Chapter Nine
DEACON
I slid the book onto my nightstand, carefully opening the pages to where the small slip of paper was. Winter had written my name on it. He’d set the book aside for me, and the book was great.
But this little slip of paper meant so much more.
My name in his handwriting.
I’d told him I liked him. Probably shouldn’t have just said it like that, but usually if I thought it, I said it. There was no taking it back now, and I wouldn’t even if I could.
Because he’d said he liked me too.
Those words shot through me like a bolt of lightning, a pinball of excitement.
I hadn’t wanted to leave. I wanted to stay there and help him in his store, but he was so busy and it was his first day, so when Mom and Dad said it was time to go, I went with them.
I wished I hadn’t, though.
Mom had asked him if he’d be going to the Christmas tree lighting tonight and he’d said yes. Then she’d told him we might see him there.
So now I had to wait until it was time to go to that.
Thinking about seeing him again made me nervous, but in a good way. Not a tummy ache this time. More jittery. Exciting.
I liked him.
And he liked me.
Just knowing that made me feel . . . well, I felt everything all at once. But it made me feel that we’d be okay. That we’d established that first step, and now we could see what was next.
I’d read up on everything I could find on asexuality. I wanted to better understand him and what he meant when he’d said he’d never felt sexual attraction.
It was almost a relief, to be honest.
Had I thought of sex? Yes. Did I want to have sex?
I couldn’t imagine I ever would want that.
I wasn’t comfortable with touch, or intimacy, or scrutiny.
Did I touch myself? Yes. Not often, though. Did it feel good? Sure. Could I ever imagine doing that to someone else? Or having it done to me by someone else?
Undecided, leaning heavily toward a no.
Knowing Winter didn’t want that, knowing he wouldn’t pressure me into that, was such a relief. Considering I couldn’t even imagine holding his hand, anything more than that seemed foolish to worry about.
Even holding hands and kissing seemed so far out of my comfort zone that I couldn’t even imagine it.
Maybe one day. But also maybe not ever. And either was fine with me.
Only maybe if I was okay with it. If I’d worked up to that. And as of right now, my answer would be no, but I couldn’t logically say that might change in the future.
According to everything I’d found online about asexuality, some people still liked to kiss and hold hands and cuddle and hug.
They just never felt any need for anything more.
Some didn’t even want to do that. They wanted nothing physical; just to hang out, have deep and meaningful conversations, have dinner and watch movies and read books.
They wanted to feel connected to a special person who understood them, valued them as a person without any physical aspect to their relationship; a purely platonic relationship.
I liked the sound of that very much.
I had to wonder what Winter wanted. If he wanted anything.
I would need to ask him.
Now that we’d established that we liked each other.
A jittery thrill ran through me every time I remembered him saying that. And as I sat there on my bed, holding that tiny slip of paper, touching the ink, my name, I couldn’t ever remember feeling like this.
“Deacon,” Mom called out. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Okay,” I replied. I went to my bookcase, to the small tray where I kept my special things, my snippets of things I’d collected over the years and wanted to keep forever, and placed Winter’s note right in the center.
Dinner was quiet, though Dad kept smiling at me. He obviously felt no need to distract me or keep the conversation away from certain topics. I always knew when he did that, trying to shield me from the mental gymnastics I often put myself through. But he didn’t do that tonight.
Mom, on the other hand . . .
“The bookstore was lovely,” she said. “I’m grateful Hartbridge now has one. It’ll save me a trip to Mossley every so often.”
“We bought eight books,” Dad said. “I think we’re good for a while.”
“Eight books and a jigsaw puzzle,” I corrected. The truth was eight books between three avid readers wasn’t a great deal.
“Oh, the puzzles were a nice surprise,” Mom said. “I didn’t know he would have so much fun stuff. I think Christmas will be much easier this year. The store has such a cozy feel. And his aunt Ro seemed so nice.”
“She is,” I said before taking a sip of water. “She’s more a friend or older sister to him than an aunt. He and his mother aren’t close.”
Both Mom and Dad frowned. “Oh, that’s a shame,” Dad said. “Then I’m glad he has her.”
“If you’d like to invite him over for dinner one night,” Mom said, “that’s fine with me. You just let me know, and I’ll make extra.”
Oh.
I wasn’t—
“Pretty sure they might prefer going to the diner or the pizzeria,” Dad said, patting her hand. “Where the parents aren’t listening in on every word.”
“Uh,” I said, uncertain. “I haven’t thought about that. I don’t know what food he likes to eat. And what if he wants to eat food I don’t like?”
Before I could let that whole new source of worry derail me, Mom gave my hand a quick pat. “You just have to ask him, sweetheart. Asking someone their favorite foods or their most disliked foods is a good way to get to know them. Favorite food, favorite movie, favorite song.”
Dad shook his head. “Nah. You wanna know a guy, ask him what his favorite dinosaur is.”
“Not sure if Winter’s the dinosaur-loving type,” Mom said. “Maybe ask about books.”
“I already have asked about books,” I said. “He has many favorite books, most of which align with mine. I quoted his favorite poem the day we met. And,” I added, “I think he is a dinosaur-loving type.”
“Most guys have a favorite dinosaur,” Dad said. “Mine’s the Pachycephalosaurus. It was super-fast and had a built-in helmet.”
“Ankylosaurus,” I said. “But also the Kosmoceratops.”
Mom sighed. “Fine, then ask him about dinosaurs. But try and think of some other fun things to ask about. Get to know him. Dating is when you find out if you’re compatible, but it’s also supposed to be fun.”
Dating?
“Dating?” I blinked, and blinked again, my cheeks beginning to burn. “I don’t . . . I don’t think that’s what we are.”
Was it?
No, definitely not. We’d spent some time together when I was helping at his store, and he’d been to the clinic twice. But those weren’t dates. A date, by definition, was a social or romantic appointment, and while me helping at his store was a planned appointment, as such, it wasn’t a date.
“The word date was never used or agreed upon,” I explained.
“Then,” Dad said, “if it’s what you want, you need to ask him.”
I stared at him, certain the horror I felt was clearly visible on my face. “Ask him on a date? I thought I was asking him what his favorite food was. Or dinosaur.”
Mom gave me a patient smile. “It doesn’t need to be complicated, darling.
Just ask him when you can see him again.
He’ll be busy with the store, no doubt. So if he’s short on time, ask if you can bring him lunch one day.
Or coffee. That’s all. It doesn’t need to be any grand gesture.
Just so he knows you’re thinking of him and being considerate of his time. ”
Dad nodded as if that was all good and well, but then he shrugged. “I’d just ask him about the dinosaur.”
I laughed. “I can’t believe I’m getting advice about this.”
Dad pointed to the clock. “Well, you’re about to see him, so we gotta be prepared, right?”
“See him?” I looked at the offending clock.
“The lighting of the Christmas tree.”
Oh. I’d already forgotten about that . . .
“We better get moving and grooving,” Dad said. “Don’t forget your beanie. It’s cold out there tonight. The weatherman said it’ll be snowing tonight.”
I did always enjoy the Christmas tree lighting night.
As a kid, it signaled the beginning of Christmas.
I didn’t even mind the crowd because it was dark and everyone stood facing the tree, and there was order and quiet until the mayor said his piece and flipped the switch.
The tree would come to life, pretty Christmas lights in the biggest Christmas tree ever.
Everyone said, ooooooh, then they clapped and everyone was happy, wishing Mom and Dad a merry Christmas and shaking hands while I stood back and nodded and smiled and returned the greeting with my hands firmly shoved in my jacket pockets or behind my back, lest someone try to shake my hand.
That was how it went every year.
Most people in town knew my dad, and my mom had always been involved in community things, volunteering whenever she could. But they knew me now, and they knew not to touch me. They respected my personal space.
Especially since that episode many years ago when one of Dad’s older clients thought giving a five-year-old a rough shoulder-shake was an appropriate thing to do, and I’d had a very public, very epic meltdown.
He’d said he didn’t know, wasn’t aware I was like that and was most apologetic, but anyway, most of the town learned about my no-touching rule that day.
Then I’d began school and the kids in my class knew, my teachers knew. It was just my thing. I was mostly normal—whatever that was supposed to mean. I just had a few quirks.
But it did make meeting new people uncharted territory, and I never really knew what to expect. Which, of course, was the hardest part for me. The not knowing how people will react and usually bracing myself for rejection or ridicule.
I was, unfortunately, very used to that.