by Laura Burton
The three words that come to mind when I think of parents are: absent, critical, and cold.
“Mom, Dad, this is Lucy.” Wyatt’s soft spoken words snap me out of my bitter reverie and I put on my most charming smile, holding out my hand. But Belle––Wyatt’s mom––takes my upper arms instead and squeezes. Her dark eyes search mine, like she’s taking a good look at my soul. I swallow, stunned by the intensity and wonder just what she sees, or wants to see.
Does she see a confident, independent woman? A slightly insecure, doubting girl playing grown up? Or the fraud? Does she see my oversized hoodies in there? I almost shudder.
Tears well up in my eyes but I refuse to blink, keeping steady eye contact until this silent test is over. Then, Belle blinks and her slender face breaks into the warmest smile. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she says. Then she pulls me in and wraps her thin arms around me, enveloping me in the crisp scent of peppermint oil.
I hug her back, and when we break apart, she takes my hands and says in an aside to her husband. “I think Wyatt found his Arwen.”
“I’m sorry… What?”
The Beast chuckles and takes off his head to reveal a gray version of Wyatt, complete with shaggy hair and a bristly beard. “Wyatt has had that Strider costume for years. He’s been obsessed with Lord of the Rings for… Goodness, I can’t remember how long.”
Wyatt’s face is a comic mask of horror and embarrassment as his dad claps him on the back. I do my best to hold back the bubble of laughter threatening to spill. So, a nerd after all.
Have I really found a man who’s been searching for Arwen, just as I’ve been searching for Aragorn? Is that even possible? The odds are ridiculous.
“You’re a fan of Lord of the Rings too, right?” his mom asks, leaning in to me with a steady look. I throw a hand over my heart. “I’ve dreamed of being an elf ever since I read the books when I was 12.”
I say the words so earnestly, it almost sounds silly. What kind of person dreams about being an elf?
But let's be real here. Who wouldn’t want to be an elf? Unchallenged beauty, grace and dignity, powers beyond a human’s wildest dreams? Oh, and you get to live forever.
Those are some major life goals right there.
Yes, it’s tragic that Aragorn is a mere human. But their love defies all reason. After all, she gave up her immortality to be with him. Arwen would rather live one lifetime with her Strider, than a thousand without him.
My eyes prickle at the thought. I take a breath and drag my focus back to the conversation as Wyatt and his parents move on to other topics.
“You’ll be pleased to know, she’s not here tonight,” his mom murmurs. Wyatt nods with a blank expression. Neither of them mention a name, but I figure they’re talking about Wyatt’s ex. “In bed, sick as a dog, poor thing. The rumor is she’s expecting again.”
Wyatt’s dad gives me a broad grin before he places the beast head on his shoulders again. “Well, we should leave you two love birds to enjoy the fair. Come along, honey.”
Wyatt’s mom grabs my arms and gives me another squeeze. “I hope we’ll see you again soon. Come over for dinner sometime.”
“I’d love that,” I blurt, forgetting Wyatt’s approval matters too. His parents are so sweet. How can I say no?
We say our goodbyes and Wyatt wraps a protective arm around me, clutching my waist as we walk toward the fair.
“You parents are so warm,” I say to him. It was just an honest observation, but Wyatt’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “That’s an interesting choice of words,” he replies.
I guess normal people would call them nice or friendly. But those words are too shallow to explain the way his mom made me feel.
Conversation fizzles as we reach the fairground. There’s so much going on, we’re both distracted by the sights and sounds.
The book fair is more like a cosplay convention. Almost fifty stalls have been set up in the square, with all sorts of interesting displays.
A local author signs books, and two Star Wars troopers take photographs with a line of kids waiting patiently to have their turn. The people milling around talk to each other like it’s just another normal day, only they’re all dressed up in costumes.
I love conventions. I mean, where else would you find Elizabeth Bennet flirting with Darth Vader? Or Winnie the Pooh debating current affairs with Professor Dumbledore?
Everyone is in disguise here. Everyone except me.
I get so caught up in the creative atmosphere, where everyone speaks my language, that I forget all about Wyatt and my plan to charm him. All my training and research goes completely out of the window as I let my own mask slip and start acting like my true self.
My sisters would be horrified. Helen would be furious. But knowing that Wyatt is also a total nerd fuels my own dorkiness.
I float around the stalls, cracking jokes and making puns, taking pictures with other people, and talking about books without a care in the world.
Meanwhile, Wyatt walks beside me, quiet and calm. He contributes the occasional witty remark, but mostly he just looks around and only stops to listen to a book reading or nod along when I engage in meaningful discussions.
I did wish he’d spoken up when I started a conversation about Animal Farm with a man dressed as a pig. (Who––it turns out––was Wyatt’s third grade teacher dressed up as Babe, Dick King Smith’s loveable sheep pig. The entire time, I thought he was Napoleon, the totalitarian pig from George Orwell’s political satire. Mortified doesn’t begin to describe my embarrassment!)
After looking at all the stalls, and having exhausted all literary conversations, Wyatt and I venture over to the marquee for a bite to eat. We pick up plates and are considering the spread, when I notice a small stage set up in front of a group of picnic tables.
I inhale sharply, eyeing the wires and huge speakers sitting innocently in the grass.
Loud music. I don’t have my noise cancelling headphones with me, or my ear plugs. This is a disaster waiting to happen.
We load our plates with turkey legs and French fries, and I waste no time devouring my food, keen to get out of the marquee before the band arrives and starts to play.
I break into a nervous sweat at the thought of electric guitars and am in the process of tearing a particularly difficult piece of turkey from some bone when Wyatt’s hand touches mine and I pause. “Whoa. Slow down, you’ll give yourself heartburn.”
I smirk at him, laughing at how I must look, chomping on turkey legs like they’re going out of style. “Sorry.” I wipe my hands on a napkin and take a swig of my drink. Then a group of teenage boys amble into the marquee, a couple of them holding guitars, and my stomach plummets at the sight of them taking positions on the stage.
I took the seat furthest away from everyone, in a quiet corner right at the back, but I wince still, bracing myself for the grating vibrations that are sure to claw at my eardrums any moment from now.
“See, I told you… Hold on, I think I have some Tums on me.” Wyatt pats his pockets. He must have misread my horrified expression for acid reflux.
“Here you go,” he says, victorious as he holds up the tiny pot. Seeing Aragorn offering me Tums is going on my list of the most hilarious things I’ve witnessed.
“Thanks.” I take the pot and give him a smile before looking back at the band that is now in position. Any second now, world class pain is going to hit me.
My sisters think I’m a drama queen when it comes to loud noise. When I was little, I’d jump and scream at the slightest unexpected sound. I’d have to wear a hoodie to the movie theatre, lifting my hood up to block out the booms. And when that failed, I’d stuff my hair into my ears in the desperate attempt to muffle the noise.
Noise. Not sound. Just big, loud noise that’s like a power drill working on my temples. It’s not just uncomfortable or annoying, it’s agony. Sheer torture. And I cannot fathom how or why other people don’t experience it in the same way.
> In fact, Chessy loves loud music. She tells me it’s energizing. We both agree to think the other person is crazy and call it a day.
I never expected there to be a band at a book fair. In my head, a book fair is a place where there are books… and people. Not musical instruments. Certainly not scratchy guitar strings or banging drums.
“Are you feeling okay? You look pale.” I look at Wyatt again, and the cool evening air floats over me like an icy kiss. I immediately begin to shiver, despite the beads of sweat I can feel above my upper lip.
I want to lie that I’m totally fine and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. But the first chord cuts through the open air and it sounds like a boing in my ears. I tense my shoulders and surreptitiously fold the hair of my wig over my ears, trying to mask my anxiety with a fake giggle. But Wyatt continues to frown, probably wondering what the heck has gotten into me.
Suddenly, I don’t care anymore. The music is maddeningly loud, like a symphony of crashes and explosions, and my head is pounding like someone stuck me in one of the bells of Notre Dame.
I. Need. To. Get. Out.
I jump up with so much force, my drink tips over and spills all over my dress.
“Oh no.” Wyatt grabs a bunch of napkins, but I couldn’t care less if ten million drinks fell on me. Without so much as a goodbye, I race out of the marquee and keep running into the night.
In the absence of any footsteps behind me, I reason that Wyatt decided not to follow. I don’t blame him. I take deep steadying breaths, cross the field, and try to get as much distance between the band and myself as possible.
The sky is a navy shade of blue with stars twinkling like fairy lights. The muted sounds of music and chatter are at a comfortable level now, and I spot a bunch of kids playing in a park just up ahead.
I don’t even want to look back, my body is still trembling with anxiety and overstimulation. Right now, I just need to cool off and calm down before my head explodes. My pulse thumps against my temples, and a dull headache spreads across my forehead.
I make a beeline for the swings and shut my eyes as I settle into one.
What a disaster.
I give myself a gentle push with my feet and swing back and forth, just like I used to do when I was a kid. Within seconds, my headache clears and my mind begins to function normally again.
I put so much effort into being the kind of woman I thought Wyatt would want to fall hopelessly in love with. And in the space of a few short hours, I’ve gone and ruined it all by being so ridiculously… me!
I broke all the rules.
And now Wyatt is probably gone. He must have watched me run off into the night thinking how strange I am.
I flip my legs forward, then back, and let the cool breeze float over my cheeks. The world sways. Whoever invented swings should be given a Nobel Prize. It’s the ultimate grounding method. Now my heart rate is back to normal and I’m totally calm. Even though I’m a bit glum.
I won’t be able to write the article for Helen. She’ll probably demote me to writing ad copy for the rest of my career, and Wyatt will become a distant memory, along with my other exes.
If I’d had better foresight, I’d have recognized the book fair as a trap. I should have known wearing my Arwen dress would lower my defenses. And whenever that happens, disaster strikes.
A shadowy figure approaches from across the field and I slow to a stop, resting my feet on the mulch. The sky is too dark to make out the person, and for a second I wonder if it’s a security guard coming to shoo me out of the kids’ park. I grip the chains tight and swallow hard.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to trespass,” I shout. But then the figure reaches the gate and steps into a beam of moonlight.
Brown leather boots, waxy brown tunic and soft gray surcoat. A long cloak billows behind him, picked up by the breeze. His dark, shaggy hair falls over his face, and a stubbly beard covers a chiseled jawline. The expression on his face is serious and brooding, and his eyes are set on me like lasers. My chest tightens and my breathing becomes sharp and short.
Wyatt.
I don’t think I’ve ever taken a proper look at him before. There’s always been something exciting or distracting happening around us. But in this quiet corner park lit by streetlights, I can see every detail of him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, slipping off the swing to meet him. Wyatt holds out a closed fist and motions for me to hold out my hands. “Here.”
“What is this?” I hold my palms up and out and he places a small parcel of food in them. I unwrap the napkin to reveal a chocolate cake.
“I figured your blood sugar might be low,” Wyatt says.
It takes me a hot minute to process what he’s doing. “You got me cake?” I ask. The question sounds dumb and simple out loud. But this means a lot to me. Instead of responding with repulsion or anger, Wyatt thought about what might be wrong… and then went off to find a solution.
Our eyes lock, and I wish I could leave my body just to see us dressed up as my favorite book couple, framed by warm streetlights and bathed in moonlight. Just the thought is so romantic!
I break the cake in half and pop a piece in my mouth. The chocolate ganache makes me roll my eyes back as I swallow and a moan escapes my lips. “Try some,” I offer. Wyatt opens his mouth and I feed him the other piece, the space between our bodies rising in temperature.
His hot breath sends shivers down my arm and he makes a ridiculously sexy grunt as he chews the cake. “It’s good, right?” I ask, glancing at his lips.
The gap between us closes even more when he slips a hand around my waist and settles it on the small of my back. I rest my right hand on his shoulder and plant the other one on his chest. His heart thumps against my palm and I lick my lips, suddenly aware of another hunger.
An insatiable need for his kiss.
Should I explain the real reason why I flew out of the marquee?
I’m torn between two minds. There’s a longing to open up and let this man in, so he can discover me… All of me. I want him in ways I’ve never desired a man before.
But the defensive side of my mind wants to clam up and put my act back on. If I tell him the real reason, he’ll probably just back away like so many other people in the past.
My mom never cared for labels, nor did she feel inclined to have me tested. But from the time I was little, she knew I was different.
If I was ordinary, would my mom have been less overwhelmed when she was raising me and my sisters? If I didn’t have raging nightmares each night, or emotional outbursts whenever our plans changed, might she still be in my life today?
Wyatt’s thumb grazes my bottom lip as he takes my face. He can’t seem to decide whether to look into my eyes or stare at my mouth. His eyes keep moving up and down my face like they’re searching for something. And as his face edges closer, the heat between us reaches new sizzling heights.
“I want to be honest with you,” I whisper against his lips. Our noses brush gently as Wyatt makes a hum that vibrates through my body. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t move in for a kiss either, as though he’s perfectly comfortable to stay in this intimate embrace for as long as I want. I swallow hard. I can’t take this step without knowing he’s doing it because he wants to kiss me. The real me.
I decide to do something I’ve never done before.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucy
I muster the strength to take down the final bricks surrounding my heart. “I… I struggle with loud noises,” I whisper. I wait for his reaction, but Wyatt’s expression remains the same. His eyes are still searching mine and occasionally glancing at my mouth. “All right,” he says.
“And I’m not just a big fan of Lord of the Rings,” I confess, a film of sweat building across my brow. “I’m into cosplay… I go to conventions. I love gaming. I’m… I’m not normal.”
Wyatt chuckles softly and cradles my face with his hands. “What’s normal?”
I hold his wris
ts, inhaling his woody scent until I’m light headed. “I mean it. I never got any sort of diagnosis, but I’m pretty sure I’m on the spectrum.”
“Hey, that makes two of us.” Wyatt nuzzles me and gives me a tender kiss on the forehead. My knees nearly buckle under my weight and I clutch his wrists like my life depends on it. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“You?” I ask. My voice comes out like the raspy whisper of a dying person. Wyatt chuckles again. “Why do you think I was so awkward on our date? I find it hard to hold eye contact.”
“You’re not struggling now,” I point out, our eyes still locked. Wyatt smirks and presses his lips against mine for the briefest moment. My stomach flutters.
“I know.”
I search every inch of his face, wondering if he’s telling the truth. “You’re on the spectrum? The autism spectrum?”
Wyatt nods. “You struggle with loud noises, well I struggle with strong smells.”
I stare at him, dazed. Wondering how the heck I missed the signs.
Wyatt sighs and lowers his hands to my neck. “I wish there was some kind of rule book about this kind of situation,” he whispers. “Do you ever wonder how people know what to do with their hands, for example?” He drags his fingertips down the sides of my body and squeezes my waist. “The more I’ve seen this side of you, the stronger my urges have been to… to…”
“To what?” I press, hanging onto his every word. Wyatt makes a noise of frustration and picks me up in the air, spinning me in a circle. Then he pulls me in for a bone crushing hug. “Can’t… breathe,” I whisper. In an instant, Wyatt sets me down.
“Sorry.” He brushes hair away from my face, looking at me with such tenderness, my nerves can hardly bear it.
It’s crazy to imagine that a fortnight ago, Wyatt was not even in my life. As far as my present mind is concerned, he’s always been here. We’ve been together for all eternity, and kissing him is just the natural thing to do. Like breathing.
I reason that we can talk later––and there’s definitely a lot to talk about. I want to know all about how he came to realize he was neuro-diverse. And I want to tell him all about how I did too.