Chapter 8 #2
"Cadence, I…" I know I should let her go.
I'll never be the man she wants, the man she deserves.
The question is if I'm strong enough to make that clear to her without hurting her.
"I'm not a man of faith. I don't know if I believe in God, and if I did, I'd have a fuck-ton of questions for the bastard.
Sorry, I just…I don't wanna mislead you, or lead you on. I sure as fuck don't wanna hurt you."
"We shared a kiss, Riley." She pats my chest. "You are under no obligation to me.
You have done more for me than anyone ever has, in so many ways.
You have shown me such wonderful kindness, generosity, and compassion.
You have taken care of me in ways I have never known before, and it has been eye-opening.
But our kiss, it does not bind you to me.
I do not expect anything from you. Now, or ever.
It was a lovely, beautiful kiss, and I shall treasure it all my days.
You need not worry, however, that I shall be waiting for you to…
oh, I do not know. Convert for me. Or ask my father for my hand.
I am well aware that this is not that, for you. "
"Cadence…shit. It wasn't just a kiss, though. I meant that. Truth is, I don't know what the fuck it was, but it…I…” I pull away entirely, turn around, and cover my face, letting out a sigh. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."
I'm panicking. Hard.
This shit is too damn much, too damn fast—for me. The shit this girl makes me feel is…honestly, fucking outright terrifying.
She opens her mouth to say something, but my phone jangles in my back pocket just then, startling us both.
I slide it from my pocket, pathetically grateful for the out. I glance at the screen before answering. "Yo, bro." I fake a breezy tone I don't feel. "How's married life, Fee?"
"Same as before, but married." He laughs. “Nah, it's great. She's just two seconds from popping, and she can't wait to get this baby outta her belly."
"Yeah, I can't even begin to imagine, man."
"Me either." He pauses. "So, you ditched me at my wedding."
"I just bounced a little early, that's all."
"Heard you didn't even have one drink."
"Wasn’t in the drinking mood."
"Nuptial bliss too real for you?" He quips, needling what he knows is a sore spot for me.
"Fuck off," I groan. "Why are you bothering me right now? I'm busy."
"No, you're not. I just heard from Cole. Ember and I want to meet this hot doctor you've been parading around town, holding hands with and setting up a fundraiser for…without calling me, your brother, or your new sister-in-law."
"Fee," I start.
"No. You're bringing her over, right now. And then we're meeting the rest of the gang at The Cellar."
"Fee—"
"Try to say no, Rye. I fucking double-dog dare you."
I laugh ruefully. "Fuck." I pull the phone away from my face and look at Cadence. "You up to meeting my brother and his wife?"
She positively lights up. "Yes! I would enjoy that."
Shit.
"We're in," I say to Felix. "Be there in a minute."
"Cool. See ya soon, loser."
Ah, Felix. He used to always be so serious. And then he met Ember, and she changed him for the better. Now, he's light-hearted and goofy, and down to playfully insult each other like old times.
I can't help wondering if I could have that. Someday.
My gaze goes to Cadence, for some reason, when that thought barrels through my brain.
She's grinning like a fool, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Should I change?" She looks down at herself and then frowns. "I do not have any other clothing, unfortunately. I was not anticipating a stay in Three Rivers beyond a single night at the Crenshaws."
I can't stop myself from chuckling as I tuck a flyaway curl behind her ear. "You're perfect just like that, Gorgeous."
She blushes. "Riley…" her gaze flits to mine, uncertain and hopeful. "Do you really think I'm…gorgeous?"
"I could spend the whole fuckin' night tryin' to show you how unbearably sexy you are and still not get close to the truth of it."
Her mouth forms a round O. "Riley, are you—are you implying—"
I run my thumb over her red-again cheek. "Yeah, babe."
Her head lolls forward to thunk against my chest, and she groans. "You should not say such things to me, Riley."
"I know. I'm a bad, bad boy."
"You jest, I know. But I…” she exhales sharply. "I know what lies beyond kissing, of course. My difficulty with being touched by others has long rendered that an impossibility for me…in my own mind, at least. But with you, I—"
"Whoa, hold up. Sorry to cut you off, but…you don't like being touched?" I'm incredulous and horrified. "I've been…fuck me, Cadence, I've been pawing at you this whole time and you don’t like—” I turn away, furious at myself. "Jesus. Why didn't you say anything?"
She steps into me, erasing the distance I'd put between us.
"Because, as I was about to say, with you, it is different.
I do not know why or how. But I…" she blushes again.
"I like it. Rather more than I should, maybe.
When other people touch me—and I mean any kind of physical contact—it makes me uncomfortable, at best. The intensity of my reaction varies based on my impression of the person.
My parents, whom I love, I can hug. But everyone else, until I met you, I…
I cannot. It makes my skin crawl. I cannot tolerate it. It is even worse than denim."
I laugh. "You really hate jeans, huh?"
She shudders. "Ugh! It is the worst texture on earth. It feels like wearing sandpaper against my skin, and in truth, I'd rather the sandpaper."
I look down at my jeans. "I've worn this pair most of this week. I live in denim."
She frowns. “Is that not unhygienic?”
"Nope." I grin and rub my hands together. "Wait! Do I know something scientific that you don't?"
She seems truly stunned by this development. "That remains to be seen, does it not?"
"This dude, I think it was a dude, I dunno, but he was a science major, right? And he wore his jeans, like, over and over again, and his peers were giving him shit about it being gross. So he did a study. He wore the same pair of jeans for, like, fifteen months without washing them."
Her stunned expression morphs into disgust. "That is…barbarous."
"I'd agree, except for what science boy discovered," I say.
She frowns. "I hesitate to ask, but…what did he discover?"
"Well, after the fifteen months or whatever it was, he tested the bacteria level in the jeans, washed them, wore them for two weeks, and then tested them again." I pause for dramatic effect. "The difference in bacteria levels was negligible."
She looks away, visibly turning the information over in her brain.
"Hmmmm. That is an interesting and unexpected result. Bacterial levels do not equate to hygiene and odor, however, nor how visibly soiled the item might be. After fifteen months without being washed, I cannot imagine those jeans smelled very good, regardless of the presence or absence of bacteria.”
I laugh. "That did occur to me. But my point is that you don't need to wash jeans after every wear, or even after a few, unless they're visibly dirty, stained, or smelly. And to be clear, I do wash my jeans regularly. Just not, like, frequently. These don't look or smell dirty, do they?"
She shrugs and shakes her head. "No, they do not." She indicates the jeans I'm wearing with a flick of her finger. "You will still never catch me in denim."
I cup her arm, sliding my hand from elbow to shoulder. "So, when I do that? How does it make you feel, or react?"
She shudders. "I enjoy it." She frowns, thinking. “It is…a frisson."
"Don't know what that means."
"A brief, intense physical reaction to an emotional stimulus," she says, again sounding like she's quoting from memory. "When you listen to music and it strikes an intense emotional chord within you and experience a piloerective response, often accompanied by a shiver or shudder."
"Pee-loh-what?" I ask.
"Piloerective response. Goosebumps."
"So you're saying you have an intense physical response to me touching you?" I ask.
She nods. "Yes. I do."
"But a good one?"
Another nod. "Yes. Most unusually, I might add. It is…somewhat disconcerting, I must say. My whole life, I have been largely disconnected from my body, primarily as a defensive response to my sensory issues."
"I guess I don't totally understand what you mean by sensory issues."
She sighs. “It is an aspect of autism and ADHD.
It manifests in a variety of ways from person to person, and can be just about anything.
For some, it's bright lights and loud noises—these things bother everyone to a degree, but for someone with ASD or ADHD, it is markedly more intense.
A decibel level that is normal and acceptable to you might be overwhelming to the point of physical pain to the neurodivergent individual.
A bright sunny day may be wonderful to you, but that same sunny day might be agony to the autistic person.
It can be specific things, such as crunchy foods or slimy things, or the scent of diesel exhaust, or the flavor of mint.
For me, it is rough textures, generally.
Denim against my skin, in particular. The scratchy type of wool is another personal example, although I do quite like merino wool and cashmere.
I dislike constrictive clothing—cuffed sweatpants, tight skirts or dresses, tight leggings. "
"So you don't wear yoga pants?" I ask.
"No. The material is soft, but they are too tight. It feels like my lower half is suffocating." She sniffs a laugh. "Why do you look…disappointed?"
I laugh out loud. "Because that fine ass of yours would look pretty fuckin' stunning in a pair of yoga pants."
She blushes, averts her gaze from mine. "Riley, my goodness. You seem to have a fixation with my backside."
“Yup.”
"I am sorry to disappoint you, then, because that is something you will never see." Her smile is…teasing.