Chapter Twelve #2
“I don’t know. Like I said, her anxiety started the first night, and I sure as shit didn’t lay a hand on her then.
Or, you know, not sexually. She wanted reassurance when she was freaking out, but that’s different.
I like to think she’s gotten more comfortable with me over time, but then today, she talked about moving out.
I asked her to stay. I don’t know if she will, though. ”
“Aw, buddy. Believe me when I tell you that I know what it’s like to put yourself out there and have the woman you love stomp on your heart’s nuts.”
“I… what?”
“But you think it’s about you, and I’m telling you as a friend, it’s not.”
“How can my heart have nuts?”
“Shut up and listen to me.” Cam brandishes a finger at me. “You’re overanalyzing. If Minerva came to you with baggage, that’s not something your dick can fix.”
I smirk over the mouth of my bottle. “Are you sure?”
“No matter how magical you think your dick is, yes, I’m positive.
She’s dealing with stuff. If she wants your help with that, she’ll ask, but she’ll need to trust you before that happens.
Which means you have to keep being trustworthy until she has enough data to prove that you’re not like the people who hurt her in the past.”
“Data,” I repeat. “That does sound like Min. And I do want her to trust me. I just don’t want to do something wrong and fuck it all up.”
“That’s the thing—you probably will. But it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being consistent. You have to speak her language. And she has to learn yours. That’s what love is, man. Bilingual stubbornness.”
A stupid, hopeful breath catches in my chest. Because I could learn her language. I want to.
All of that makes sense. The more I think about it, the more I realize that he’s right.
It’s good advice in general, but I know how Minerva thinks, how she gathers data points to track trends and macros and averages.
It’s not unreasonable to imagine that she’s tracking my behavior in the same way, even if she’s not actually plotting it out on a spreadsheet.
Though I wouldn’t rule out that possibility.
“You’re smarter than you look,” I say at last.
“Man, fuck off.” Camden laughs as he flips me the bird. “Look, I did a lot of research when I was determined to have a relationship with Dot. I can help, if you want.”
I nod my head so enthusiastically that something in my neck pops. “I want. I definitely want.”
“Then we’ll do what you should have done in the beginning. We’ll go to the experts.” He whips out his phone. “We’ll go to Reddit.”
My eye twitches. “I beg your pardon?”
“Trust me.” Camden’s thumbs are already flying across the screen. He says the words aloud as he types them, presumably for my benefit. “How to… love… a neurodivergent woman… romantically… and physically. Ah, yes. Bingo.” He tosses his phone to me. “You can thank me later.”
I squint past the glare on the screen, expecting to encounter the usual social media drivel. To my surprise, every post that populates from the search is a goldmine.
Things I learned from dating an ND queen:
1. Routine is comfort. Build one with her.
2. Praise is like oxygen. Be specific, be sincere.
3. Ask before touching. Even if it’s casual. Especially if it’s casual.
4. Understand that meltdowns aren’t tantrums.
5. Sex might come with triggers. Or be a trigger.
The answer has been upvoted thousands of times, and the replies are just as helpful. One line hits me like a puck to the ribs: Sometimes, they want to give everything but don’t know if they’re allowed.
Well. Shit. My heart cracks right down the seam. Because that’s her. That’s exactly her. Min thinks in black and white, and she’s mentioned “rules” more than once, even though they didn’t come out of my mouth.
I scroll farther until I find another entry that gives me pause. ND kids, especially kids who had unstable home lives, will often develop “guidelines” to help them navigate situations that don’t make sense to them.
“Duh,” I say aloud. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
“What?” Camden asks.
“Remember how I said that Minerva’s family fucked her up? I think they made things really hard for her, harder than they probably realized, and a bunch of her anxiety is basically a coping mechanism gone wrong.”
“Oh, for sure.” Camden bobs his head. “Anxiety is this irrational thing that seems rational because it’s, like, your brain replaying information that you needed in the past. But it can only allow you to prepare for things you’ve already experienced, right?
She’s probably applying old survival skills to a situation, and still has to figure out that she doesn’t need them anymore. ”
I stare at Camden, open-mouthed.
He aims finger guns at me. “Guess who has two thumbs and a biweekly therapy appointment? This guy.” He uses the aforementioned thumbs to point to himself.
“You’re in therapy?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I’m just…” I blink a few times. “Should I be in therapy?”
“Everyone should be in therapy, my man. But one thing at a time.”
I text myself the link to the Reddit post, then pass Camden’s phone back. “Okay. Wow. This has been surprisingly helpful.”
“No need to sound so surprised. I’m here if you need anything, okay?” Camden holds up his empty beer bottle. “Speaking of which, you want a fresh brewskie?”
I consider the dregs of my bottle. “Nope, I’m actually going to head out. I told Min I’d grab dinner, and I have something else I’d like to do on the way.”
My brain is spinning five steps ahead of me the whole time. I keep remembering moments when Min stared down at her plate while talking herself down. How she flinches when men raise their voices or get in her personal space. How she’s quick to apologize, but slow to ask for anything.
Maybe Camden’s right, and she’ll come to me when she wants help. I don’t want her to think that I’m trying to fix her, either. But what if I gave her an opportunity to tell me what she wants? What she needs?
What if I could gather data points on how to make her happy?
Because I know one thing deep down. I don’t want her to leave me.
Not now. Not ever.
* * *
The aroma of fresh bread hits my nostrils when I return with takeout. Minerva’s seated at the table with the heel of the loaf, skimming her laptop as usual. I wonder what she’s looking at. Apartment listings, maybe? I sure as hell hope not.
“I know what you said earlier about takeout,” I tell her. “But I do have something I’d like to do with our free time. I want to propose an experiment.”
Minerva’s whole face lights up with interest. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Gimme one sec.” I run back out to the car and return with the other things I picked up while I was out: dry-erase markers, an enormous whiteboard, and drywall screws. I toss the screws on the table for later and peel open the marker pack.
Minerva leans forward. “Ooh, I do love a whiteboard.”
“I thought you would. And I got the biggest pack of markers they had, so that you can color-coordinate all you want. Now.” I open the black marker with a flourish. At the top, I write the words: MIN’S WORLD: What You Like, What You Don’t, What Helps.
“I’d like you to fill this out whenever you have time. No rush, and you don’t have to do it all at once. Whenever you think of something you like, or something you want to avoid. Snacks. What makes you feel better when you’re spiraling. Things you want to try. Whatever you can think of.”
“Oh.” Minerva bites her lip. “Okay, I can do that.”
“And I think you should stick around for a little while, until we can gather a representative data set.”
Minerva’s lips twitch. “You want me to stay for science?”
“You know how I feel about science.” I cap the marker. “Sound good?”
“I don’t want to leave you with incomplete data. I’ll stick around, for now. For science.”
I’m a bit jealous of her dedication to science, but for now, I’ll take whatever I’m given. As long as she isn’t planning to move out tomorrow, I have time to figure some things out.
If science is the excuse she needs, I’ll take it. As long as she keeps choosing this home—choosing me—one data point at a time.