Page 98 of Wish You Were Her
Jonah was struggling to keep his composure. Allegra could elicit intense emotion in him just by looking in his direction. But seeing her in such a fragile state, with dark circles and barely-there breaths, was incredibly unsettling. He was used to her being vibrant and bright. Now he was scared, afraid that he was somehow part of the cycle which had led to her becoming this unwell.
For the briefest moment, Allegra had looked excited to see him. Now, she looked haunted. His words had clearly unmoored her.
“I’m sure that’s not it,” she said carefully.
“I’m not saying it to make anyone feel bad,” Jonah assured her. “But I’m not the sort of person your dad wants you with. Not that we’re, you know… with each other.”
“Well,” Allegra’s words had a staccato feel to them. “He’s probably not the best judge of relationships.”
“I thought the split was amicable.”
“It was. It wasn’t violent or nasty. He just… got complacent. At least, that’s what Mum says whenever I really push her about it. And she wanted more than a small town and he is terrified… of,” she coughed and heaved a breath. “Anything else, he’s terrified of anything else.”
Jonah wanted to tell her everything. That George had firedhim, yes, but mostly how he felt. He wanted that last little dam of fear to break. He didn’t understand how love could be the most desirable thing, while also being something that commanded such fear and hesitation. Perhaps because it was so desirable. As she was. The idea of losing the stability they had in favor of a great love was the ultimate reward, but to risk it meant possibly ending up with none of her. And that, he found to be unbearable.
Being without Allegra had creepingly, and casually, become nothing less than unbearable.
She frowned and tilted her head, regarding him. “Are you all right, Jonah?”
I wish you were her.It was what he had inadvertently said to the kind person on the other end of an email chain, the anonymous friend who made him feel worthwhile as Simon flirted with Allegra and made her smile politely. Now he had to acknowledge that it was true. He would wish every face was hers. If he protected this flame out of fear of it burning out, he would keep a little light in his life.
It might have to be enough.
So, strike up another match. Make another friend. Take her home, fool around without a paparazzi. Have a whole box of different matches, be good to every one of them.
It would never be her. It would always end the same. Burned out and in the dark.
“I’m fine,” he said, trying to suppress everything. “What do you need? I want you to feel better.”
She smiled, a little dazedly. “This soup is amazing.”
“I’ll get you more. I’ll get you a bathtub full.”
She laughed and the sound sealed it up for him. He had lived his whole life being told that the way he saw things, felt things, reacted to things, was wrong and irregular and frustrating.That he was spoiling everyone else’s great performance with his need to rehearse and analyze. He had treated Allegra with the same shortness and coldness that neurotypicals had always used on him and he hated that. He hated the distance he had forced between them.
Nothing about the overly neurotypical world had mattered much to him until she walked through the door of Brooks Books. Suddenly, the songs were for him. The love stories were for them. The poetry sparked memories rather than intellectual detachment. The curse of overstimulation that the world had always pressed on him suddenly promised pleasure beyond understanding. He knew what many didn’t, that a mind that so many had been taught to fear could connect to a heart with more love than the average brain could feel.
If autism meant being in one’s own world, why couldn’t someone else become that whole, entire world. They could live in each other.
She leaned forward, as if reading the many emotions in his face.
“I’m fine,” he reiterated. The last thing he wanted was to cause her any discomfort. She would want to be kind and make him feel better, if he broke the dam and told her what he had come to feel. “Don’t worry about me. Do you need some heartier food? Painkillers?”
She smiled at him, in a way she had never smiled at him before. “Will you lie next to me and just talk?”
“Yeah?” he said, almost balking. Lying next to her on a bed, even though he was fully dressed and on top of the covers, still sounded incredibly intimate. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Can you just talk? I like your voice. It’s deep and even and it relaxes me. When—when it’s not yelling about book returns.”
He smiled, despite the small jab. He slid onto the bedspread beside her and she nestled a little closer, shutting her eyes and trying to take a deep breath despite her lungs insisting on shallow ones.
He talked nonsense for her. She pulled him a little closer, her head on her pillow and her hand clutching his black fisherman’s knit. He lay on his back, she on her side. He spoke slowly and softly, deliberately trying to lull her into a state of complete rest. When he knew she was out, he kept talking. He didn’t want his silence to jolt her back into discomfort. He told stories of his first wooden sword at twelve. His favorite Greek mythology facts. The lyrics to “Downtown Train.”
He talked and talked until she was completely at peace.
When he finally left her to sleep, he went into the kitchen and started to make a note on his phone. Jasper was sitting in the window seat, drawing on a tablet with a stylus. She smiled at him as he entered the room.
“How’s our girl?”
