Chapter Fifty-Three #2
It felt weird to want to ask, but I also thought it might have been incredibly rude to actually ask Barrett what I had been wondering.
"Sawyer... I don't know how to say this but.
.. um... is Barrett maybe a little, you know, on the spectrum?
" I asked. Admittedly, I didn't know that much about the spectrum, just understanding that there were traits that made someone more than simply quirky when they possessed most of them, making them fall onto it, and that from there, the severity of symptoms varied by person.
To that, Sawyer's eyes grew thoughtful as he watched me for a second.
"You know... we always knew he was different," he started, seeming to choose his words carefully, something that didn't seem especially characteristic of him.
"My mom and I especially. My dad wasn't all that involved when we were growing up.
Military," he explained, making me realize that Barrett had never really mentioned his dad except to say that Sawyer had followed in his footsteps.
He'd told me that his mother had been a 'saint' and that she had died when Sawyer was deployed.
"But you have to remember. Things weren't like they are now.
I mean, I'm sure people were diagnosed with autism and whatnot back then too, but it wasn't something that was understood like it is now. "
"Your mother never had him see anyone?" I asked, feeling a small stab of guilt at prying, wondering if I was betraying Barrett by doing so.
"Again, it was a different time. My mom said that when someone got labeled as something, everyone started to treat them differently.
And that she didn't want that for Barrett.
She wanted him to have as normal a life as possible, which she didn't think he could have if people who didn't understand how he was suddenly started treating him like he was disabled or mentally lacking or shit.
You know how ignorant people can be. She just decided that he was different, and that we would embrace that.
And never treat him differently except for how he needed us to treat him differently. "
"Needed you to treat him differently," I repeated.
"Yeah, shit like how he could never stand in lines or be in places that were too busy, too loud, how he hates being touched too much.
" Well, that certainly wasn't my experience with him.
But, I guess, that was something entirely different.
"Saw you with him twice now. He had his hands all over you both times," he said, like he was trying to sort through something, like he was thinking aloud.
"I'm thinking maybe you're good for him. "
"I really like him," I admitted, realizing how good it felt to be able to say it for real, to mean it, to let someone in on what I was feeling. Even if it wasn't the person I should have been talking to about it.
"Hopefully for who he is. You're not going to be able to change him."
"No one can change anybody," I reminded him, shrugging.
"Does your father know about you two?" he asked, lips quirking up.
"I, ah, well... I mentioned working for him. We had a lot of things to talk about today. I didn't want to pile on."
I had to handle that, my father situation.
I still stood by my opinion that he had absolutely overstepped a line, had betrayed me, had done something inexcusable.
That said, I was starting to put some things together.
Like how his actions had led to me failing out of the academy, had put me on my ridiculous path of revenge, making me appear missing to him, who then turned to hire Barrett to find me.
He found me.
And everything was different because of that.
In a good way.
An unexpected way.
A way I never could have predicted.
A way that I was thankful for.
So while there needed to be a firm conversation about taking a step back, allowing me to make my own decisions without him interfering, I didn't think forgiveness was going to be hard to find.
Sometimes life worked that way.
The things that seemed life-shattering while they were happening ended up being blessings that led you to something infinitely better.
"Does Barrett realize it's going to be an issue?"
"What's going to be an issue?" Barrett asked, moving in beside me, his arm absentmindedly slipping behind my back, fingers digging into my hip bone. At least, I hoped it was absentminded, not planned, not a show to put on for his brother.
"Dating a detective's only daughter."
"He's not a detective anymore."
"Sure he is," Sawyer said, smiling, enjoying his little brother's impending fate. "And he's not going to like you having your hands on his baby."
"She's not a baby."
"Yeah, try telling him that," Sawyer said, chuckling as he clamped a hand on his brother's shoulder, moving out toward the rest of the group.
"Still nervous?"
"I'm settling in," I told him, and it was true. There was nothing to worry about. They all just seemed happy that I was with Barrett, that he had something good, normal in his life, something other than his work and his obsessive care of a parrot that didn't even—technically—belong to him.
Riya came moving into the kitchen, her daughter following after her, running a toy car along the side of the cabinets.
"You know what, Riya?" Barrett asked, and there was something odd in his voice, something almost a bit sinister.
"What?" she asked, seeming to have missed the tone, turning with a small smile.
"I think she's just about old enough to have her very own guinea pig, don't you?"
"Oh, my God. Get over that already," Riya demanded, rolling her eyes.
"You loved that pig, and you know it! It ate better than you did.
I've literally never seen him put lettuce in his mouth," she went on, talking to me, "but when I went over to his house when Data was alive, his fridge was full of all kinds.
I didn't even think he knew what chard was, but there it was. For the rodent."
"Data?" I asked, raising a brow at Barrett.
"I, ah, couldn't think of anything else."
"I like it. It's different. Not lame like Pipsqueak or predictable like Bacon or Hamlet or something."
"Guinea pigs aren't actual pigs. Those names make no sense anyway."
"That's true. Why didn't you get another one after your old one passed?"
"I had Diego by then. He's a handful in and of himself."
"That's fair enough. Is he coming back soon?"
"Luce and Evan took him to Florida with them. I think they will be back later this month. Then we'll probably have him for a few weeks so they can have a break."
There it was again.
We.
My heart squeezed hearing it.
A glance over at Riya showed a softness in her eyes, like maybe she knew exactly how I was feeling, how important the word we was when a relationship was new.
She didn't know, however, that I had no idea if he actually meant it.
But just then, Tig returned, announcing it was time to eat. Everything got a little hectic—in a good way—for a while.
Being a child of divorce and an only child at that, I never really got to enjoy the chaos of a large family gathering.
It was full of laughter and smiles, teasing, inside jokes.
We were already digging into dessert when it felt like no time had passed at all.
I glanced over at Barrett, expecting to find the smile I saw on everyone else, but finding tension instead—his spine ramrod straight, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his fingers opening and closing on the knee of his leg, likely trying to avoid scratching his arm and making his family and friends worry.
"Little loud, huh?" I asked, scooting a little closer, pressing my arm to his.
I reached out, grabbing the arm closest to me, pulling it onto my lap, holding his hand with one of mine, using the other to trace over the underside of his forearm, hoping it helped fulfill the urge to scratch, occasionally letting my nails dig in the teeniest bit.
But I kept my focus up, engaging in the conversation, not wanting anyone to look at him any differently.
Or read too much into me trying to do something little to—hopefully—help calm him down.
By the time everyone started to stand, gathering dishes, the tension seemed to have slipped out of Barrett's jaw. He pulled his arm from mine, turning it, giving my thigh a squeeze.
When we loaded into the car half an hour later, I decided I was half in love with Barrett's family.
And, if I were being honest, I was maybe half in love with Barrett as well.
Okay.
Maybe more than half.
"What's the matter?" he asked a few minutes later after he had cut the engine, likely wondering why I hadn't reached to open my door when I had complained the whole ride home that I needed to get out and walk around a little bit before bed because I was uncomfortably full.
There had been cheesecake with toppings. And brownies. And cupcakes.
I was a professional at the power-eating thing, but even I was suffering.
"Can I ask you something?" I asked, chancing a look over at him.
"Yeah."
"Are we still faking it?" I asked, using up the last of my nerve to look over at him.
"Faking it?" he repeated, brows drawing together.
A man for picking up on subtleties he was not.
And this was harder than I was expecting.
"It's just... things got physical. And we, ah, I don't know. We were in there, and you were saying we, and you were putting your arm... you know what, never mind," I rushed, reaching for my door handle.
The only thing that kept me from opening it was Barrett's hand closing over mine.
"Don't," he demanded. "We weren't done."
"Really, it's nothing. Just forget about it."
But how could I expect him to forget about it since we were at his place? It wasn't like he was just dropping me off. It wasn't like I could just walk away from the conversation.
"Look at me," he demanded, hand closing around my arm, giving it a little tug until I turned back in my seat to look at him. "It's a pretty sad day when I am better at the uncomfortable conversation thing, you know," he told me, his attempt at levity.
He got a small smirk.
"We don't need to have an uncomfortable conversation."
"I think we do," he countered.
"It, ah, wouldn't be a bad thing to figure out the parameters.
I mean... we have to work together now. And things just seem a little complicated because of, you know, your family and friends and their assumptions.
Or, well, rather, what you told them. It's just a little messy right now.
I am feeling a little confused by it all. "
That was a bit of an understatement.
But I learned over the years that when something was an emotionally complex issue with regard to a man in your life, you were less likely to scare them off with it if you played it down a little. Even if it always bothered me to have to do that.
"I don't think it's confusing."
"Well, it's confusing to me," I insisted, watching as he held up his hand.
"I wasn't done," he told me, lips twitching a little. "I don't think it's confusing because I think we are on the same page."
"And what page is that?" I asked, knowing this was not a time for vagueness. If he was willing to give me answers, I needed to ask specific questions.
"I think we weren't faking it since that first morning in the hotel room, Clarke. At least I wasn't faking anything. And I know for a fact there are some things you weren't faking either."
"Well, no, I wasn't faking those..." I agreed, rolling my eyes a little, but my lips were curved upward.
"Wasn't talking about that, but thanks for the mental image," he chuckled.
"What were you talking about then?"
"You reached for me, and you tried to get me... less stressed back at Tig's... I mean, I'm not good at this. But I don't think I was misreading that, was I?"
"You weren't misreading it."
"So we both aren't faking it."
"But not faking what exactly?" I pressed. "Are we co-workers who hook up? Or is it more than that?"
"I'm new at this, so I don't know what we are. I just... remember those conversations about being patient, waiting for the right person?"
"Yeah," I agreed, feeling my chest tighten, knowing what was coming next, not sure I was prepared for it.
"I think you might be the right person."
"You know what?" I asked, watching a bit of discomfort take over his features.
"What?" he asked, voice hesitant.
"I think you might be the right person too."