Chapter 9 #2
I puff out a laugh, looking Auggie’s way, wondering if he’s as surprised by his brother as I am. He looks…confused. Agitated, even. I bounce my eyes in a what’s up? manner, but he only grabs more snacks, avoiding my gaze.
Deciding I’ll handle whatever internal crisis Auggie is having later, I deal the next hand.
We play for well over an hour, long enough that the snacks start to dwindle.
The whiskey, too. Benson, Noah, and Lawson are the only ones still in the game, the rest of us having lost all our poker chips.
As Lawson excuses himself to use the bathroom, Benson slips away so casually I nearly miss his departure.
I wait for a couple minutes before following after him.
I check the second floor first, even though I have a sneaking suspicion about where I’ll find him. When he’s not in the bathroom upstairs or any of the guest rooms, I open the attic door.
He’s up on the third floor, as I expected. His gaze lifts when I walk into the room.
“Sorry, hey,” he says, shaking his head, his words coming out in a bit of a jumble. “I’ll come back down. I just…”
“No need to apologize,” I cut in, leaning against the wall beside him. His ankles are crossed, hands tapping along his thighs. I wonder if that’s a form of stimming. The near-constant hand movements. “You all right?”
“Yeah, of course. I just…needed a second. Sometimes it’s just… Things can be…”
“A lot?” I guess.
He blows out a breath. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. I just…get tired of having to?”
Benson winces, but I lay my hand against his arm, squeezing reassuringly. “I think I get it.”
“Yeah?”
‘Yeah. All the noise?’ My hands flick through the air as I sign the words, and Benson meets my eye. ‘At times, it’s too much. At least I have the option of turning it off.’
He nods slowly, his eyes still holding my own.
I give a tiny smile and lift my hands again. ‘But it’s not just noise for you, is it?’
He shakes his head, his gaze traveling the room now.
Over the canvases, the floor, sometimes meeting mine.
His hands begin to move in a mix of fluid and stilted motions.
‘Steph says a neurodivergent brain is like a supercomputer. Unlike a neurotypical brain that automatically filters data based on importance and discards what’s unnecessary, we’re sorting through it all simultaneously, thousands of processors working at once because none of it gets filtered out.
Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. Texture. Conversation. Cues. Body language.’
His hands drop after the rapid-fire list. Benson steadies himself with a breath and goes on.
‘It’s all running through our heads. Nonstop. That means we’re especially adept at noticing details, patterns, that others sometimes miss. But it also means we’re overwhelmed easily. Because in situations where there’s constant data to be sorted, we don’t get a break. Sometimes I just need…’
‘A breather,’ I offer.
He exhales slowly. ‘Yeah.’
I know it’s not the same, our experiences.
Not exactly. But I wonder if Benson realizes he’s the first person I can directly relate to when it comes to sensory overload.
My CI doesn’t filter sound the way a hearing individual’s brain learns to do.
It’s fatiguing, at times, to sort through the different noises I’m picking up.
To find conversation among ambient sound.
To fill in the blanks when there’s interference.
And some noises? I’d rather do without.
None of my doctors are willing to confirm that my migraines are connected to my cochlear implant. But it’s not unique to me. I’ve heard from plenty of other CI users in online chats that they experience the same.
It’s not surprising. Brains do need breaks. Rest.
So I get it.
I give Benson’s arm another squeeze, liking the feel of him underneath my fingertips more than I’m willing to admit. I let go to sign. ‘You clearly didn’t need an invite, but you’re welcome up here whenever you want. Whenever you need a break.’
He huffs lightly, hand at his chest. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. Breaking and entering is your MO. Don’t start apologizing now.’
Benson rubs a palm over his face, even as he’s smiling. ‘I don’t know what it is about this place that feels so…’
‘Low security?’
He snorts, hands brushing together smoothly. ‘Comfortable.’
I’m not sure if he’s referring to the ranch or my art studio in particular, but a smile tugs at my cheeks. ‘You’re always welcome.’
He nods, swallowing as he reaches inside his button-down. My eyebrows fly up when he pulls something out. A narrow rectangle wrapped in brown kraft paper. “For you,” he voices, handing it over with a slightly shaking hand. “Happy birthday, Remi.”
I take the gift, trying not to let my breath betray me as I slip the paper open. Benson is silent and still beside me as the wrapping falls to the floor. At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s two pieces of roughly cut cardboard. But then I open them and can’t stop my inhale.
Inside is a single flower that’s been pressed flat for preservation. A lenten rose.
“There’s not much that blooms in the winter,” Benson says, his voice and movements a little rougher than usual. “But my mom has a bush of these in the backyard. I’m pretty sure it’s been around since I was a kid. I figured…at least it’s a little color. While you’re waiting for the snow to melt.”
My heart is beating fast as I stare at the single bloom, stem included. The petals are a deep burgundy, some yellow at their center.
Benson isn’t looking at me when I turn to him. He’s staring down at the flower, his throat working, his nerves on display in a way that was entirely absent downstairs while playing poker.
I drag his chin my way, not forcing him to meet my gaze, just needing… To kiss him, apparently.
Despite logic telling me anything between the two of us is impossible.
Despite my senses screaming it’s a risk.
Despite knowing better, as I have since I was that sixteen-year-old crushing on a man far too old for me.
I lift up on my toes, bring my lips to his, and for a second—a single second—I find out what it feels like to kiss Benson Harper.