Page 11 of Hopeless Romantic
If only men were as easily trained.
With a sigh, she grabbed the insulated bag from the back of her scooter and headed up the walkway.
“You’re late,” Thomas said, his flattened words and unorthodox rhythm both signs that he had autism spectrum disorder. “You said you’d be here in thirty minutes. It’s been thirty-seven. You’re seven minutes and—” His head bobbed in time with the changing numbers on his satellite watch. He waited until it reached a prime number. “Twenty-three seconds late.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Tiki Tiki Thai forgot to make your curry without peas, so I had to wait while they remade it.”
“I don’t like peas.” Gaze running the length of the wood porch, he resumed his pacing. “I’m glad they remade it. But next time, tell them you have to be home in thirty minutes.”
“They did their best, Thomas.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Their best is eighteen minutes and twelve seconds. They advertise hot and home in thirty minutes or less. Thirty-seven minutes and”—he consulted his watch again—“fifty-nine seconds is not less. It’s more.”
Beckett wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he didn’t do well with intimate touch. A firm handshake, a clap on the back, he could tolerate. But any soft touch might result in an outburst. So Beckett had come up with their own “hug” of sorts, which allowed her to feel as if she were offering comfort and allowed Thomas to participate in the act of greeting or connecting with others.
Beckett flexed her right foot and stuck it out, knee bent, sole facing down, and waited. Eyes still on his watch, a sweet smile curving his lips, Thomas mimicked her stance. She tapped the side of her foot with his, he repeated the motion, they tapped together, and after locking their heels together, they hopped together clockwise while Diesel went up on his hind legs.
Tongue dangling, ears perked, Diesel did his best circus-bear-on-a-box act, snorting as he struggled to get oxygen past his smushed nose. He didn’t bark or lick or exhibit any of the typical dog behaviors that would set Thomas off. Diesel had been selected and trained specifically for Thomas. He wasn’t only an emotional companion or furry wall between Thomas and the touch-happy public at large. Diesel had worked hard to become her brother’s best friend.
Moments like this made the thousands of hours of training, extra shifts to cover specialized trainers, and heartbroken tears when the first two dogs weren’t a fit, all worth it. Before Diesel, Thomas lived on an island of one, too sensory-sensitive to make it through a full day of school or interact with other special needs kids. Diesel had opened up a whole other world for Thomas and given him the support to walk into it.
Swallowing back emotion, Beckett said, “Mrs. Darian already felt bad and sent you an extra helping of mango sticky rice.”
“Ooh,” Thomas said, his voice going higher with excitement, his hands clapping together. “I like mango sticky rice.”
“I know you do.” Beckett bent down to kiss Diesel on the head, then handed Thomas the backpack, which the dog eyed warily.
Thomas wasted zero time, unzipping the pack enough so he could stick a finger in to scratch Gregory’s wattle. A soft cooing came from inside the backpack, and within seconds, Gregory’s head and back emerged, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Her brother might lack certain people skills, but when it came to animals, he was gifted.
“Why don’t you put Gregory in his cage until after dinner,” Beckett said, thankful that her feathered friend was going to meet his companion next week. A chicken was the perfect match for this particular client and situation, but in the future, Beckett would stick with four-legged creatures who didn’t molt and welcome the sun with such vigor.
“Okay,” Thomas said and headed for the house.
Beckett tugged the back of his jacket. “Cleats off in the house.”
“I know,” he said, dropping them in the mudroom and disappearing inside.
“Dad? I’m home,” she called out, even though she’d seen his shadow bolt across the family room and into the kitchen when she’d pulled up. Fifty bucks, she’d find him with hands on hips, forehead furrowed in contemplation as he stared into the fridge to appear as though he were about to prep a nutritious family dinner.
Like Thomas, Jeffery was on the spectrum, only he would be classified as high-functioning. In fact, his symptoms often went unnoticed by others, or they assumed he had OCD or was just a bit quirky.
Get him talking or working on his music, and the world around him disappeared—including his family. Beckett’s mom used to joke that his studio could be ground zero for a zombie uprising, and he wouldn’t even notice. His ability to hyperfocus had made him a renowned musician, holding multiple awards for his movie and television scores. It also made him a scatterbrained father and neglectful husband.
Which was why Beckett’s mom had relocated to Florida alone—leaving Beckett to pick up the pieces. Which she had. Most days, it didn’t bother her. But on nights like this, when the week had been particularly challenging, she needed time outside the house. Time with a nice, normal guy to pretend she was a nice, normal girl. She wasn’t avoiding reality, just trying to carve out a little space of her own.
With a sigh, she wrung out her hair, left her jacket and boots in the mudroom, then made her way to the kitchen.
“I brought dinner,” she said, hiding a smile when Jeffery’s head popped up from behind the fridge door. His vintage, gold circular glasses were finger-smudged, his curly salt-and-pepper hair spiraled every which way, and his denim button-down and velvet sports coat made him look every bit the crazy studio musician.
“You didn’t have to do that, kitten,” Jeffery said, kissing her cheek. “But I love it when you do. Did you happen to swing by and pick up my beta blockers?”
“Right here.” She lifted the bags and motioned to the white bag peeking out of her jacket pocket. “The pharmacist said she’s called five times for you to come pick them up.”
“I got busy.” He grabbed the bag, tore it open, and popped two orange pills in his mouth. Swallowed them dry. “Then I forgot. You know how my mind works.”
Oh, she knew better than most neuropsychologists how his mind worked. She’d spent almost a decade looking after her dad and brother, often feeling more like an in-home medical assistant than a family member. But there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for her family.
“If you’d let me handle your prescriptions, you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”
