Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
George
I quickly unload my truck, tucking the excess produce and flowers I hadn’t sold into the cooler confines of the barn for later.
Madison and I walk toward the cottage, relief spreading over me like butter on a hot biscuit.
Even with the blinding midday sun high in the sky, my day suddenly seems brighter, if that’s even possible.
I did it. I managed to not completely make a fool of myself in front of beautiful Madison. In fact, she was the one who suggested we continue to hang out. I sigh with happiness.
“You must be starving after working all morning outside,” she says. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in some lunch in town before we get started? Anything you want, George. My treat.”
I stop at the stairs leading up to my tiny front porch. Two Adirondack chairs are the only things that fit in the outdoor space overlooking the sparse yard, the deep, red-stained wood standing out against the white clapboard siding of my home.
“Madison, you should probably know something else about me.”
“What?”
The way she looks up at me with those pretty doe eyes has me melting in my boots.
“You said it yourself. I’m different. I’m not like the other guys…”
I don’t know how to tell her that, according to my grandparents, I’m “special.” That’s how they explained it to me in my youth, back when I yearned for nothing more than to belong in the tiny town, to grow, to love, and to be loved.
But my brain was… different, and my neurodiversity impacted my communication and social skills.
Sure, I’ve come a long way since those painful days of youth trying to find my path. And I also know my diversity is a normal, healthy part of my humanity. I have a network of support from over the years, ongoing therapy, and the right amount of medication to soften my severe OCD.
“But I’m not disabled,” I proclaim a little too loudly, interrupting my silent dialogue.
“I never said you were.” She palms the porch post, and right away, I notice her painted fingernails, the white stripe across the edges highlighting the length, each lovely finger perfect.
“I know,” I reply.
“What exactly are you trying to tell me, George? Are you sick or something?”
“No. I’m not sick. I’m… I’m on the autism spectrum.”
“Oh.” She seems to ponder my words for a moment. “Is it fatal?”
No one has ever been this blunt with me, and I can’t help but chuckle. “N… no. It’s not fatal. It’s not a disease.”
“Good.” She smiles. “So, what’s the problem?”
I shift nervously and have a hard time looking her in the eye.
“We can’t go into town for lunch because I struggle with crowds, noise, and talking to people.
I have difficulty finding the right words in the right sequence at the right time.
It’s very frustrating. And when I go into town, I feel like everyone is staring at me, feeling sorry for me. ”
“Well, they are probably staring at you because you’re handsome, and they’ve known you for your entire life. They’re also probably shocked because you made a rare appearance that wasn’t at your produce stand.”
The strong column of my throat moves in a heavy swallow. Madison thinks I’m handsome.
“Folks around here know I struggle with certain things. It’s never been a secret.”
She confidently walks up the porch stairs, turns around, and says, “You want to know what I think? I think some of your struggles are in your head.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I'm caught off guard by her directness. “Maybe. But there’s another reason why we can’t go into town and have lunch. And fair warning, this is where things get kind of… weird.”
“Lay it in on me, George.”
I clear my throat. “On Saturdays, I always make the same thing for lunch. A peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich. It’s part of my routine. I’m obsessed with sameness. There. I said it.”
I’m now sweating profusely, my nerves on edge with being so blatantly honest with Madison. But as hard as it is to admit my idiosyncrasies, I’m oddly at ease talking to her about it.
Her eyes light up above her smile as she reaches for me and squeezes my arm. “Well, you’re in luck! I happen to love peanut butter and strawberry jam.”
An hour later, I clear our dishes from my tiny kitchen table. Our impromptu lunch date has been effortless, and the conversation has never been boring or forced.
“Please, let me help,” Madison insists, rising from her chair.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it. It’s part of my routine.”
She sits back down, and Frankie meows at her feet. She pats her lap, and my ordinarily finicky cat hops up without hesitation. The animal settles as she strokes her fur. “I must say, you make a mean sandwich.”
I scowl and look over my shoulder, hands in the sudsy water of my sink. In moments like this, when someone says something that doesn’t quite compute in my brain, I get confused. I need clarification. “A ‘mean’ sandwich?”
She seems to track with me and explains herself without rolling her eyes or letting out a heavy sigh like others often do. “Delicious. Perfect. Not ‘mean’ like angry. Sorry if that’s what you thought.”
“No, I appreciate your explanation.”
“Do words often confuse you, George?”
She carefully sets Frankie on the floor, stands, and approaches me. She picks up a nearby hand towel, and I pass a dripping plate to her as if we’ve been washing dishes together for years.
“Yes. Words can be confusing. But I can usually figure them out. And it helps when people clarify like you did.”
“What else confuses you?”
Without hesitation, I answer her with a hearty laugh. “Math.”
“Math is hard for me too,” she admits with a giggle. When her eyes dart outside the window above the sink, she audibly gasps. “Wow. Your view here is breathtaking.”
I follow her gaze and look outside. The view is one of the main reasons I moved into the cottage to begin with—well, that and finally being bold enough to live on my own.
The kitchen window holds a vantage point that allows me to look down on the purple glow of the lavender fields, the flowers, the vegetables, the windmill, and Pine Mountain Ridge. It’s quiet and peaceful.
My own little paradise.
I sneak a sideways glance at Madison’s pretty profile, her eyes taking in the scenery before us.
She is absolutely gorgeous. Angelic even.
Lithe with perfect posture and warm brown eyes reminding me of heated syrup.
I like her painted fingertips and light brown hair trailing down her back in a ponytail.
The way her exposed skin reminds me of the petals of a pale pink rose.
Never has a woman looked so pretty, so honest. She seems like somebody I can depend on. And I need that in my life.
I realize she is a breath of what forever might look like in my lonely world, and it startles me to my core.
Suddenly, Madison shrieks and Frankie darts out of the kitchen in a blur of speckled fur.
While daydreaming about Madison, the clear glass I’d been washing slipped from my fingers and shattered against the countertop. I blink at the pressure building behind my eyes, too stunned to make a move.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just a broken glass.” She gently pulls me away from the sink and toward the table. “You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”
She holds my hands and turns them from side to side, looking for signs of injury. When she can’t find anything, she gently wipes my hands with a dry kitchen towel.
“N… no. I’m fine,” I manage to say. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was an accident.”
Our eyes meet, and something searing and honest passes between us. I like the way her hands feel in mine. I like the way she doesn’t chastise me for breaking the glass. For not making me feel like a stupid fool because of my mistake.
“Come here,” she says, pulling me into her arms for a hug.
I stiffen for a beat before my entire body melts with relief.
Her skin smells of lavender and summer sun, and I boldly tuck my nose into the space right below her ear, breathing her in.
It’s just the two of us in my sun-glazed kitchen, the warmth of her body pressed against mine.
With eyes closed, I hold back from dragging my nose along the smooth line of her throat, tempted to press a faint kiss against her skin.
“George?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me about the last place you felt completely at ease?”
It comes to me instantly, my mind scrolling through snapshots of my day with detailed images.
A well-worn path beneath my boots. Sun puddles after a deluge of much-needed rain.
Dirt roads and a big red barn with a windmill in the distance.
Rows and rows of lavender, the scent lingering in my hair, clothes, and on my fingers.
A pretty girl stopping by my produce stand who isn’t a mirage.
Sharing a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich at the two-person kitchen table.
I feel myself relax and take a deep breath. “Right here.”
She pulls back from me, her heartbreaker brown eyes pinning me with her stare. We’re quiet for a moment, and I study our fingers laced together between us. My chest feels too small for my heart, and I struggle to breathe. But I don’t let go.
“You want to know something, George?” she asks.
“What?”
“Today might not have been the day you or I planned, but it’s definitely been a day I needed. Thank you for adjusting your routine and allowing me to join you.”
Her smile tips up into something beautiful. I want to stamp that image on my memory for the nights when I feel lonely and friendless.
“Today has been a great day,” I boldly proclaim.
“I agree.” She lets go of my hands. “Now, why don’t you get your flowers together so you can show me how you arrange them. I’ll clean up this broken glass. Can you point me in the direction of your broom?”
I like how she takes charge, never making me feel like an idiot or that I’ve done something wrong.
“It’s in the closet right over there.” I point to the small door next to the refrigerator.
“Great.”
I watch her grab the broom and pause. My heart thrums as she looks me square in the face and says, “You’re always safe with me, George. I promise.”
I keep quiet and nod. She starts cleaning up the broken glass, and I head to the front porch to get the utility bucket full of flowers I’d gathered earlier that morning.
And that’s when it dawns on me… Madison is staying.
I palm the porch post and exhale the deep breath I’ve been holding. I’d give up my daily routine a million times over just to be near her for a second more. But I don’t have to.
She’s willingly staying on her own.
And she’s right. It’s not a hard adjustment. In fact, being around her is easy, even when I make a mistake. Maybe she’s right after all? Maybe most of my angst is all in my head?
This is a breakthrough for me. This is progress.
And there is no way I can hide this kind of happy.