Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
HATTIE
I have a boyfriend.
Me. Hattie Mercier. The Aspie-dazzled!
I have a boyfriend, and he is normal.
Well, he may not be normal. Normal is usually boring. He’s better than normal. The point is he’s neurotypical and yet he chose me as his girlfriend.
When he asked last week if we could be exclusive, my jaw could’ve bounced off the ground.
Exclusive.
As if guys are beating down the door to date me.
But, honestly, that’s how Beck treats me. Like I’m the kind of girl who has all sorts of options. Like—and these are his words—he’s the lucky one.
Holy crap.
Make no mistake, I know the truth of it. Who has two thumbs and is the lucky one?
This gal.
The Tism-tacular, a.k.a., The Lucky One.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I smile when I see his name on the screen.
Beck: Happy Saturday, Beautiful.
It’s two weeks before Margaret and Merrick’s “Big Day,” and I’m in the back seat of Mom’s Tahoe, but Dad is driving. Odd, but not unprecedented.
Mom and I just had the final fitting for our dresses. It’s also odd that Dad joined us for this because he sure as heck didn’t come to any of the other fittings or the ten thousand places we went dress shopping after Margaret and Merrick got engaged.
Of course, this was probably the fastest fitting appointment we’ve had during this whole ordeal.
The dresses fit exactly the same as they did last time we tried them on, and I don’t think the seamstress did anything different in the interim, so I suspect Mom was worried I’d put on weight before the wedding and would need an emergency alteration.
But that didn’t happen, thank God, because I’m putting that scratch-fest on one more time and only one more time.
Now the scratch-fest is sleeved in plastic and hanging from the grab bar on the other side of the car where it can’t touch me, and Beck just texted, so, all in all, it is a Happy Saturday.
Me: HAPPY SATURDAY! HOW’S THE HARVESTING?
I know Beck is working the harvester today because he said they were skipping the Farmer’s Market this week. When we talked on the phone last night, he told me he has some big decisions to make for the farm and bringing in the rest of the harvest sooner was critical to that.
He seemed stressed but didn’t want to talk more about it, so I didn’t press.
Beck: Making good progress. Breaking for lunch. So, tell me. How were they??
He doesn’t have to clarify. He’s referring to the sweet potatoes—the ones he sent home with me last week. This was a smart move on his part because I think it impressed Dad. Mom might have been impressed too, but she still made noise about them being carb heavy and full of sugars.
In fact, when I asked if we could have them with dinner that night, she wrinkled her nose and said she’d think about it.
Yes. I know. They are my sweet potatoes, and, even though I’ve never done it before, the internet says that baking sweet potatoes is pretty straight forward.
Line a cooking sheet with parchment to catch the excess syrup so it doesn’t turn to caramelized charcoal in your oven, and bake at 425 for forty-five minutes. Voila.
But as I may have mentioned, Mom is weird about me using her kitchen. Most likely because she’s happier when she’s the one prepping my food.
You know. Because of the macros.
I bugged her for a week and a half before she caved and said she’d make sweet potato pancakes for breakfast today for my Saturday Splurge.
Her term, not mine.
Me: THEY WERE DELICIOUS, NATURALLY! THANK YOU, AGAIN.
I had snapped a picture of my short stack with butter and sugar-free syrup for Beck, but I knew he was working by the time I sent it. Still, he had to know they were heavenly.
Beck: You’re welcome. More where those came from. Whatcha doing now?
Me: HEADED HOME FROM LE JOUR WITH THE PARENTS. MARGARET’S BACHELORETTE PARTY IS TONIGHT. I NEED TO REST UP SO I DON’T OVERSTIM ON THE PARTY BUS.
Beck: Dreading or looking forward to it?
I consider the question.
Me: BOTH. I KNOW IT’LL BE TOO MUCH. BUT I ALSO DON’T WANT TO MISS OUT SINCE MARGARET IS BASICALLY MY FAVORITE PERSON.
Even as I type this, I’m aware that Beck is giving my older sister a serious run for her money in the Favorite Person department.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the whole Sisters Before Misters Code, but Margaret has disappointed me more than once lately, what with the secret move to Colorado and being in on the whole How Will We Manage Hattie’s Life Conspiracy.
But Beck?
Beck has never disappointed me.
Granted, I’ve only known him a couple of weeks—and we’ve had a grand total of four dates—but, so far, he has repeatedly and unfailingly made me feel good about myself. Every time we meet, talk, or text.
Plus, he tastes good. And I crave touching him again like Bluey craves fruit salad.
Beck: Text me if it gets to be too much and you need an extraction. I’ll come get you.
My heart does this little swoopy thing at this thought. I almost want the bachelorette party to be too much. The thought of Beck coming to get me—from anywhere for any reason—makes me feel… hell, like The Lucky One.
But I try to tame the heart swoops.
Me: YOU ARE WORKING YOURSELF TO THE BONE. YOU DON’T NEED TO BE DRIVING FROM CARENCRO TO COME FETCH ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.
This is beyond true. It is also the reason our last two dates have been 1) last Friday morning when I rode around town with him to make sweet potato deliveries and 2) this Thursday evening when I went back to his house to binge-watch Dept.
Q, and Beck fell asleep with his head in my lap ten minutes into the second episode.
I’m not complaining. Beck is adorable when he sleeps.
Still, I would have preferred more kissing. More touching.
And less clothing.
But between Beck’s harvesting push, working in his distillery, and taking care of his dad, Beck mostly has just had his lunch break and a few minutes at night after his shower to talk to me before he collapses—though the number of times he texts me even briefly throughout the day has grown exponentially.
And he tries to squeeze in other moments. A call when he tucked the phone against his shoulder while he made a stir fry for dinner. A long text thread while he sat in the waiting room at his dad’s doctor’s appointment yesterday. Things like that.
Beck: Hattie, honey, are you paying attention?
I frown at my phone.
Me: YEAH…??
The dots on my screen bounce for a few seconds.
Beck: Good. Because I want to make sure you get this. Yes, the harvest is important. Yes, sleep is important. Are they more important than you? Hell, no. You need me, you call. Day or night. Got it?
A flush starts under my ribs and climbs its way up my body until my face is warm and rosy.
You need me, you call. Day or night.
I’ve never had this. A someone. It’s a little disorienting, but in the best way possible. Like the sensation of falling but knowing you’re safe. Like on a trampoline or strapped into a roller coaster.
Exhilarating.
I stare at his words for a minute and then my fingers are flying.
Me: YEAH, I GOT IT, BUT DO YOU GOT IT? IF YOU NEED ME FOR ANY REASON, YOU HAVE TO CALL ME, TOO. OKAY???
Beck hearts my message.
Beck: You should see my smile.
Me: I MEAN, YOUR PHONE HAS A CAMERA. JUST SAYIN’.
And then a picture of him laughing fills my screen. I snort because it’s so cute. He’s outside, sitting under an oak tree where I know he likes to have lunch, and his eyes are squinty, and his perfect teeth glint in the sun.
I heart the message and save it to my phone.
“What’s so funny back there?” Dad asks, and I’m hit with a kind of existential whiplash.
Wow. Almost forgot I was in the car with my parents.
Dad’s glancing at me in the rearview. I try to get my grin under control.
“Just talking to Beck.” I try to sound chill, but even I hear that I’m trying to try to sound chill.
Mom glances over her shoulder at me. Her mouth is a flat line. It’s the look she wears anytime I mention Beck.
“I see,” Dad says—in a very TV Dad voice. “So, when do we get to meet him?” he asks for about the twelfth time.
I roll my eyes. “Still only had four dates, Dad.”
“Mmm hmm.” He hums, and I catch him and Mom eyeing each other.
Have I told them that Beck and I are exclusive? Hell, no. I learned my lesson. My family—including Margaret, though it pains me to say it—are in a strictly need-to-know zone when it comes to my romantic life.
But, I’ll admit, they are noticing a lot.
Me smiling at my phone.
Me shutting myself in my room to talk to Beck.
Me staring off into space thinking of unbuttoning Beck’s shirt.
We’re on West St. Mary Boulevard, just a few blocks from home, so I’ll be away from their prying eyes before Beck has to get back on the harvester. Maybe I can call him and hear his voice.
But instead of traveling through the intersection of St. Mary and Congress, Dad flips his blinker and pulls into the center lane. Mom whips her head at him as he slows.
“Randy?” she asks, but he’s already making a left turn into a parking lot. It’s the one with a long row of little townhouses that we pass nearly every day.
I look between Mom and Dad. Mom’s frowning, but Dad’s wearing a sneaky grin.
“Randall?”
Uh oh.
“Hillary, just try to keep an open mind, okay?”
Mom’s mouth opens and closes, but no sounds come out. Dad slows and then pulls into a parking spot, muttering. “Think this is it.” Then he cuts the engine.
I do a sweep of the little brick and stucco cookie cutter townhomes, each with a distinct color palette on the front wall and window shutters.
The stucco on the one directly in front of us is a shade of pumpkin I quite like with sage green shutters and trim.
The front door is a green about three shades darker than the trim. Pretty.
Dad grins at me over his shoulder. “Wanna take a look, Hats?”
“Wh-what?”
Dad tilts his head toward the unit. “My buddy Hunter is selling it.” He raises a hand and shakes out a set of keys. “I’m thinking of buying.”