by Helen Hoang
“Do you want her to be?” Michael asks.
I look down into my margarita and shake the glass so the liquid swirls. “Maybe.” I sigh and admit the truth, “Okay, yeah. I like Anna a lot, but she specifically wanted something simple. She’s coming out of a relationship and going through some life stuff. Plus, I’m not sure I’m ready.”
Khai frowns, but he nods, accepting what I’ve said. He’s never pushy or nosy. He’s the best listener.
Michael, on the other hand, makes a scoffing sound. “Bullshit you’re not ready. It’s been over a year since your surgery. And what happened when you came over? Was she uncomfortable about it? Did she send you away?”
“She asked me to stay the night,” I reveal, and the resulting look on Michael’s face is so delighted that I kind of want to punch him. “You’re so annoying, you know that?”
He tries to look innocent. “So you spent the night, and you didn’t get it on. That’s definitely hookup territory.”
Khai grins, though he doesn’t say anything.
“The plan is to finally get our one-night stand right tomorrow,” I say.
“That’ll be their fourth try at hooking up,” Michael explains to Khai, who looks confused.
I stiffen in my seat. “No, last night doesn’t count. And why are you counting, anyway?”
Michael ignores me and aims a smart-aleck smile at Khai, waggling his eyebrows. What a dick.
“Let me get this straight,” Khai says as he rubs his chin. “As soon as you guys sleep together, it’s over?”
I take a large drink from my glass and swallow, noting that it suddenly tastes bitter. “Yeah.”
“That means you’ve been seeing each other without sleeping together,” he says in an academic manner.
“Yeah.”
“And they text and talk and watch nature documentaries together,” Michael adds, pretending he doesn’t see when I glare at him.
“How long has this been going on?” Khai asks.
“Only a couple weeks,” I say.
“I’m no expert, but that sounds a lot like you have a girlfriend,” Khai says. “Especially the part where you spent the night.”
I make a sound in my throat and toss back the rest of my drink. “It’s wasn’t like that. She was in a vulnerable place emotionally, and I was there for her. As a friend. Nothing more.”
“What’s she like?” Michael asks.
I set my glass down on a side table and turn it in circles as I say, “She’s . . . quirky, funny, really nice.”
“You do like quirky,” Michael says. To Khai, he says, “Remember that chick he dated who couldn’t stand it when people saw her eating so she doggy-bagged everything?”
“Don’t judge. Everyone’s got their own issues,” I point out.
“There was also the one who made him brush his teeth before kissing,” Khai adds.
“That’s just good hygiene, especially in the morning,” I say.
Michael points his glass at me. “She also made you use hand sanitizer before holding hands and shower before sex.”
I shrug. “That wasn’t a big deal.”
“There was also the one who liked to lick him in public,” Khai says.
“Okay, I didn’t love that.” I rub my eye as I remember how it stung when her spit got in there.
Michael takes a sip of his margarita and casually asks, “So when are we going to meet her?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not, though? Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?” Khai asks.
“It’s not that easy—”
“Yeah, it is,” Michael interjects. “It’s exactly that easy.”
“It’s not,” I say, and my certainty is conveyed in the tone of my voice.
Khai starts to speak, but Michael shakes his head at him so he falls silent.
I spin my glass several more times, around and around. “I don’t know how to tell her about what happened.”
“Then don’t,” Khai says. “It’s not information that she needs to know.”
Michael nods in agreement. “He’s got a point. You can tell her later if things progress.”
I just shake my head. Parts of me don’t look quite right anymore. That’s the simple truth and something that I feel I need to explain. There’s also the other thing, the thing that I haven’t told anyone yet, because it’s awkward and it sucks and sometimes it still makes me cry. But I’d have to tell Anna. It’s relevant when it comes to relationships.
“You know, I can tell based purely off text messages if a girl is into someone,” Michael says.
“Yeah, like if the message says ‘I’m into you,’ that’s a pretty sure sign,” I say dryly.
“No, get your phone out and text her. I’ll show you what I’m talking about. I can tell within three lines,” he insists. “Plus, don’t you want to know how she’s doing? You guys were originally going to meet up tonight.”
Grumbling, I take my phone out of my pocket and text her, How you doing?
“I’m not going to show you if she says something personal. Also, what if she doesn’t respond right a—”
Dots start jumping on the screen, and I get a new message with a smiley face. I’m okay. You?
I show Michael so he can analyze the exchange like it’s tea leaves or some shit, and he grins right away. “A smiley emoji straight off. That’s a really good sign.”
I narrow my eyes at him before typing, Me too. Was thinking about you.
Before I hit the send button, Michael looks over my shoulder at my phone and says, “What, no emoji? That’s so impersonal. Add a heart.”
I give him a disgusted look. “Marriage has warped your brain if you think—”
He snatches the phone from me, body checks me when I lunge at him, and dances away, typing on my phone screen with his thumbs. When he tosses the phone back to me, the damage has been done. He sent my original message. Except there’s a big red heart after it.
I’m going to kill him.
With my bare hands.
As painfully as possible.
But then my phone buzzes with a new message from Anna. I was thinking about you too. And there, at the end, is a red heart, just like mine.
I stare at her message for the longest time, completely stunned out of my rage. “Do you think she . . . does she . . . maybe she . . .”
Michael wraps an arm around my shoulders. “That, my friend, means she likes you. I read about this in Cosmo.”
“I don’t know how you can stand reading those magazines,” Khai says as he gets up and collects our glasses. “I have a bunch of limes, so I’m going to make another round. I think Quan needs it.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say as I drop back into my chair, still staring at her message and that red heart.
This changes things. I need to completely scrap my plans for tomorrow. It’s not just about sex anymore. If it ever was.
SIXTEEN
Anna
This weekend, when I’m not practicing, I’m feverishly researching autism, consuming information in all possible manners—books, articles online, videos on YouTube, podcasts, postings in autistic people groups on Facebook, even a made-for-TV film about Temple Grandin starring Claire Danes. The more I learn, the more certain I am that this is me. This is where I belong.
I want to tell people, my family, my friends, my fellow musicians at the symphony. I want them to understand me at last. The key to me is right here, in these books and media.
It’s early evening, and I’m nervously waiting for Quan to arrive for our last date and reading an autistic woman’s personal blog entry about proper terminology. Apparently, Asperger’s syndrome is no longer used diagnostically in the United States. In 2013, it was grouped, along with other former neurological conditions, under the broad umbrella of autism spectrum disorder
. Many in the autistic community prefer the use of descriptors like with low support needs as opposed to high-functioning, which was how Jennifer described me. I’m mouthing the words autistic with low support needs and getting used to the feel of them when my phone rings. It’s Priscilla, so I pick up immediately.
“Hi, Je je.”
There’s noise in the background, like she’s at a restaurant or a party. She’s perpetually “networking” and doing social things. I could never live her life, not happily anyway. “Hey, I had a free minute, so I thought I’d call you. What’s up?”
“Not much, just reading,” I say as I scroll past the terminology blog entry to one about poor spatial awareness. There’s a picture of the blogger’s bruised legs, and I compare them to mine. Aside from our skin tone, we look the same. Just like her, I’m constantly running into table corners and chairs and door handles and things, but the worst for me is glass cases in department stores. I get distracted by the shiny things inside, and seven times out of ten, I bang my face on the glass as I lean close to get a better look—one of the many reasons why I hate shopping.
“I spoke to Mom earlier. She said Dad’s not feeling great. You might want to check up on them one of these days,” Priscilla says, and there’s censure in her voice, as there always is when it comes to this topic.
“What’s wrong?” My dad is on the older side—sixteen years older than my mom—but I never noticed until recent years, when congestive heart failure forced him into retirement against his will.
“He’s just really tired. Mom says he’s napping today, and you know how he feels about naps,” she says with a subdued laugh.
“I’ll try to make it home next weekend.”
“You’ll try?” she asks, and I look up at the ceiling as my fingers flex into claws. I loathe being told what to do like this, absolutely loathe it, and it’s worse when it involves doing things with or for my parents. They’re close to Priscilla. They wanted Priscilla. Me, I’m their accidental second child, the result of a Mexico vacation and too many piña coladas. Worse than that, I’m overly sensitive, difficult, “lazy,” and, quite frankly, a bit of a disappointment—except for my relationship with Julian, the son-in-law of their dreams, and my accidental Internet fame.
Things with Julian aren’t looking great, however, and the fame isn’t lasting. I’m getting upstaged by a twelve-year-old. I admit I watched videos of her playing with trepidation. I didn’t want to be impressed, but she’s genuinely amazing. I’ve never seen bow work that fluid. She deserves the accolades. Still, now I don’t have anything to show my parents, no great news, no fresh accomplishments, nothing my mom can humble-brag about to her friends, and I know she craves it. I don’t know if it’s better never to be successful at all, or to have success for a short while, only to lose it.
“I will visit next weekend.” I sound peppy and excited as I say it. I even smile. Because that’s how she wants me to be—easygoing and eager to please. Like a golden retriever.
“Good. They’ll be happy to see you,” she says.
I almost laugh at that—a bitter, disrespectful kind of laugh—but I manage to hold it in. If they find out about the shambles I’ve made of my life, they most certainly won’t be happy. There’s no more Julian. No more publicity. The tour is over. My career is circling the toilet drain because I can’t get my act together. I’m in therapy. There’s this thing, whatever it is, with Quan. (What’s worse? Trying to have casual sex with a stranger or failing at having casual sex with a stranger?) And then the latest development . . .
An odd impulse grabs hold of me, and without actively deciding to do anything, I hear myself saying, “My therapist told me something the other day.”
“Yeah, what did they say?”
“She said I have autism spectrum disorder. I’m autistic with low support needs.” The words sound strange falling off my tongue. They’re too new. But they’re mine, and I want her to know. They explain so much about me—the trouble I had when I was little, the things I’m going through now, everything.
Even so, I hold my breath as I wait for her to respond. It feels like my heart pauses its beating. Will she be ashamed? Will she walk on eggshells around me now?
Will she still love me?
“No, you’re not,” she says with conviction.
For a moment, I’m too flustered to speak. Disbelief wasn’t a reaction I’d foreseen. “My therapist told me this. One of her specializations is—”
She makes an impatient sound. “None of that means anything. People get diagnosed with all kinds of stuff nowadays. It’s a scam to get your money. Don’t let them take advantage of you, Anna.”
My jaw drops as her words seep into my brain. How she can so easily disregard a professional opinion just because she doesn’t like it? How can she be so certain?
“Autism often looks different in women,” I try to explain. “It’s due to a phenomenon called masking, which is when—”
“Trust me, you’re not autistic,” Priscilla says.
“I think I am.”
“Don’t use this as an excuse for your shortcomings, Anna. You’re minimizing the struggles that real autistic people face when you do this.”
“I’m not trying to minimize anything for anyone,” I say, horrified by the accusation. “Autism can be different from what you’ve seen. They call it a spectrum for a reason. There are people who have more obvious impairments, but there are also people like me. Just because I look like I’m doing okay doesn’t mean it’s always true.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe we’re even discussing this. You’re not disabled,” she says in an exasperated tone.
“I didn’t say I was. I don’t think I qualify, personally. But it’s true that there are certain things that are harder for me to—”
“I have to go. Let’s talk about this later.” The line disconnects.
I lower my phone from my ear and stare ahead without seeing anything. That didn’t go at all how I thought it would, and a deep sense of disappointment and frustration grips me. I told her because I yearned for her to understand me. But it’s never been more clear how much she doesn’t.
Self-doubt takes control of me. I must be wrong. Jennifer must be wrong. Those epiphanies that I had were fake. That sense of identification was misguided. It is human to struggle. If there was a diagnosis for every difficulty, they wouldn’t mean anything.
My intercom buzzes, and I scramble to my feet and run to the front door to hit the button. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Quan says. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I say, but I don’t really know if it’s true. I’ve done a lot of thinking about tonight, and I haven’t found a way around my issues. I can’t do the things he wants. I can’t. But we put this thing in motion, and I want to see it through. I finish what I begin. If I don’t . . . it fills me with suffering. “Come on up.”
When a knock sounds a short while later, I take a second to collect myself, paste a smile on my face, and open the door.
He’s dressed similar to the first night we met—motorcycle jacket, dark pants, boots. His helmet is tucked under his arm, and he’s smiling at me, that smile that makes it hard for me to think. Once he gets a good look at me, however, his smile fades.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.
He gives me a skeptical look, so I explain, “I was just on the phone with my sister. I told her about . . . you know.”
“She didn’t take it well?” he asks, his brow wrinkled with concern.
“I’m not sure how to answer that question. She thinks my therapist is wrong, that I’m wrong. And maybe I am. I don’t know anymore.” I hold my palms out and drop them to my sides as a sense of heaviness weighs me down.
He frowns at me for a second before looking at my living room over my shoulder. “Do y
ou want to get out for a bit? Take a walk or something? Fresh air usually helps me feel better.”
“Okay, sure,” I say. Aside from what I have to do for transportation purposes, I’m not much of a walker. Or jogger. Or any kind of exerciser. But it’s been days since I’ve been out, and I don’t mind the idea.
I step into my ballet slippers, which are neatly arranged in the entryway, lock the door, and follow him out of my building. The sky is darkening and it’s a bit chilly, but I don’t go back for a sweater or coat. I don’t expect us to be out long.
When we walk past a black motorcycle parked next to the curb, I ask, “Yours?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Want to go for a ride? I promise to be careful.”
I fumble with a response. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before. I’ve never wanted to because Priscilla thinks it’s a foolish thing to do. According to her, anyone who gets injured while riding was basically asking for it and shouldn’t be surprised when they get brain damage.
Before I can answer, he aims a carefree smile at me and says, “I was just asking. Don’t feel pressured.”
He walks past the motorcycle, but I grab his arm to stop him and quickly say, “No, I want to. I’m just a little nervous.”
“You sure? I won’t be sad if we don’t. Really.”
“I’m sure,” I say. Priscilla isn’t here to judge me. More important, I’m tired of the never-ending and fruitless battle to earn her approval. It’s brought me misery more than anything else, and right now, I want to give in and see what it’s like not to fight so hard. On my last night with this wonderful, completely wrong-for-me man, I want to do something memorable.
“Okay, but just tell me if you want us to stop, and I will,” he says.
As he settles the extra helmet he brought onto my head and clips it under my chin, I smile up at him—a real smile. I am nervous, but I’m also strangely energized. He said he’d be careful, and I trust him. Before climbing onto the bike, he hesitates, takes his jacket off, and settles it over my shoulders.
“Just in case,” he says.