Page 63 of There's Pumpkin About You
“I wish I was.” My chest tightens as I picture the day my dick dad told me that he and Melina were running off to get married. “They dated for all of two days before my dad told me that they were running off to Vegas to get married. Erica and I obviously couldn’t continue with what we were doing and to be honest, I was okay with that. I don’t think I would have made a good partner at the time anyway. Especially not when my dad merely sent out a mass text to let us know that he wouldn’t be returning, and would instead be moving to California. Apparently, his new wife decided that she wasn’t actually a fan of small towns and my father was all too happy to drop everything and leave his family behind at a moment’s notice.”
Wren looks devastated. Her hand comes up to my arm, but she’s careful to not put too much pressure on it. “I can’t imagine what that felt like.”
I avoid her sympathetic gaze. “My father and I never got along anyway, so it never bothered me in the way that it probably should have. I wasn’t mad that he left me, I was mad that he left everyone else. My whole family, the memories that my mother left behind, all of it. He just dropped it like it never held any meaning to him. That’s what had me wanting to fly to California and kick his ass until he was begging me to stop. Bash retreated into himself and Sam became more bitter and resentful than usual, and I joined him. The whole town realized that I was the only one available to take over the farm since Bash wasn’t living here at the time and Sam already had a job, and they all instantly decided that I would forever be an inconvenience to their way of life. At least when my father was here, there was someone to ‘keep me on track’.”
“Keep you on track?”
“The Autism,” I say simply. “It doesn’t suit their way of life. I need things done in a certain way, and now that my father isn’t around, there’s no one here to make sure it’s done their way instead of mine. Everyone assumes that I laid everyone off because I wanted to do it all myself as if I have some kind of hero complex. Not that I’ve necessarily bothered to tell them that it’s for financial reasons. This whole town hears the word ‘disorder’ and assumes it means the same as ‘stupid’ or ‘useless’.”
“And what does the word mean to you?”
I think on it for a minute. No one has ever asked me this question before. I’m not entirely sure how to go about it.
After a minute, I go with, “To me, ‘disorder’ is the same as ‘different’. Even if I see myself as a bit of a freak sometimes, it doesn’t mean I’m an idiot or that I’m less than everyone else. No one with Autism is.”
Soft fingers lightly trace their way down my arm, leaving a tingling sensation wherever they pass. When they meet my hand, they intertwine with my own until Wren’s hand is safely encased in mine.
“I want to know what it’s like for you,” she declares, her expression set by determination. “Autism is different for everyone, isn’t it? I want to know what specific traits you have, what difficulties you experience, what needs you have.”
“Why are you so desperate to know?” No one except Bash and Sam have ever really taken an interest like this before. It’s hard to imagine someone wanting to take the time to better understand how I differ from them.
“Because I want to understand you. I want to see the world through your eyes.”
I’m not sure how to take that. It has been a long time since anyone made the effort to try and envision the way I see the world, to see why I’m so misunderstood, by understanding the misconception.
“What do you want to know? Vague questions throw me off at times, so be specific.”
She thinks on it for a minute and I spend that time watching her bottom lip curl in until it’s trapped between her teeth. She shuffles closer and the smell of vanilla wafts over to me. I lose all sense and take a deep breath in.
“Do you ever feel like you get overlooked because your Autism isn’t like what people stereotypically think it is?”
I chuckle. “Moving past the easy questions already, huh? No ‘Gus, is it true that Autistics hate bright lights and loud sounds?’ or ‘Is it true you have to do everything by a certain time?’”
She hides behind her hand whilst she giggles and I smile down at the happiness that I caused. “Sorry, I did start off a bit hot and heavy. I just thought that the basic questions are ones that you would have been asked all the time.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I’ve never particularly been this town’s favorite. They don’t care enough to ask any questions.”
She pushes herself up until she’s leaning on her elbow. Brown curls flow around her as her eyes glint with uncontrollable curiosity and now I’m thinking that she’s gorgeous for an entirely different reason. She’s become the most beautiful person I know for the fact that she genuinely cares about others. She’s learning about me with a genuine interest that I’ve only ever seen on my mother’s and brothers’ faces.
When my mom realized that I hated something, or that something made me uncomfortable or overstimulated, she would sit me down and ask me to explain it to her, never saying a word until I was finished, even if my explanation took hours. There was never a need to change who I was, never a need to act like I was less than. Before she passed, I never knew that the word “disorder” had such a negative connotation attached to it. She used to use the word with such integrity and respect that until I found myself with only the father who saw his son as a freak, I didn’t know that the word meant something completely different to closed-minded people.
I haven’t answered her question.
“I do.” When I see her confused expression, I elaborate. “Feel overlooked. I think because I’m able to be independent and hold a conversation that people think it was a misdiagnosis. They forget that it’s a spectrum that can range from self-sufficient to fully dependent on another.”
“Are you dependent on anyone else for anything?”
“No,” I answer. “My mother used to help me with a lot of stuff. Holding my hand when I had to go somewhere that would overstimulate me and stuff like that, but when she died, I made sure to do it all myself. For her.”
For my mom, I would have done anything. For the woman who had so much unconditional love to give to everyone around her, I would have done anything she asked of me.
Wren loves unconditionally.
As I look at her, as I watch the kindness and anxiety swimming around in her eyes, I know that no matter how many times I argue with this woman and no matter how much we want to act as if we hate each other, one thing I know for sure is that I will always love to hate her more than I actually detest Wren Southwick.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
WREN
