Chapter 1 #3
He shrugs. “Undiagnosed but pretty sure.
" He laughs, waves a hand. "I mean, can't sit still for more than a minute or two, can't focus on books or shit like that.
I was always in trouble at school for daydreaming and goofin' off.
" His next laugh is a snort and a head shake that feels self-derogatory.
"Good thing for me, I never had to finish school, huh? "
"University degrees are not necessary in order to be successful," I say, intending to be encouraging.
He tips his head to one side. “Yeah, that too."
I frown. "I do not understand what that means."
"Oh, well. I don't have a university degree. But I meant school…as in high school." He pats my knee. "I came out here to see how you felt about dino nugs and mozzarella sticks."
I hesitate. "How do I feel about them?"
"Yeah, like, do you like them? Ain't been shoppin' in a while, so I don’t have much by way of fresh food, which means frozen bachelor shit is all I got."
I think it through. He obviously cannot mean literal nuggets of dinosaur meat, which is patently impossible—my brain tries to spin me off down a rabbit-trail of wondering what dinosaur meat would taste like. Therefore, he must be referring to chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs.
"I enjoy both chicken nuggets and mozzarella sticks," I tell him. "Thank you."
“Cool. Comin' right up." He does not rise to his feet immediately, however. "You are one tough cookie, Cadence. I've had some gnarly fuckin' blisters, but those were the worst I've ever seen." He returns to the kitchen without waiting for my reply—not that I had one.
Gnarly—a fun, enjoyable word that puts me in mind of a California surfer with dried brine in his hair.
Gnarly.
I have gnarly blisters.
I wait for Riley to return and spend the time letting my mind wander from the word "gnarly" to dinosaur meat, to my bizarrely intense response to physical contact with Riley.
With other people—men in particular— who have made contact with me, my response is to recoil, sometimes rather violently.
Yet with Riley, I do not recoil. I am uncertain if this means I enjoy the contact or not, but it is certainly unusual.
Before I can wander too far down that rabbit hole of thought, Riley enters the living room with a single red, square ceramic plate piled high with chicken nuggets and mozzarella sticks. He also has two small bowls, one filled with ketchup, the other with ranch.
"Here we go," he says, setting the plate and bowls on the low wood coffee table. "Now, drinks. I've got Diet Coke, beer, water, and a bottle of Crown Royal."
"I believe ice water would suffice, thank you, Riley."
"Boring! Two beers, you say? Comin' up."
"No, I said—"
He's gone already, though. I hear the fridge open and close, and then the crack-hiss of beer tops being wrenched off. He appears with two green bottles and hands me one. "Here you go."
I stare at the proffered bottle. "I…I have never had alcohol."
"Uh, is that, like, a religious thing?"
I shake my head. "Not exactly. It is a personal choice influenced both by my spiritual upbringing and by my own convictions."
He pulls the bottle away, clutching them both in his hand. "My bad. Hope I didn't offend you." He tugs a bottle of Spring Mountain from his back pocket, flips it dexterously, and catches it, offering it to me. "Water it is."
I do not take the bottle, however. "I do admit to a certain curiosity regarding the popularity of alcoholic beverages. Beer in particular has existed in the historical record since the days of Ur."
"Er? Er what?"
I giggle at his misunderstanding. "Ur. The Mesopotamian city, one of the first, if not the first cities in human record. Jericho and Gobileki Tepe are also contenders for that particular crown."
"Oh." He makes a face—impressed? "Beer is that old, huh?"
"Oh yes. Some of the oldest writings are recipes and invoices for beer."
"No shit?" He extends the beer to me. "Well, try it. I won't tell no one. 'Sides, one beer ain't gonna get you drunk."
Hesitantly, I take the sweating glass bottle.
Sniff the opening—yeast, malt, and the sourness of fermentation.
I take a sip. Shock rockets through me at the assault of flavors and textures, and I cough.
"My goodness." I cover my mouth with the back of my wrist and cough again. "I am unsure how I feel about that."
He laughs. "Well, like my dad told me when I tried it for the first time, it's an acquired taste. Don't like it, don't feel obligated to finish it." He places the water bottle on the table beside my beer bottle.
"One must always give new experiences a minimum of three attempts," I say. "I shall try a few more sips." I gesture at the plate of food. "I have two questions."
I wait for him to reply, and he just frowns at me after a moment. When I continue to wait for his reply, he frowns at me. "Cadence?"
"You are supposed to ask me what the questions are before I ask them."
He seems puzzled by this. "Oh, uh, yeah. Right. What are the questions?"
"One, is someone else joining us?"
He shakes his head slowly. “No. Why?"
"Because that is far too much food for two people. In case you had not noticed, I am a rather small woman. I do not eat very much."
He chuckles. "I ain't one to assume things, generally speaking. I've known some pretty tiny chicks who can put away a shit-ton of food." He means human females, not actual chicks, I assume. "And two?"
"We are eating here? Not at the dining room table?"
He looks at the table, which is littered with mail, stacks of papers, a mug of pens, and an open laptop. "I eat my meals on the couch, usually. The table is my home office.” He turns his gaze on me, then. "You, uh…you prefer a more formal dining situation? I could clean it off, if you like.”
"Um, no. Thank you. That will not be necessary. I have never eaten dinner on a couch before."
He laughs. "God, you're weird."
I place the nugget I just picked up back on the plate, heart plummeting into my stomach, or so it feels. "I…yes, I suppose I am." I am always aware of how strange I seem to neurotypicals.
He must hear something in my tone, because he looks at me rather sharply. "Cadence, that wasn't an insult. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of an odd guy myself."
"Your version of weird and my version of weird are entirely dissimilar."
He peers at me, his eyes searching my face. "I upset you, huh?"
"I am well aware that I am very unusual. People have taken great pains throughout my life to point it out to me, as if I am unaware of my own oddity."
"So…yes." He ducks his head, trying to make eye contact with me. For his sake, I force myself to endure approximately ten seconds of eye contact. "I apologize, Cadence. I really didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
I cannot help a smile—he sounds genuinely remorseful. "You are forgiven."
"So…we cool?"
I nod. "Yes. We are quite cool."
He cackles. "Quite cool, she says. You're a fuckin' hoot, girl. Never met anyone like you."
"A hoot?" I shake my head. "I am not an owl."
This produces another bemused, amused look from Riley. "No, I…interesting. Funny. Entertaining."
"Oh. I see."
"Quite cool." He holds his fist toward me; uncertain as to what to do, I grab his fist in my hand and shake it up and down.
For reasons which leave me utterly mystified, this causes Riley to break down in gales of laughter so uproarious he falls backward against the couch.
"Jesus…oh god. Jesus, Cadence. Oh boy." Wiping tears of hilarity from the corners of his eyes, he holds out his fist again. "Gimme your hand—make a fist." I do, and he takes me by the wrist and guides my hand against his so our knuckles tap together. "Like that."
"Oh." I frown at him. "Are you laughing at me?"
"No, god no. Not in a mocking sense, at least. You just…were you raised in a commune or something?"
There is simply no easy or quick way to explain my upbringing. "No."
He seems to be waiting for further explanation, which is not forthcoming. "No. Just no?"
“It is a difficult thing to explain, and I am not at all certain you will understand if I try."
"I see." He lets out a breath. "Well, maybe you can try me, someday. If you wanted to. I've been told I'm actually a pretty good listener."
A sharp note in his tone alerts me to the possibility that I may have offended him. "I did not intend offense."
He grins, waves a hand, "Nah, it’s good. I get it. There's a lot I don't understand. One of the super fun perks of never finishing high school."
It takes me a moment to connect his previous statement regarding not finishing school to my insinuation that he would not understand my upbringing.
"Oh. Riley, no. I did not mean it in that sense.
It is not a matter of you not being able to comprehend it, as if it were too complex a concept.
I only meant that my upbringing was rather unusual in a variety of ways. "
"Oh."
"May I ask why you did not attend high school?"
He sighs, eating several nuggets in a row before answering. "I, uh…I attended. I just…didn't get to finish."
My sessions with Dr. Murthy provide me with enough understanding of body language that I realize I should not press the line of questioning. He appears physically uncomfortable, which tells me he does not want to discuss this any further.
"I see." It is all I say.
I attend the food, then; I eat triple what I would normally.
He and I eat in silence, which is not entirely uncomfortable.
There is one mozzarella stick remaining, and he and I both reach for it at the same time.
Our fingers brush, and a spark of something intense bolts through me at the contact—so intense is it that I wonder if there was not an actual, literal spark of static electricity.