Page 62 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

She tips her head, confusion written on her face. “Why?”

“Never gotten past one. Been friend-zoned every time. Always the same thing—It doesn’t feel romantic. I think we should just be friends. Some variation on that.”

Her eyes narrow. “What kind of nincompoops were you going on dates with?”

An empty laugh leaves me.

“I’m serious,” she says fiercely. “I want names. I want to key their cars.”

I snort a laugh. “No keying cars. Their names don’t matter, anyway. What matters is that I let them get in my head.”

“Will.” She searches my eyes. “Is that why…you feel the way you do? About romance?”

I hold her eyes as I swallow my pride and tell her the truth. “I just couldn’t keep doing something that kept ending in people telling me I was failing at it. So I just…stopped trying, stopped hoping for it.”

Her hand finds mine and squeezes. But she stays quiet, listening.

I hesitate for a beat, then say, “When I was thirteen, I was diagnosed as neurodivergent—autism, specifically. I’ve got sensory issues,like with sound, as you know, but other things, too. Sometimes, when I’m trying to express myself, I get this traffic jam between my brain and my mouth. I struggle to read people, to parse subtext. I get exhausted socially quickly and when I’m around people I don’t know, my social anxiety is sky-high. I can’t relax, can’t just roll with it, because I’m too busy trying to keep up with a language that it feels like I only half understand.” I swallow, wetting my throat. “I’m not…wired like most people.”

Her thumb swirls gently across my palm.I’m listening, her touch says.Go on.

“I know that doesn’t disqualify me from loving and being loved romantically,” I tell her. “But I also know that I’ve never encountered someone who made me feel like it didn’t. And…I don’t want to see myself that way. I don’t want the person who I share my life with to see me that way, either. So that’s why I figured, maybe if I just asked for less from the person I’m going to marry one day, if she expected less in return, I’d protect myself from that.”

“I understand that,” Juliet says, her voice quiet, “wanting to protect yourself.”

I nod. “But…since you and I started this, Juliet, I’ve been thinking, maybe I don’t need to protect myself…so much as find someone who makes me feel safe enough to try again.”

Juliet squeezes my hand hard, her eyes shining. “Exactly.”

“I mean, I got over that fear of opening up, putting myself out there socially, after being diagnosed. It took a while, but eventually, I realized, yes, I’m weird, but I generally like my weirdness…that’s what makes meme. Because it’s not all hard parts, having a brain like mine. It makes me incredibly capable at diving deep into the things I love and learning every corner of them. My mind’s freedom from preconceivedshoulds andcan’ts leads me to thinkoutside the box with the business back home, to see solutions in spaces, possibilities in people, that most might not because they don’t fit the ‘typical’ mold; to identify and leverage those skills and strengths. My system is highly sensitive, but that also means it’s highly observant, that I notice details, pick up on things, that most people overlook, and that makes me damn good at my work, makes my life feel rich and vibrant. In lots of ways, my brain is incredible. And in the same way I overcame my fear of being misunderstood and put myself out there, found people I felt safe to be my whole weird self with, maybe I can find someone safe in romantic love, too.”

A smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “Damn right. The woman worthy of you, Will, she’s going to love the hell out of your ‘weird’ and feel loved right in the heart of it.”

“I know,” I tell her quietly. “You’ve been helping me figure that out.”

She smiles, bright and dazzling. “Good.” Her hand squeezes mine. “Thanks for telling me about this, for opening up. I know it’s not easy.”

“You do?”

Juliet nods. “Bea, she’s neurodivergent, too. So is Kate. I’ve seen how it goes for them, that it’s scary to share that truth when people aren’t always kind toward it, to brace for someone to see that part of you as something to put up with, as anin spite ofpart of you to tolerate instead of simply another part of you to know and love.”

Love.The word echoes in the air between us. I swallow roughly, my hand that’s not held in hers grazing along her shoulder. “Thank you, Juliet.”

She squeezes my hand again. “It’s something I’ve been struggling with, actually. Putting myself out there that way.” She hesitates for a second, like she’s searching for words, then says, “Last year, right after I met you in Scotland, actually, when I got home…I got sick. Well, I’d been sick, but I’d managed to ignore it up to that point. I don’t know if it was the level of stress I was under or some switch in my system that finally tripped, but it became debilitating. I had bloodwork, exams, X-rays. I started working with a great rheumatologist, got a diagnosis of celiac disease and mixed connective tissue disease, a new diet to follow, meds to help, but there’s no cure, for any of it. It’s just…there. It’s always going to be there. And I have so little control over when it gets worse or when my symptoms get quieter. Whenever I get back to dating, I’m scared I’m going to tell someone about that and they won’t want to sign up for that uncertainty.” She sighs heavily, forcing a smile. “And while I know, if they don’t want all of me, they’re not worthy of me, it won’t make possibly getting that reaction any easier, not at first, at least.”

I stare down at her, my heart aching. I want to reach inside her and wipe out every single thing that hurts her. I hate that pain is a part of her life and there’s so little she feels she can do to control that from day to day.

But I do understand it, as a bystander at least, as someone who loves someone who deals with something similar.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, my hand squeezing her shoulder gently, and tell her, “My mom, she’s got rheumatoid arthritis. I see what it takes out of her, the battles she fights on the hard days. I know that it’s probably not the same, that it’s unique from person to person. But just know, Juliet, I think you’re a fucking badass. I catch you muscling through it, dragging yourself forward because you want to even though your body doesn’t. I wish I could take it from Ma, from you. But I know I can’t. And while I wish you never had to hurt, I’ll never wish you different than exactly as you are.”

Her eyes shine, wet with tears threatening to spill over. Isqueeze her shoulder again, pulling her close. “I’m in your corner just as much as you’re in mine, okay? On the hard days, I’ll be the arm to hold on to, the pair of hands to do what you can’t, the feet that carry you when yours won’t take another step. And on the gentle days, the feel-good days, I’ll be there, too, grateful that I get to be your friend and see you shine.” I hold her eyes, needing her to hear this, to feel this, right down to her bones. “The man, woman, person, whoever they are that earns your heart…they damn well better do that, too, Juliet. Or I will domuchworse than key their car.”

Juliet sniffles, bringing a hand to her nose and wiping it. “Dammit, Will.”

“Don’t cuss me out, woman. I’m being sincere right now.”

“I am, too,” she says brokenly, fishing around in her flowy pants pocket, pulling out a tissue. She blows her nose hard, and it’sloud, an adorably goose-like honk. When she pockets her tissue, she peers up at me. “Thank you.”

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