by Helen Hoang
“Why do you keep talking about pity? I never said I pitied you,” he said with a frown.
“Then why didn’t you take my money?” Without waiting for his response, she retrieved the bear from the ground for the second time. She wanted to hug it close, but she made herself hand it to him. “This past week was nice, but I’ve had enough. I’m asking you to stop. Please.”
“Does that mean you no longer have feelings for me?”
A film of moisture glossed over her eyes, and she spun away from him blindly. “I’m going to go now.”
“Because I have feelings for you.”
She froze, felt his hand close around hers and pull until she faced him once again. He tipped her chin up, and her tears threatened to spill free. Had he really said that? With her heart drumming in her ears like this, she must have misheard.
He took a breath, released it, took another. “I didn’t take your money because I’m in love with you. I told myself you needed me, that helping you would prove I wasn’t like my dad, but those were just excuses to be with you. You don’t need me, and I don’t have to prove I’m not like my dad. I know I’m not. I ended things because I was certain you didn’t love me back. But when you said you were going to get over me, you gave me hope.”
Her skin flushed with heat—her hands, her neck, her face, the tips of her ears. He didn’t pity her. He loved her. Had she heard correctly? Was it true?
He swallowed once. “Could you say something, please? When a guy tells a girl he loves her, he doesn’t want silence in response. Was I too late? Are you over me?”
“Are you wearing the underwear I got you?”
Laughter cracked out of him. “Sometimes, the way your mind works is a complete mystery to me.”
“Are you?” She transferred the bear underneath her arm and tucked her fingers into the waistband of his pants above his leather belt.
Lips curving, he unfastened his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and drew the zipper down. “If we get arrested for lewd acts in public, they better let us share a cell.”
She pulled his shirttails out of the way, and even in the poor lighting of the parking lot, she could see the red plaid of his boxers. She lifted her eyes to his as effervescent warmth pervaded her body, filling her heart and spreading to every extremity. He did love her. And her theory was confirmed. Michael’s β had changed from one to zero. For her. “You’re wearing them.”
“I don’t like to go commando. Chafing.”
Trying to suppress a goofy grin, she straightened his pants and belt. “Women buy underwear for the men they love. It’s economics. Data supports this claim.”
“Are you telling me you love me, Stella?”
She hugged Karate Bear tight and nodded, suddenly overcome by shyness.
“You’re not going to give me the words?” he asked.
“I’ve never said them to anyone but my parents.”
“You think I run around telling women I love them?” He pulled her close and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m going to get the words out of you. Tonight.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to . . .” The heat in his eyes stalled her words.
“Let’s go home.”
“Okay.”
Instead of leading her down the street toward her house, he brought her to a small silver Honda Civic and opened the passenger door for her. “I traded in my car,” he said with an awkward shrug.
She sat and buckled her seat belt, taking in the clean, nonleather interior of the car. Nothing about it reminded her of Aliza. “I like this better.”
“You would.” He smiled as he got behind the wheel. “I’m partnering with Quan to start a clothing line, and I needed startup funds. Since I quit escorting, there was no reason to keep that car.”
He was finally doing it—quitting escorting, taking chances, and making a name for himself. In that moment, he was so perfect to her she wanted to launch herself across the gearshift and kiss him until he was breathless.
“That’s great. I’m so happy for you, Michael.” But the thought of him selling his car because he needed money bothered her, especially when he’d returned her check. “Do you still have some of your mom’s medical bills to pay? Did the foundation’s medical assistance program fail to cover everything?”
He tilted his head as he frowned at her. “How do you know about my mom’s bills or the program?” After a moment’s hesitation, his eyes widened. “Was it you?”
She averted her eyes.
“It was you,” he said in a discovering voice. “How did you know about my mom’s lack of insurance?”
“That night at your apartment, I saw the bills, and I made the connection between the cost of her treatment and your escorting fees. I think . . . that’s when I fell all the way in love with you.”
A boyish grin spread over his lips. “I was going to get those words out of you in the most delicious way.” But then his smile vanished, replaced by a thoughtful line. “It must have cost a fortune. You started an entire medical program. Just how rich are you?”
She worried her bottom lip as she continued to hug the teddy bear. “I’m not that rich anymore. Well, I’m kind of rich. It depends on how you define it. You’re probably not going to like it. Are you sure you want to know?”
“Out with it, Stella.”
“I had a trust fund. There was about fifteen million dollars in it,” she said with a shrug. “I donated it to the Palo Alto Medical Foundation to start that medical program.”
“You gave away your entire trust fund? For me?”
“That’s kind of what you’re supposed to do with money like that, isn’t it? Give it away? I can support myself with my salary. It’s just money, Michael, and I couldn’t stand the idea that you were being forced into escorting. If you want to do it, that’s one thing. But if you don’t . . .” She shook her head. “I was determined to give you a choice. Besides, we’re helping lots of families now. It’s a good thing.”
“We?” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “That was all you. That money was not mine.” He pressed a series of kisses to her lips. “Thank you for giving me that choice so I could pick you. Thank you for being you. I love you.”
She couldn’t help smiling then. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of hearing him say that. “Now I can say my boyfriend is a designer with complete confidence. That is, if you are my boyfriend. Are you?”
Instead of answering right away, he started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. Eyes on the road and voice casual, he said, “I better be your boyfriend. Since I’m asking you to marry me in three months.”
Stella’s jaw dropped as shock washed over her in waves that alternated between hot and cold. “Why are you telling me this?”
A small smile played on his lips as he darted a quick glance her way before focusing on the road once again. “Because you don’t like surprises, and I figured you’d need time to get used to the idea.”
He was right about that, but before she could dwell on it too much, he dropped one of his hands from the wheel and caught hers, interlacing their fingers the way he always did.
Saying nothing, she let the moment wash over her, the uncertainty, the breathless hope, the anxiousness, and the shimmering contentment. The sight of their intertwined hands pleased her. So different, but still five fingers and five knuckles, the same general blueprint.
She tightened her grip, and he squeezed her back. Palm to palm, two lonely halves found comfort together.
EPILOGUE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
Stella strolled down a quiet sidewalk in San Francisco’s warehouse district, a discreet corner of town inhabited by several West Coast–based fashion businesses. After opening an unmarked door, she entered an industrial space consisti
ng of steel walls, cement floors, and exposed ceilings.
A photo shoot was in progress on the far side of the room, and Stella smiled as she took in the models showcasing Michael’s latest designs. It was barely autumn, but the models presented his winter line. Children ranging in age from preschool to tween posed in exquisitely tailored, miniature suits, vests with matching newsboy caps, sweater dresses, and fur-trimmed mantles.
Quan saw her first. “Hi, Stella.” He waved at her absently before continuing an animated discussion with the camerawoman.
Michael paused in the middle of tying the golden ribbon on a little girl’s white chiffon evening dress and glanced up at her, brightening. “You’re early.”
“I missed you.”
His smile widened, and he patted the little girl on the shoulder and directed her toward the set, where a coordinator was positioning the children and the props. As he walked to her, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks and swept an appreciative gaze over her navy-blue skirt suit and the scarf loosely wrapped around her neck. She knew he was admiring his clothing selection for her today, and her lips thinned as she suppressed a smile. The things that made him happy . . .
When he reached her side, he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth before trailing his hands down her arms and capturing her hands. He brought her knuckles to his lips and brushed a thumb over the fingers on her left hand, drawing her attention to the respectable trio of diamonds sparkling on her ring finger.
“I still can’t believe you went into debt to buy me this,” she said.
Even so, she had to admit she loved everything it represented. She’d never been into jewelry, but she caught herself gazing at her ring more often than she’d expected and, invariably, thinking of Michael. When people at the office caught her grinning for no apparent reason, they rolled their eyes and muttered under their breaths.
“I needed to announce how ‘taken’ you are. Also, as of this morning, I’m officially out of debt. Quan got us the venture backing. We’re opening three new stores by Christmas.”
She mentally ran the numbers, and excitement bubbled inside of her. “That’s really fast. You’re doing even better than the high-growth trajectory I developed for you.”
“We are. Your analytics are part of what convinced the venture capitalists, actually.”
“I think it was your designs and aggressive marketing strategy.”
“Okay, that may have had something to do with it.” He laughed, but the look in his eyes was soft. “Having you with me this whole time has meant everything to me, though. I hope you know that.”
“I do.” The past few months had been busy for the both of them, but together, they’d made it work. “It’s the same for me.”
His expression went serious. “You said you were having the meeting with the partners at your firm today. How did it go?”
“They offered me a promotion again. Principal econometrician. Five direct reports in addition to my trusty intern.”
“And?”
She took a breath before saying, “I accepted it.”
His lips fell open, and in the next moment, he crushed her in a fierce embrace. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Do you regret it?”
She burrowed closer to him and breathed in his scent. “No. I’m nervous about it, but mostly, I’m happy.”
“So proud of you.”
She smiled so big her cheeks ached. “The promotion comes with a large bonus. I’m warning you in advance I’m buying you a new car.”
When he pulled back, she worried he was upset. She couldn’t read the shuttered look on his face as he said, “I can buy myself a new car.”
She bit her lip to keep from frowning, but she understood if he had to earn his own way. She didn’t need to spoil him. She just wanted to.
“But I want the same model as yours,” he continued. “And I like black.”
She tilted her head to the side and drew in a slow breath. “Does that mean . . . ?”
“It means if you want to buy me a car, I want to drive it.” His lips curved with a suggestive grin, and his eyes danced. “If you want to buy me boxers, I want to wear them.”
Her chest filled with lightness, and she grabbed his hand so she wouldn’t accidentally float away. “It means you love me.”
He interlaced their fingers the way he always did and squeezed. “That’s right. It’s economics.”
THE END
Author’s Note
The first time I heard of “high functioning” autism, previously known as Asperger’s Syndrome, was in a private discussion with my daughter’s preschool teacher. I was completely shocked by the teacher’s suggestion. While my girl was a handful, she didn’t fit my preconceptions of “autistic” at all. In my eyes, she’s always been just as she should be—a sweet little thing with a firecracker personality. I came home and did some quick research on the Internet, and my findings didn’t seem in line with my girl’s traits. Just to be sure, I asked my family members and her physician for their opinions, and results were unanimous: She was not autistic. They had to be right, and I let it go.
At least, I thought I did. Real Life Me let it go, but Writer Me was fascinated. You see, a gender-swapped Pretty Woman had been niggling at the back of my mind for quite some time, but I hadn’t been able to figure out why a successful beautiful woman would hire an escort. One autistic trait from my quick Internet research stuck with me: trouble with social skills. That was certainly something I could empathize with—and a compelling reason to hire an escort. What if my heroine was autistic like my daughter wasn’t? I needed to learn about this character.
I started to research in earnest, and I discovered the most interesting thing: There are books specifically for women on the spectrum. How come women need their own books? We’re all people. I figured men and women should be the same. I purchased Aspergirls by Rudy Simone.
The strangest feeling settled over me when I started reading her words, and it only got stronger as I delved deeper into the book. Apparently, there’s a major difference in the way autism is perceived between men and women. What I’d previously read described autistic men, but many autistic women, for a variety of reasons, mask their awkwardness and hide their autistic traits to be more socially acceptable. Even our obsessions and interests are generally tailored to be socially acceptable, like horses and music instead of license plate numbers that start with three. Because of this, women often go undiagnosed or are diagnosed later in life, frequently after their own children receive diagnoses. Women with Asperger’s exist in what people call the “invisible part of the spectrum.”
As I read Rudy Simone’s book, I found myself looking back at my own childhood and remembering a million little things, like how someone at school told me my facial expression was scary, and I spent hours and hours afterwards practicing in the mirror. Or how sometimes I got through the day by mimicking my favorite cousin’s mannerisms and speech patterns because she was popular and that had to be the right way to be, only it was so exhausting. Or how I used to tap my fingers one-three-five-two-four over and over in that pattern when I was nervous or bored, but I realized it annoyed people, so I started doing it on my teeth so no one could see or hear, and now I have early onset periodontal disease, but I can’t stop to save my life. Or the George Winston obsession that led me to teach myself to play the piano when I was a tiny thing and is still going strong decades later. Or, or, or . . .
What started as mere research for a book became a journey of self-realization. I learned that I am not alone. There are other people just like me and very possibly my daughter, too. As I pursued and eventually attained a diagnosis (at age thirty-four), Stella, my autistic heroine, was born on the page. It has never been so easy for me to write a character. I knew her intimately. She came from my heart. I didn’t have to filter my thoughts to make her socially acceptable, something I’d been u
nconsciously doing for ages. And this freedom allowed me to find my voice. Before this, I’d been using every other author’s writing style, trying to be someone else. When I wrote The Kiss Quotient, I became myself, and I’ve been unapologetically myself ever since. Sometimes instead of confining you, a label can set you free. At least, that was the case for me. I’ve started therapy to help with struggles I hadn’t known were common to people like me.
That said, I feel the need to point out that everyone on the spectrum has their own valid experiences, impairments, strengths, and points of view. My experience (and, therefore, Stella’s) is just one among many and cannot be taken as “standard.” There is no standard.
For interested parties, I found the following resources on autism spectrum disorder and Asperger’s to be informational but not boring:
Aspergirls by Rudy Simone (geared toward women)
Everyday Aspergers by Samantha Craft (geared toward women)
Look Me in the Eye by John Elder Robison
The Reason I Jump by Naoki Higashida
YouTube videos featuring clinical psychologist Tony Attwood
Autistic Women’s Association (facebook.com/autisticwomensassociation)
All the best,
Helen Hoang
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Prior to reading this book, how would you have imagined an autistic woman? How does Stella compare to this vision?
Stella was surprised when she heard her coworker Philip James had been asked out by their new intern. When it comes to heterosexual relationships, do you think men should be the initiators? What does it say about a woman if she asks out a man?
Does it surprise you to see an autistic person exploring a sexual relationship? If so, why?