Page 51 of Spencer's Satisfaction
“Hey now,” I pull the bottle away and he whines in complaint, much to my secret amusement, “that’ll upset your tummy. Use your binky, baby.”
His pacifier is attached to the collar of his onesie via a saver chain, and he grabs for it blindly, sighing once he’s popped it past his perfect plump lips. “Next book, Daddy,” he demands sleepily around the silicone in his mouth.
I grin, reply, “Yes, sir,” and settle in for round two.
He’s asleep before we make it past the third page, and I’m struck by the thought that I want thisall the time. I want it so badly I can almost taste it.
Well. Damn.
That happened a lot sooner than I thought it would.
I guess we’ll be talking about living arrangements sooner rather than later, if my heart has anything to say about it. I just hope that he’s on the same page.
I know it’s fast, but I love Tony more than I can properly express, and I want to experience moments like this one every day for the rest of our lives.
Chapter Eighteen – Tony
Life seems to feel easier after I tell Spencer that I know I’m not neurotypical. It was a fear I’d kept bottled up inside me for so long -for what feels like my whole adult life- and, once I told him, I felt lighter. Even though I don’t have an official label for my differences, admitting that I think I might be neurodivergent has been liberating. Almost like coming out of the closet had felt. Like being little feels.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t know it for certain, and I don’t think I need a diagnosis at this point in my life, but just saying the words out loud helped. Admitting that I’ve Googled symptoms and signs and have silently ticked a lot of the boxes to myself was a relief. Like there’s a reason I’m the way I am, other than just being weird, and that I’m not the only person like this out there.
Beyond that, though, I meant what I told Spencer: he genuinely doesn’t treat me any differently even though he knows that I react strangely to certain situations or need extra time to wrap my head around things. Even Tanya gets frustrated with me or expects me to be able to handle change or social situations more easily than I do, but he never seems to.
And he doesn’t push me to try to fit in, either. None of his friends do. Not in the group chat, nor in the play dates we have over the weeks that follow that first get-together at Uncle Ted’s.
(Yeah, I’m calling him ‘Uncle Ted’ now. He insisted, and the expression on Spencer’s -onDaddy’s- face made it almost impossible to resist. Plus, that’s what Ash calls him, so it caught on pretty quickly.)
I guess I’m feeling much more comfortable with being myself. As an adult out in the world, as someone’s boyfriend, and as someone’s Boy, too. That’s not to say it’s all been perfect, though. There are still some things that suck. The biggest of which is my job.
I hate it.
I know I need to work, but the feeling of dread which curdles in my gut before every shift is getting harder and harder to ignore.
I know Daddy can tell. He’s been asking me about my options. What would I like to do for work if I had a choice? If I didn’t have to worry about making rent every week -if I closed my eyes and just imagined myself doing something I was actually interested in- what would it be?
I brush his gentle questions off, but I know the answer. I’ve always known.
I want to write.
Even before I graduated high school, I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to go to college and take creative writing classes. I wanted to learn and better my hobby (one I haven’t indulged in in years now) in the hopes that maybe one day I could turn it into a career.
It would be perfect for me, really. I could work from home and on my own schedule. I wouldn’t have to interact face-to-face with people. I could immerse myself in my fantasies and put them to paper. Escapism and earnings all in one!
But all that went to hell when Nonna told me I’d have to make it on my own. I stopped writing, the words drying up inside me. Even though my hobby was my best method of escapism, I couldn’t make my brain cooperate anymore. Nobody would want to read anything I’d created anyway. I was worthless and weird even to my own family. Why would strangers be interested?
So I stuck with reading and with listening to other people’s stories for my escape from reality, and that was good enough for me.
But now the itch is building beneath my skin again. The urge to pick up a pen and pretty notebook and scribble away crafting worlds and characters and storylines calls to me again.
It’s scary to even admit it to myself, let alone out loud to another person. Even to Daddy.
I know he’d be supportive. I know he’d probably even be excited. He loves books and the creative arts, after all.
But I’m too afraid that I’ll try to write and that I’ll fail. That the words won’t come. That I’ll wind up with half-finished narratives and one-dimensional characters. That people won’t like it.
ThatDaddywon’t like it.
I think I could ignore bad reviews from strangers. I wouldn’t have to read them at all if I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t ignore Daddy’s feedback. And if he didn’t like my writing, it would probably break me.
