Page 63 of Unbound

“Like your pads?”

I nod.

“And . . . the touch thing?” She bites her lip and glances away from me, arms crossing over her stomach. “I’m sorry if it’s invasive. I just . . . after last night. I don’t want to push or make things more difficult.”

My stomach sours. “No. That’s— I’m . . . that’s different.” I shake my head and look at the wall, pointedly away from her. “I’m autistic. I mean, when I was diagnosed it was still called Asperger’s, but . . . yeah. I just . . . it’s not a big deal and I’m not, like, different or anything.”

I’m defensive and frustrated, and I hate it.

I drop my chin toward my chest with a heavy breath. “Well. I am, I mean. But you already know that.”

“Something’s wrong with me.”

“No,” my dad says, leaning down. He settles on his knees, arms enclosing the armrests of my chair like a wall. “Bennett, nothing is wrong with you.”

“Mom is upset.” My eyes try to bounce over his shoulder toward where I can hear her still, crying as quietly as she can. It feels like knives slicing my skin. I jerk my hands up and over my ears again.

Dad slowly raises his own hands, reaching for mine and pulling them away.

“Focus on me. This is important.” Holding my palms in a tight grip, he speaks a little louder. “You are perfect. Nothing is wrong with you. You just need things done differently, okay? And you and me—we’re gonna figure this out. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I clear my throat, still avoiding looking at her. Embarrassment and shame mix like a sickness in my body. “So sometimes things can be difficult for me. Seven is supposed to help me calm down and . . . other stuff.”

“Does he help?” she asks, her voice loud enough that I know she’s looking at me even if I won’t look at her.

“Sometimes.”

“And . . . are there things I could do? That would help?”

The question is soft, and it melts over my skin like a caress. Like her damp, smooth hair over my fingers. The catch in my throat is new, like I’ve swallowed a rock and can’t speak around it, let alone breathe.

I turn toward her.

Paloma watches me all the time. I’ve grown used to the feeling of her eyes on me, surprised by the warmth and comfort her gaze brings. It still doesn’t prepare me for the punch to the gut that is her warm brown eyes filled to the brim with concern and care for me.

“You do most things right.”

My answer seems to irritate her. “Can you just tell me? How am I supposed to know if I’m doing something wrong unless you tell me?”

“I like to know when you’re going to touch me,” I rush to say. We’ve already talked about this, but it feels like a safe place to start. “And I don’t . . . It’s not always easy for me to read your expression. You might have to tell me how you’re feeling, I won’t always be able to guess.”

“Okay. I can do that. What else?”

“Crowds. Loud noises.”

“But hockey—?”

“That one isn’t hard for me. Maybe because it’s how I grew up, so I’m used to it. Or because I have something else I’m hyper-focused on while I’m playing.”

She nods as if that complexity makes perfect sense to her.

“Um . . . Sarcasm can be hard for me, too.”

Poetry is easy. Recognizing idioms, figurative language, things that aren’t literal. Talking to people, conversation—that’s the harder piece. I don’t always pick up on it, especially if the conversation is moving too fast. Locker room talk, hockey slang, they’re all things I had to meticulously practice to understand. And even then, I never participate. Only listen.

“Anything else?”