I put on a smile and nod, but I feel slightly panicked. Tomorrow is the last time I’ll see him. Ever. That’s been the biggest benefit to our interactions since this started, but it doesn’t feel that way now. Something’s changed.
Even so, it’s a reminder of why I’ve been seeing him in the first place. I can tell him things that I can’t tell other people. Because he doesn’t matter.
Except he does.
But I really won’t be seeing him after tomorrow. That’s what we both want. Well, I used to. I don’t know what I want anymore.
“You asked about yesterday.” I can’t bring myself to look him in the face, so I focus on his T-shirt as I say, “My therapist told me something.” My heart beats so hard I can feel it in my throat. This moment is loud, weighted.
He takes my hands in his and holds on. “What did she say?”
“She said I’m—” Something occurs to me, and I gaze up at him curiously. “Do you think I’m anything like your brother?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “I . . . don’t know? I haven’t thought about it before. Why?”
“We’re not similar at all?”
“You’re a lot prettier than he is,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes.
I shake my head, though I smile, too. “That’s not what I mean, but thank you.”
“Then what do you mean? I won’t be a dick, I promise.”
That’s when I realize that I trust him. Over the past weeks, he’s proven time and again that he respects me, that he won’t hurt me. I can tell him things. Not because he doesn’t matter. But because he is kind.
“She told me I’m on the autism spectrum,” I say. And there it is. The words are out. It feels real now.
“Is that it?” he asks, like he’s still waiting for me to share the big news.
A disbelieving laugh spills out of me. “That’s it.”
He tilts his head to the side and looks at me in a considering way.
When he doesn’t speak for the longest time, my insecurities catch up with me, and I say, “If this changes things and you don’t want to meet tomorrow, I completely understand and—”
“I want to meet tomorrow,” he says quickly. “I was trying to think of similarities between you and my brother.”
“And?”
“Honestly, you’re both really different, and I don’t even know what to look for. I’m not a therapist or anything. What do you think? Does it feel right to you?” he asks, and I can tell that’s what matters to him. He trusts me to know myself. I didn’t know how important that was to me until now.
I get to be the expert on me.
I touch the center of my chest and nod slowly as my eyes sting. “It fits. When my therapist described autism to me, when I read about it, I felt understood in a way I’ve never been before. I felt seen, the real me, and accepted. All my life, I’ve been told that I need to change and be . . . something else, something more, and I try. Sometimes I try so hard it feels like I’m breaking. Like my music right now, no matter what I do I can’t get it to be more. Being told that it’s okay to be me, it’s . . .” I shake my head as words fail me.
He touches his thumb to the corner of my eye, wiping a tear away. “Then why are you so sad?”
“I don’t know.” I laugh, but a knot is forming in my throat. I swipe at my eyes with my sleeves. “I can’t seem to stop crying.”
He gathers me closer and holds me tight, pressing his cheek to my forehead, his skin to my skin. His calmness spreads to me, the steady beating of his heart, the even rhythm of his breathing.
When his pocket buzzes, we’re both startled.
“It’s just my phone,” he says. “Ignore it.” But it keeps buzzing.
“You should answer. It might be important.”
With a sigh, he breaks away from me and lifts his phone to his ear. “Hey . . . No, sorry, I just got held up with something . . . I probably won’t make it today—”