12. No frame of reference
No frame of reference
Vicky
Mike’s hug had started my recovery from the meltdown, but what fully snapped me back to reality was his supremely masculine reversing manoeuvre.
I’d never found the way a man drives a car attractive before, but as Mike put his arm over my headrest to look back over his shoulder, with all his muscles flexing under his tailored shirt, I forgot about the fireworks, and my mouth went completely dry.
But now that he was tearing along the country road, changing gears with one hand whilst the other rested on the steering wheel (all unreasonably attractive manoeuvres for driving an ancient manual vehicle) the reality of the evening was starting to filter back in.
What’s wrong with her?
She’s Autistic.
I knew Ollie, Margot, Abdul and Lottie were right.
There was nothing to be ashamed of. My brain just worked a bit differently.
I saw the world and everyone in it in an unusual way.
Not everyone can work the same or behave the same.
In fact, as I’ve said before, if the world were full of Vickys, everything would run a lot more smoothly.
Certainly, everything would be on time, and everybody would say what they really meant—it would actually be a lot more efficient and less confusing. But seeing as I was the aberrant one, and everyone else ran on white lies and subtleties, it was difficult not to carry any shame.
Abdul put the blame for that firmly on my mother and half-sister. Mum’s refusal to let anyone “put a label” on why I had difficulties meant that I internalised the idea of having a label as a bad thing.
Not to mention, Rebecca repeatedly called me a freak and a weirdo. I’d only been diagnosed a few years ago, and in general, I didn’t want people to know.
With Mike, back when I was entertaining romantic fantasies about him, I had hoped he could overlook my quirks and just focus on my above-average attractiveness level, but I guess there is a limit to how far looks can override personality, or a lack thereof.
I had thought it would be better to ease him into the Autistic label, but I had also conceded he would need to know eventually.
Now that I wasn’t harbouring any romantic fantasies, but rather an intention to pursue a purely physical arrangement—if he would agree to it—I had hoped he might never need to know.
But my meltdown tonight had well and truly outed me.
There was no hiding anything from him now.
I stiffened as we turned in the opposite direction to Buckingham Manor.
“Where are we going?” I managed to ask. I was not particularly good with unknowns, and driving off in the opposite direction of my family’s house where I was staying was definitely an unknown.
Mike had both hands on the steering wheel now, and he tightened them until his knuckles turned white.
“I’m taking you back to my home,” he told me.
“But… why?”
“Why?”
“Yes… why are we going to your home?”
“I live there.”
I snapped my mouth shut and blinked at the windscreen. “But I don’t live there.”
“There’s nobody at Buckingham Manor now. They’re all at the party. You’re not going home to that great big empty house after what just happened. You’ll be coming home with me.”
“That makes no logical sense.”
His eyebrows went up. “Why not?”
“You don’t like me.”
Ah, my special talent—blurting out uncomfortable truths.
Mike let out a long breath, muttering, “shit” under his breath before he glanced at me then back at the road. “I like you, Vicky. Okay? And someone needs to look after you.”
I blinked at the windshield, still feeling numb and shaky after my meltdown.
“You don’t need to look after me,” I whispered, horrified he thought me that incapable, but I was guessing after witnessing that meltdown, I should have expected it. “And anyway, if I do need to be looked after, then Ollie and Lottie can?—”
“Fine bloody job they were making of it,” he said in disgust. “First, you’re carted around, smiling at a bunch of absolute gobshites that you shouldn’t have been within a country mile of, then one of those gobshites grabbed you, leaving red marks which will probably bloody well bruise by tomorrow.”
The absolute fury in Mike’s voice when he mentioned even a possibility of a bruise on my arm made anything I was going to say die on my lips.
“And then when those fireworks go off, neither of those two were anywhere near you. So, no. I’m not keen to leave you with them after you’ve just had a massive shock. You’re coming home with me.”
I actually made a harrumph sound of frustration at Mike’s little speech, which was entirely out of character for me.
But I decided that I would just have to put up with this detour for now.
I’d call a taxi from his house to Buckingham Manor.
It would involve waking up Janice, who was the only taxi driver in Little Buckingham and would be less than pleased, but this was an emergency.
It was then I realised that I had no idea where Mike lived. He had a workshop at Moonreach, his mum’s house, but I knew that he didn’t actually live there.
We went through Little Buckingham, past The Badger’s Sett and down one of the tiny lanes into the woodland by the side of the village.
When the trees thinned, I sucked in a shocked breath at the small house in the middle of the clearing.
I’d never seen anything like it in my life.
It was entirely made of wood, but not wood like I had ever seen it before.
All the wood was cut in a sort of fluid way, following the grain and patterns of the trees it came from. There were no straight lines.
Even the fence around the wooden terrace at the front of the house wasn’t straight; instead, it was made of sanded-down and varnished natural branches.
The windows were all different shapes, as if the wood itself had dictated how they should fit in.
I usually really liked straight lines and order, but as I stared up at this breathtaking house, I didn’t think I’d ever seen a more beautiful building. I was still sitting in the passenger seat staring up at the house when Mike startled me by opening the car door.
He looked between me and the house for a moment and scratched his beard. “Right, so it’s not much, but this is my gaffe.”
“You live here?” I breathed, still unable to move.
Mike shrugged, and two flags of colour appeared high on his cheekbones.
“Uh, yeah. Of course.” He sighed. “Look, I know it’s not exactly what you’re used to, but?—”
“No, it’s very, very different to what I’m used to,” I said the absolute truth.
I’d never even seen a house like this before.
“We can’t all live in fancy mansions, you know,” Mike said through gritted teeth. He sounded annoyed, and I didn’t understand why. “Are you getting out or what?”
Maybe he was annoyed that I was sitting there staring at his beautiful house and not getting out of the car, and therefore, wasting his time.
I cleared my throat, undid the seatbelt and then turned to jump down.
“I’m going to put my hand on your elbow,” Mike said in a gruff voice.
“What?”
“To help you down. My Land Rover’s high up, and you’re wearing those crazy heels. You’ll need a hand down, and you said you need a warning before physical contact, so…”
“Oh, right, thank you.”
He nodded, and his large hand encircled my elbow, supporting me as I climbed out of the car.
I still couldn’t take my eyes off the house. Small details were jumping out at me all the time: the flowers planted around the outside of the deck, the wooden door which formed an archway shape and had a small window in the upper part, the climbing rose up the side of the far wall.
“Do you own this?” I asked in a bewildered voice.
There was a small silence. I glanced at Mike, who was frowning down at me; he still hadn’t taken his hand off my elbow, and I was finding I quite liked it there.
“Yes,” he told me, then after another long pause, “I built it.”
“You built it?” My eyebrows went up.
“Come on, it’s cold.” His voice was gruff now. “Come inside.”
I nodded and felt oddly sad when he let go of my elbow to lead the way up the wooden steps onto the deck and into his house.
“You leave it unlocked?” I asked as he pushed open the door.
“Got nothing worth stealing, and we’re not exactly in a crime hot spot.”
He flicked a switch, and a soft glow filled the house.
I didn’t agree that he had nothing worth stealing.
Every piece of furniture was hand-crafted from beautiful wood.
His kitchen had a massive, thick piece of wood as the countertop, which again, had that wavy edge where the grain had dictated the shape.
There was a table and chairs matching the countertop, and across the room, an armchair and a small sofa with wooden frames, containing what looked like comfy, squishy sofa cushions with colourful throws over the top.
The entire room was double height. I looked up to see a central skylight right at the top of the house. There was a wooden spiral staircase leading to a mezzanine level, which was clearly the bedroom area, with one double bed up there.
When Mike broke the silence, his voice sounded strained. “Look, I know it’s not up to your standards but?—”
“Why are you cross with me?” I asked.
Abdul said it was better if I asked people directly what was going on if I didn’t understand an interaction. He said that was preferable to allowing miscommunication to continue. That if I sensed something was wrong then I should just directly call it out.
Relying on social cues simply wasn’t an option for me, especially without Lottie here.
“I’m not cross with you, Vicky.”
“Your tone of voice is angry. I can pick up on anger quite well.”
Anger and frustration directed at me had featured heavily in my childhood, and I had trained myself to spot the signs early on. Mike took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.
“Shit, sorry, I don’t mean to sound angry with you.” His tone was softer now. “I’m just a bit touchy about my house.”
“Why would that make you angry with me?”