Page 23 of Late Bloomer
Unfortunately, soft-launching this new me on a person like Pepper—i.e., intimidatingly hot with sharp and regal features, a tall frame, and gingerbread eyes that hint at a hidden hurt—is turning out to be rather challenging. How am I supposed to be assertive when what I’d rather do is kindly ask this beautiful woman to choke me with those endlessly long legs?
“Well, it won’t be in here,” Pepper says, closing the door with a definitive thud, then shoving her hands in her overall pockets.
My heart sinks even deeper, making itself comfortable on the floorboards, but I make a show of looking around dramatically. “Guess the living room will have to do?”
Pepper lets out a noise that can only be described as a growl. “I hate change,” she murmurs, dragging a hand down her face.
She does look genuinely distressed, and any resolve I have whooshes out of me. There’s literally nothing I hate more than causing other people to hurt.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say with a wave, hoping the big mess of feelings in my chest won’t knot up my voice.
Pepper looks at me, eyes trailing up and down. I know thelook isn’t supposed to be an appraising one, but dammit if I don’t flush hot all over just the same.
“Come with me,” Pepper says, voice sure and determined as she turns and marches down the hall.
Something about Pepper’s stern voice and the soft sway of her hips as she moves so assuredly makes the thought that I’d pretty much do anything and everything she asks flash through my head. An unnecessary confirmation that I am, in short, an absolute sucker for beautiful people with even a hint of authority.
I trail behind her, trying my best to corral my runaway thoughts into horny jail.
At the front door, Pepper slides on her clogs, hardly breaking her stride while I fumble around like Bambi on ice trying to get my tennis shoes on. With an awkward little walk-jog, I catch up to Pepper, who’s already made it halfway down a row of tall, brilliantly pink flowers. The entire farm seems like a perfect little Eden, endless beds of blooms draped across the land like a quilt. Some stand tall and proud, their petaled faces lifted to the sun, others are short, spreading wide as they hug the earth.
“Did you plant all these yourself?” I ask, dragging my fingertips lightly along the emerald leaves as we walk.
Pepper glances at me, the look somehow both earnest and distrusting. “No.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say more, but shakes her head instead, shoving her hands in her pockets and ducking against the sharp rays of midday sun.
Cool. Too fun. I really, really,reallylove this whole painfully awkward small-talk thing.
“I don’t do small talk. I’m autistic. My psychology basically rejects the entire concept of it.”
It takes me a moment to process what Pepper said and that, apparently, I spoke my last thought out loud.
“Shit. I… uh. I’m sorry,” I bumble out.
Pepper stops in her tracks, pinning me with a look that could kill—eyes narrowed and lips pursed. “Don’t be. Not like it’s terminal.”
I slow-blink a few times, trying to figure out how things are derailing so disastrously fast. I replay the conversation a few times.
“Fuck. No. I didn’t mean I’m sorry you’re autistic.” My tongue trips over my teeth as I speak. “I meant I’m sorry what I said was rude. Shit. I didn’t mean it like thatat all. I—” I gesture around wildly, trying to figure out what to say.
Pepper arches one perfect, dark slash of an eyebrow as I start to choke on air.
“I really didn’t mean it like that,” I eventually squeak out.
Pepper’s face softens a bit. “I believe you. I can be…” She tilts her head up to the sky like the words she’s searching for are written in the clouds. “Defensive about it. People often have a really ridiculously apologetic response when I mention I’m autistic like it’s something I should feel bad about or whatever.”
“I don’t think that at all,” I whisper, taking a tiny step toward her.
Pepper looks at me for a moment, eyes trailing over my face. Something about her look feels close. Intimate. Like a delicate thread is weaving its way between us. Then with a flippant shrug, she turns and starts walking again.
“I’m pretty sure I’m neurodivergent,” I blurt out, almost yelling the words as I trail behind her again.
She glances at me, then focuses back on the grass.
“It wasn’t until I was in art school that a doctor even suggested it,” I continue, words tumbling out of me, ones I’ve wanted to share with someone for so long, they’ve grown to be a heavy knot in my chest. “The big thing was impulse control. Because, apparently, I have none.” I let out a sharp, self-deprecating snort that earns me a second glance from Pepper.
I’m starting to feel a bit better about those glances, like they aren’t pleading looks telling me to shut up, but an unspoken invitation to say more.
