spray another puff of mousse in my palm as she chastises me.
