He grimaces. “What the fff—heck?”
I shake my head at him, smiling despite the tightness in my chest. “You can swear around me, you know. I’m a grown-up.”
“You never do,” he says.
“I would if I was better at it, but the words sound wrong when I say them. Also, why are they so bad anyway? One is just . . . feces, which every healthy person makes. The other is sex, and most people really like sex, so . . .”
“Says the person who can’t tell me what she likes in bed,” he whispers in my ear, sending a shiver down my neck.
“Okay, you have a point.” I squirm internally as my face heats to a thousand degrees.
He gives me a good-natured yet knowing kind of look before switching back to the original topic. “What did you say to your sister after she said that? Did you get mad?”
“No, mad is never okay. It’s disrespectful, you know? I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t really listen. I don’t know what to do now. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I am just looking for excuses.”
“Fuck that,” he says abruptly. “You’re not like that.”
“Is autism right for me, though? She said I’m hurting real autistic people when I claim it for myself.”
“What?” he says in disgust. “You’re not hurting anyone. If a diagnosis can help improve your life, it’s the right one for you, and only you can know that. What do you think? Does it help you or not?”
“I think . . . it helps.”
“Then your therapist is right,” he says simply, like it’s all settled.
“But what do I do when my family doesn’t believe me?” I ask.
His
mouth twists like there’s a bad taste on his tongue. “Ignore what they say, and live your life the way you need to.”
I release a heavy sigh. “That’s not easy to do.”
“I know,” he says, and there’s a weariness in his expression that implies he really does understand. “I believe you, though. That’s something, right?”
“Yes,” I whisper. That is something. Right now, it feels like everything.
SEVENTEEN
Quan
It’s kind of corny, but the Palace of Fine Arts is one of my favorite places in the city. I love the columns and the lights and the water. It’s romantic. Lots of people do their weddings here, and yeah, I like weddings. Sometimes I get teary when people say their vows—if they’re good vows or they’re said with feeling. It gets me every time when old dads cry, maybe because I wish my dad cared about me that way.
“This place doesn’t look real,” Anna says as she looks around with wonder, reverently touching her fingertips to the reddish stone on one of the columns while we walk through the gardens.
“It gets better this way,” I say, and lead her down the colonnade to the rotunda.
Inside, she tilts her head back and gazes at the intricate geometric patterns on the ceiling. Light reflects off the surface of the water outside, and waves ripple over the hexagonal shapes overhead. It’s a work of architectural genius, but what captivates me is Anna’s profile, the way her lips are parted ever so slightly, how much I like seeing her in my jacket.
“I’ve always wanted to kiss a girl in the middle of this room,” I confess, feeling determined and a little bit queasy at what I’m planning to do.
She grins at me, and light dances in her eyes. “I bet you’ve taken lots of girls here.”
“I have.” I stride to the exact center of the echoing space.
“Do you kiss them all right there?” she asks, hanging close to the walls, away from me.
“Nah,” I say.