Chapter 6
RILEY
Igotta admit, her abrupt exit and subsequent statue act is a little freaky. Maybe freaky is the wrong word. Weird. I dunno. But her implication that I have to think something is wrong with her is a big, fat megaphone for her insecurities.
The drive back to my place is short and silent. I let her be, since it seems like when she's silent like this, it's best to just let her do what she needs to do.
The tears, though, man. Fuck, they kill me. When she looked up at me with those big green eyes all wet with tears, looking so lost and so hurt and so lonely, I just…
I wanted to kiss her. So motherfucking bad, I wanted to kiss her. I didn’t, because she deserves better than my bitch ass. This girl is a legit, certified genius, more saintly than Mother Theresa, and unless I'm way wrong, as innocent as I am the opposite.
I settled for kissing her tears away, which was a mistake. Just another nail in the coffin of my feelings, which will be decimated when she busts the fuck outta here for Africa, never to return.
We pull into the garage, and as seems to be the case with her, she doesn’t realize it. I don’t mind. It gives me an opportunity to look like I have manners when I open the door for her. If nothing else, it puts her soft, warm little hand in mind, and fuck, I love that.
Walking around downtown Three Rivers with her, holding her hand?
Man, I felt about ten feet tall. That girl?
A 24-year-old Harvard-educated doctor, a missionary who speaks like a dozen fucking languages, who's drop-dead goddamned gorgeous to boot?
She's so far outta my fuckin' league it ain't even funny.
I can't even see her league from where I am.
Yet she doesn't seem to realize it.
Yet.
Once we're in the house, she beelines for the couch and sits down, palms on her knees, back straight as a ruler, and…does nothing.
She doesn't blink, barely breathes. Just sits there, staring at nothing.
But this seems to be how she thinks or copes or processes or whatever, so I leave her to it. I've got a handful of emails to go through—bios from inmates hoping for a slot in my program. I grab my laptop from the table and sit near her, but not touching, and start reading.
This only lasts for a few minutes—enough time to read through the first bio—and she…emerges, I suppose.
She blinks, looks around, sees me. "Riley."
"Cadence."
She clears her throat delicately. "I am sorry."
I close my laptop and set it aside. "For?"
"Embarrassing you in front of Sheriff Mannix. Freezing on the street. Zoning out just now."
"You didn't embarrass me, Cadence."
"But my faux pas—"
"What's a fo-paw?" God, I feel dumb around her.
"An embarrassing or tactless act or remark in a social situation."
"Oh. What faux pas would that be?"
She frowns at me. "My misunderstanding of his request to keep you out of trouble and my subsequent tasteless exit." She shakes her head. "Sheriff Mannix responded with grace, as you and all of your friends have. But it is mortifying nonetheless."
"It was a misunderstanding, Cadence. Not a big deal."
She shakes her head. "I do not mean to be rude, but are you being intentionally obtuse?"
"Obtuse? Like a triangle?" I hold up my hands before she can reply. "Kidding. I do know that word. Look, I…" I let out a long, slow breath. "I will admit to a certain amount of curiosity. But you don't owe me any explanations."
"I feel that I do," she says. "You have been so patient and kind with me, and despite how many questions you must have, you have not pressed when you would be well within your rights to do so."
"No one has any right to demand answers from anyone, Cadence.
" I tip my head to the side. "I mean, sure, there are circumstances where answers can be expected.
But we just met. I'm helping you because I want to.
I'm choosing to. That doesn't put any kind of burden or obligation on you. None whatsoever."
Cadence is quiet for a moment and then turns on the couch to angle toward me. "I am autistic."
"Okay." I'm not sure what to make of that.
She seems to be waiting for more. "Okay? That is your only response?"
I shrug. "I mean, yeah. I don't know much about it, to be honest. I've heard people talk about the spectrum or whatever, but the god's honest truth is I'm ignorant as fuck about what it really means. I don't know what autism is, and I don't understand how it can be a spectrum."
She considers her response for several silent moments. "Many things in this world exist on a spectrum. Physical things, like light and color. Human conditions, such as autism or addiction."
"Addiction is a spectrum?"
"Well, certainly," she responds, as if it's obvious.
“It is obviously not merely binary, correct?
Consider these differing hypothetical scenarios, if you will.
There is a man, let us call him Roger. Roger has a normal life.
He is married, he has children, and he has a job.
He loves his wife and children and is content enough at his job.
He has no obvious, major stressors beyond those of normal human existence—bills, traffic, family problems, marital disagreements.
Roger, when he returns home from work, immediately opens a beer.
A second. A third. Perhaps he drinks beer through dinner, and while watching a television program with his wife.
He does this every night. He cannot fathom not doing so.
But yet, he is never violent. He does not yell at or harm his wife or children.
He arrives at work on time and is productive.
But yet, every night, he drinks his beer, hour after hour, and if you told him he could not, can you imagine his response? "
I absorb this. "He'd flip his wig."
"By which I assume you mean he would be greatly displeased."
"Right."
"Is Roger addicted?" she asks. "Is he an alcoholic simply because his addiction is not problematic in the stereotypical sense?
" She doesn't wait for an answer. “Now consider an alternative scenario.
A woman named…Rachel. Rachel is unhappy.
Rachel hates her job. She hates her husband.
She does not hate her children, perhaps, but they stress her out—everything in her life stresses her out.
Rachel drinks wine until she cannot function.
But not every night. Not every day. Some days she only has a glass or two.
But sometimes, it spirals out of control and becomes problematic.
Is she more or less addicted than Roger?
Roger drinks every single day, and he drinks quite a lot.
Rachel only drinks sometimes." She displays her hands, like see?
"Someone who goes to the bar every night but never gets drunk.
Someone who binges, but only on Friday and Saturday nights.
The person who drinks a whole bottle of vodka or whiskey every day.
These are examples of the spectrum of alcohol addiction.
They do not look the same on every person.
Some have it more severely than others. That is a spectrum. "
"Fuck, dude. I never thought about it like that."
She smiles. "This is something I have studied rather intensely. So now, autism."
"What is it? Like, pretend I don’t know jack shit. Not that you have to pretend."
Once again, she speaks as if reciting a textbook definition.
"Autism Spectrum Disorder is a condition characterized by difficulties or differences in social communication and/or interaction, an intense need for predictability and routine, sensory processing difficulties, a tendency to hyperfixate on areas of personal interest, and repetitive behaviors. "
I blink, processing. “Uhhh, you're gonna have to break all that down for me, sweetheart. That was a lot."
"Very well." She's sitting in perfect posture—back perfectly straight, chin high, hands folded on her lap, knees together; regal, that's the only word for it.
"Let us go through the definition piece by piece, as it relates to me.
First, difficulties or differences in social communication or interaction.
This is the one that is most glaring, with me.
ASD, Autism Spectrum Disorder, means that my brain is wired differently from yours.
Very, very differently. I have a hard, if not impossible, time understanding the emotions of others.
Not merely emotions—facial expressions. Nuances of verbal expression.
When you look at your good friend, Sheriff Cole Mannix, for example.
If he makes this face—" she scowls. "You would interpret that how? "
I shrug. "Depends."
"On what?"
"Context. He could be thinking. He could be mad. He could just be concentrating. He might be trying to fart."
"Precisely. A scowl can mean many things. My brain only sees it as anger. And a scowl is a fairly broad expression, correct? It is not subtle." She blinks. "Trying to fart?"
I laugh. "Caught that, huh?"
She shrugs, nodding. “It is a valid answer.
Anyway, consider the infinite other facial expressions that you, a neurotypical person, easily and automatically interpret on a daily basis.
If you say something inappropriate, you can tell that you have made someone uncomfortable simply by the way they look at you.
I, on the other hand, will not be able to see that.
I will miss the nuance of facial expression. "
I hum thoughtfully. "I'm following you so far."
"Now consider verbal social expression. This is where, more than anything, I struggle the most."
"Verbal social expression," I say, “You mean…talking?"