Page 36 of Book Boyfriends
“I’m autistic. Stimming is part of it. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time. It’s a tic I can’t control. I also click my tongue. Did I do that?”
“The phone, yes. The tongue clicking, no.”
He nods.
“Do you also get fixated on topics?” I ask, cataloging some of the things I know about autism.
While my experience with neurodivergence may be limited, I know that autism isn’t cookie-cutter for any person on the spectrum. I can’t help to think of Edward, the physical therapy intern from two years ago. Doc called him Indy because of his fixation with Indiana Jones.
On the last day of his internship, we did a marathon of the original three Indiana Jones movies, complete with commentary between each film by Edward. His enthusiasm reminds me so much of Davis’s during our date. Only Davis’s enthusiasm was less about me and more about…
“Pickleball,” he says, humor dancing in his features. “Did I fixate on it?”
“Just a bit.” I offer a sassy smile. “You even suggested playing a game for our second date.”
“Smooth.” His head tips back as laughter rumbles in his chest.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I nibble on the corner of my mouth.
He shrugs. “Probably the same reason you don’t tell first dates you have celiacs.”
I point at him. “How do you know about…” I release an annoyed breath. “Jackson.”
“He wanted to make sure I knew, so I didn’t accidentally put you at risk. He mentioned something about a date a few years ago at a pizza parlor that ended with you having a bad reaction.”
Overprotective men.My heart both swells at my brother’s sweetness and pricks with annoyance. What happened at the pizza parlor could happen to anyone. No matter how hypervigilant I am, things can still happen. Eating outside of my home is always risky. But it’s a calculated risk that I choose to take.
“We probably both want to wait for those conversations until date two,” he says, a wry grin kicking across his face.
“Yeah. These conversations are best for the pickleball court,” I tease.
“Yeah.” Smirking, he steps closer, the heat of his body laps against me. “I promise that Ididwant to be there. I am sorry that I made you think otherwise.”
His warm gaze is fixed on me, reminiscent of hands caressing my skin. An earnest plea fills his expression, loosening my resolve to be angry. I now know that he didn’t ignore me. At least not deliberately. What I understand about stimming is that it helps self-regulate emotions and is often done unconsciously. Like when one is nervous on a first date.
But that doesn’t explain why he insulted my writing.Bristling, I purse my lips. “You insulted me.”
His mouth ticks down. “Georgia, I?—”
“Honey, I told you that you didn’t need to come.”
Both our gazes snap to Estelle, who moves down the corridor toward us.
“Like I’d listen to that.” He greets her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. “How are you, Nan? How’s Pop?”
Nan? Pop?I blink.
Estelle pulls back, her head tipped up and a big grin on her face. “You’re such a good boy, Kenny.”
Kenny?Mouth slack, my heart beats like stampeding horses. None of this makes sense. His name is Davis, not Kenny.
“I’m doing better now. The doctor just came out to let me know he got through surgery fine and is in recovery.”
Despite the Davis/Kenny confusion, I let out a relieved breath at that. Doc’s okay. Well, at least on his way to okay. There are still months of recovery ahead of him, but he’s out of surgery.
“When can I see him?” Davis asks.
Should I call him Kenny, like Estelle and Doc do? I’m not sure what to call him. For a weekend that has involved three fictional men poofing into existence, this may be the more jarring fact. Somehow, Davis is Kenny, and Kenny is Davis.
