by Chloe Liese
I lift my fidget necklace. “I’m a fidgeter, always have been. My mom said she could have sworn I was going to get an ADHD diagnosis when she took me for my comprehensive eval. But here we are. I’m autistic. And I need sensory input to feel settled and calm. So, I sit on a big exercise ball—that way I can bounce and swivel and sway. I have a necklace that people don’t think twice about me playing with, and with it I can stim when I need to, without it drawing particular attention to me. I do yoga every morning and swim to burn energy, any activity that doesn’t hurt my joints.”
I flip the hem of my dress slacks. “French seams. No itchiness. Tag-less shirts.” I drum my fingers, wracking my brain. “What else… Oh, yeah. I usually wind down the day under a weighted blanket and my dog on top. But I’m sensory seeking, so maybe you wouldn’t like that. You seem sensory—”
“Avoidant,” she finishes, staring down at her ripped-up cuticles, and biting a nail. “Yes and no. It just needs to not catch me off guard, but I like hugs. From the right people. At the right time. I’m not a robot.”
“I didn’t say you were. But I understand feeling defensive about it. It’s a stereotype of autistics, that we’re these cold, emotionless shells, which isn’t true. We just feel differently. And often the case is that we actually feel so much, we have to compartmentalize it, funnel it into coping mechanisms that make it manageable.”
She sucks in a shaky breath. “You’re the first person who gets that.”
I try to sift through her meaning, which isn’t easy for me. I have a hunch she’s not just referring to fidget necklaces or how much talk therapy sucks when you’re tired of talking. I have a growing suspicion no one has really touched Ziggy since she had her breakdown and got diagnosed. I mean, I saw Ren hold her shoulder, gently touch her back, but has someone hugged her? Held her? Helped her contextualize these big, overwhelming, scary feelings and challenges, so she knows that they don’t have to consume her, that they don’t make her inhuman or broken, but that instead they prove her resilience, her capacity to heal and grow?
Loving touch reminds us of our humanity. Most everyone needs it, in some shape or form or timeframe. Sometimes, all we have to do is ask.
“When’s the last time someone hugged you, Ziggy?”
A tear slips down her cheek. Shit. I made Ren’s baby sister cry. He’s going to disown me and stop giving me great orgasms and never again make me Swedish food—
Chill, Francesca. Focus on Ziggy.
Another tear spills over, and she blinks away, staring at her hands in her lap.
“Ziggy,” I ask her quietly, “would it be okay if I hugged you right now?”
A small, eternal silence hangs in the room as tears spill faster and faster down her cheeks. I witness the weight of her grief, which I entirely recognize, and it clutches my chest in memory, twists my heart.
Ziggy wipes her nose with her sleeve, then nods, two slow dips of her chin.
Carefully, I set the popcorn aside and scoot closer to her on the couch, holding my arms open. I let Ziggy come to me. Because I know, from the way her brother opens his arms and lets me choose how and when I fall into them, what a world of difference it makes when someone doesn’t just tolerate you for where you are but embraces you for it.
Slowly, like a sapling cut and felled, she drops toward me, until her forehead lands on my shoulder, her cheeks wet with tears. The sobs start quietly. But they don’t stay that way. They build, a wave of buried emotion, finally surfacing. Pain. Confusion. Hopelessness. I feel them seeping out of her. I feel their echoes in my memory. Tears stain my cheeks as I carefully wrap an arm around her, rubbing her back in steady figure eights.
“You’re going to be okay, Ziggy. And while it might not be as soon as you’d like, you’re going to figure this out. You’re going to be happy again one day, I promise.”
Her sobs grow sharper, and suddenly she clutches her arms fiercely around me, a vise grip of bird bones and tenacity. “God, I hope so.”
“You will,” I whisper, laying my cheek to the top of her head. “I promise. And I don’t say that lightly. I promise, okay?”
I sway her in my arms, until her cries grow quiet. As I gently release her, she sits up, palming her eyes, and gives me a tentative, watery smile.
Handing her the box of tissues, I join her in blowing noses and wiping eyes. Our eyes puffy from tears, we both seem lighter, steadier, and between us feels like clarity to the air after an earth-shaking storm. I reach for my bag and pull out my laptop.
“What are you doing?” Ziggy asks quietly.
I smile as I flip up the screen and power it on. “You and I are getting on my favorite sites for sensory doodads and comfy clothes. My kind of shopping—straight from the couch. Sound good?”
Her face brightens. Carefully, she scoots across the couch until she’s nestled close. When Ziggy glances at me, her bright green eyes glitter with something I haven’t seen in them before. Something small and fragile, but unquestionably there.
Hope.
23
Frankie
Playlist: “Close To You,” Rihanna
“Love nugget?”
Ren’s voice reverberates through the house, echoing in his bathroom, where I’m soaking in a tub that was clearly made for a giant. A gentle, ginger giant who I’ve missed unreasonably much all evening.
His parents got back to their house first but said Ren was on his way to have a quick visit with Ziggy, so I bolted, picked up Pazza from my place, and drew myself a bubble bath.
“In here, stud muffin,” I call.
His laugh is low and quiet, but it still carries through the house. Long, solid strides grow louder, until the bathroom door creaks open and dress shoes clack on the room’s polished tiles.
“Stud muffin,” he says, a hand over his eyes. “I can get down with that.”
Shifting in the water, I make sure the essential bits are covered in bubbles. I’m suddenly, bizarrely self-conscious. Maybe it’s because I feel shaky, a little unsure. Maybe Ren will be glad about what I did with Ziggy and his parents.
And maybe not.
“My virtue is preserved,” I tell him. “You may uncover your eyes.”
Dropping his hand, Ren smiles at me, sending air rushing from my lungs.
I haven’t seen this smile before. It’s deeper. More complex. That’s the only way I can think to describe it. He drops gently onto the edge of the tub and plays with a strand of my hair that came loose from the messy bun piled on my head.
“Hi.” I glance up at him, fighting the nervous urge to hold my breath and vanish underwater.
He’s just so beautiful to me. And yes, in part, that’s because Ren is objectively handsome, but there’s much more to it. There’s the kindness in his eyes, the readiness of his smile, yet the feeling that some smiles of his are special, some are just for me.
His dress shirt’s a crisp white, which somehow works against his fair skin and the faintest whisper of freckles along his chest and neck. His wavy hair’s disheveled from a quick post-game shower, his beard quickly combed but in need of a real trim, which it won’t get, of course, until after playoffs.
I feel an odd tightening in my stomach, a need to throw myself into his arms, as he smiles over at me in his suit and loosened tie, with nothing between him and my nakedness but a tub of water and rapidly dissolving bubbles.
“Only two goals tonight, Mr. Bergman.” I tsk in mock disapproval. “I expected better.”
“Apologies,” he says drily. “Frankie.” Releasing my hair, Ren slips his hand behind my neck, massaging gently. “Thank you for what you did tonight.”
“Oh… Um. Sure.”
I blush in embarrassment. I want to dissolve. Let the lukewarm water take me.
I’ve never handled thanks well. It makes me feel put on the spot, topped off with a splash of imposter syndrome. Wouldn’t anyone do what I did when the opportunity presented itself? Being thanked for doing the decent thing feels weird.
&nbs
p; As if he’s read my mind, Ren shakes his head slowly. Leaning in, he kisses me with absolute tenderness, as his thumb slides maddeningly along my neck.
When he pulls away, his eyes are on my mouth. He leans in and steals one more kiss before straightening. “I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that you’re to come to Ziggy’s family birthday party, and if I don’t bring you, I’m not welcome.”
A genuine laugh jumps out of me. “She’s a good one, Ren.”
He nods, his face sobering. His hand moves down my neck to my shoulder, his fingers tracing droplets of water slipping down my skin. “Yeah, she is.”
“She’ll be okay. We talked about a lot tonight. I just don’t think your parents—no offense to them—or the counselor are coming at it the best way. They’re still approaching her therapy from her breaking point. But the root of Ziggy’s breakdown wasn’t depression or anxiety. Those were her symptoms. She got depressed and anxious because she was burned out. Now what needs to happen is being proactive, not reactive.”
Ren tips his head. “Go on.”
“Basically, she needs help learning her sensory thresholds, her needs for comfort, routine, social environments. She needs an eating schedule—I shit you not, I had one for a while in high school because I forgot so often—and she needs to be homeschooled if she wants, just to get a break from people until her battery is recharged.
“Oh, and we ordered her some clothes that will fit her, too.” I raise my eyebrows. “Honestly, she’s six feet tall, with this long, pretty body, and she was wearing boy clothes. I mean, I asked her what she wanted to wear—didn’t want to make any assumptions—and she said the reason she wore her brothers’ hand-me-downs was because they were the only comfortable clothing she could find, but she wants to dress differently. She just didn’t think she could feel comfy and look how she wanted. I reassured her that both were possible, as I am evidence.”
Ren laughs, and his eyes dance. “You always look beautiful, Frankie.”
“Thank you. So, we ordered some size small, extra-long leggings from this place that makes them so soft, with no itchy seams. A bunch of tag-less long- and short-sleeved, one hundred percent cotton tops. Soft hoodies, a fidget necklace like mine, and she also wanted to try some stim—mmph!”
His lips are on me again, but this time his hands are clasping my face, his tongue sweeping against mine, his mouth hungry.
“I cannot express how grateful I am to you,” he whispers against my lips. “And I want to hear a lot more tomorrow. But I don’t want to talk about my baby sister anymore, not tonight. You’re naked, in my tub, and if I don’t touch you now, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Heat rushes through me. My breasts tighten, and a fierce ache builds between my legs. “Then touch me.”
Ren keeps kissing me, but his hands are busy, furiously working the sleeves of his dress shirt open, then cuffed up his arms, before his hand dives in the water and finds my clit like a homing beacon.
“Jesus, Ren.” I lift a hand from the water to brace myself on the tub’s ledge as he kisses me, his mouth patient but urging.
Open. More. Harder.
I scrape his lip between my teeth, flick my tongue teasingly and earn his quiet growl. His fingers slide over me steadily, whispering touch that works me to a frenzied, desperate need. Drifting his mouth down my jaw, to the delicate space behind my ear, he swipes his tongue across my skin and blows cool air.
A shiver wracks me. “Ren,” I whisper.
“Hm?”
“I want—” I’m cut off, gasping as he curls one finger inside me and rubs my G-spot with the kind of dedicated accuracy that betrays his profession. Target. Aim. Score.
My first wave of release blindsides me, jarring me up in the water. I grip the tub’s edge so hard my hand aches, but Ren doesn’t stop.
“Another,” he whispers, followed by a hot, tangling kiss as teeth and tongue battle for control.
“I c-can’t.” I’ve never orgasmed back to back. Multiples. When they were first just hookup buddies, Lorena condescendingly bragged about Mia giving multiples alllll the time. While Annie and I pouted in the corner that the doofuses we’d been stuck with couldn’t seem to string a decent orgasm together for us if their lives depended on it.
Well, not until Tim, for Annie.
Not until Ren, for me, apparently—
“Oh, God,” I yell.
Ren swipes away the last of the bubbles covering my breasts and drags his tongue over each pebbled tip. Time becomes fuzzy. Seconds become minutes stacked on minutes without the slightest sense of their passing. If it takes forever, I have no clue, and Ren doesn’t seem to care. I’m blissfully mindless of the construct of time, and Ren’s unfazed by the steady work of his touch, each hungry kiss grounding me to the present, cherishing me.
He’s doing something different with his fingers, and it is magic.
“I’m gonna co—” I cry out and turn toward him, throwing my arm around his neck because I can’t do this alone. I can’t feel this much as I soar over the edge from new heights. Weightless, breathless, satisfied.
“Beautiful,” he mutters, warm and soft against my neck. “So beautiful.” Gentle kisses chase gentler words.
My tongue’s thick, my body heavy and loose. Who needs pot when you have orgasms? “Urgubuh,” I mutter.
He smooths away hair that’s stuck to my face. “Is that right?”
“Sorcery,” I wheeze, chest heaving as I drop back into the water.
Ren laughs while he stands and reaches for a towel from the towel warmer. As soon as I see that hot fluffy cotton waiting for me, I realize my lips must be nearly blue. I’m shivering.
Holding the towel, Ren averts his gaze as I step out of the tub, into the warmth waiting in his arms. Wrapping my body tight in the towel, he smiles down at me. “Afraid I’m capable of no such wizardry, Francesca. Just good old-fashioned muggle labor.”
I point to the legitimate situation in his pants. “Care to explain the wand, then?”
He rolls his eyes. “Honestly. That’s the best you can come up with?”
“Nine to fourteen inches!” I say indignantly. Ren bends, then begins gently drying my legs and feet with another warm towel. “That’s impressive length. If you read Harry Potter with any kind of dedication, you’d know me calling your penis a wand is the world’s best compliment to a man.”
He lifts an eyebrow from his crouched place at my feet, looking thoroughly unimpressed. But when I open my mouth to argue the point, he’s somehow already upright, kissing me before I can say another word.
“Did you and Ziggy eat?” he asks, bending to scoop up his suit jacket and my pile of discarded clothes. I absolutely stare at his butt.
“Yep. We ordered pizza—owww.” A hard, painful cramp clenches my belly, followed by the familiar warmth of blood trickling down my thigh. “Fucking hell.”
Ren’s hands are on my shoulders, his head bent, trying to meet my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Ren freezes as he notices the blood. He blanches. “Oh, God, Frankie. Did I hurt you?”
“No, Ren! You didn’t do anything wrong.” I sigh. Thank God for bathwater. Because talk about a close call. “It’s my fucking womanly curse.”
His entire body relaxes. Relief washes over his face and he rubs my arms gently. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. Do you have stuff here? Do you need me to run out?”
I stare up at him, feeling a wave of irrational emotion pricking my eyes. “I forgot. I picked up Pazza, and I was in a rush…”
To get here as soon as possible and be naked in the tub when you came home, hoping I could seduce you.
Yeah. I keep that thought to myself.
He squeezes my shoulders gently. “What brand?”
I blink at him. Guys aren’t supposed to be this chill about periods, are they? Especially after such a narrow escape. But Ren’s not just any guy, is he?
“Um,” I say unhelpfully.
“Here.” He gently sweeps me up in
his arms, carrying me into his room.
“Ren!” I squeak as he hoists me higher in his arms. “It’s a period, not consumption.”
“I know, it’s just easier. Because I know you’re going to fight me about—”
“Not in your bed. I’ll make your mattress look like a crime scene!”
Flipping back the sheet, Ren lays me down and strides over to a closet where he quickly retrieves two thick beach towels. With military precision, he folds them crisply in half, stacks them on top of each other, and shoves them under me, wrapped like a burrito in my bath towel.
Retrieving my phone and water bottle from the other side of the room, then extracting one of his undershirts from the dresser, Ren sets everything next to me on the bed.
“There,” he says.
I scowl up at him. He smiles.
Patting his pockets, Ren checks for his wallet and phone, pulls out his keys. With one last kiss to my cheek, he turns away and strolls out of the room, looking all sexy hockey player in his after-game suit.
“Just text me brand and size. And get comfy!” he yells from the hallway. “You’re allowed out to grab a bag of root beer gummies, but I swear if you’re anywhere other than in my bed when I get back, Francesca, you’ll be in big trouble.”
I want to tell him where he can shove his high-handed directives, but don’t you know, instead I find myself silently, happily snuggled in his bed, a sunshine grin warming my face.
Not that I’m surprised by my shit luck, but I would get my period right when it seemed like Ren was going to quit torturing me and finally let me get under him. Another week—because my periods are assholes—of cruel celibacy. Okay, maybe not celibacy. He made me come last night just from teasing my nipples while doing this thing with a vibrator—
“Frankie?”
I jerk from my seat in the car. “Huh?”
Ren’s mouth tips in a grin but his eyes stay pinned on the road. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”