22. Ty
TY
The chair is too comfortable. That’s my first thought, which is not the point of being here, but it’s the one that sticks as I sit across from Dr. Hale, hands loosely clasped, trying not to overthink the way the cushion dips just slightly under my weight.
“I’m proud of you,” she says, and it lands clean. No hesitation. No qualifiers. “You’ve taken this on in a way a lot of people don’t.”
I stare out the window at the blue sky. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” She leans back slightly, studying me. “You followed through on your homework. You didn’t avoid the hard parts.” A small smile. “You really did go all in.”
I glance down at my hands, flex my fingers once. “That’s kind of my thing.”
“It is,” she agrees gently. “And when it’s working for you, it’s a strength.”
I nod, because I know that now. Or I’m starting to.
I shift slightly in the chair. “I’m still seeing that person I told you about.”
Her expression warms, interest sparking but not crowding the space. “Okay.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “I think I—” I stop, reset. “I think I could see something real there.”
“With her.”
“Yeah.”
Dr. Hale nods once. “That’s good, Ty.”
I let out a breath, something tight in my chest easing just a fraction.
“Have you talked to her about where you are?” she asks. “With everything we’ve been working on?”
“I have,” I say. “I told her about therapy. That I’m figuring things out.”
“And how did that go?”
“She didn’t flinch,” I say finally. “Didn’t make it a big deal at all.”
“That sounds like a positive response.”
“Yeah.” It should feel simple, but it doesn’t.
I lean forward slightly, elbows braced on my knees. “I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Why she’d want me.”
The words come out before I can smooth them over.
Dr. Hale doesn’t react. Not outwardly. She taps her pen, and waits, while I shake my head, a short, frustrated movement.
“She’s…” I let out a breath, searching for something that feels accurate. “She’s got it all together. She runs her own business. She’s creative. People like being around her. She makes people feel lighter.”
I glance up, meet Dr. Hale’s eyes. “She doesn’t fit in any box anyone tries to put her in. She is who she is, and it works. And me?” I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I feel like something that’s still coming together, if that makes sense?”
It sits there between us. Honest, ugly, and true in a way I don’t like.
Dr. Hale tilts her head slightly, considering me with that same steady calm. “It makes complete sense, but it’s fine to be a work in progress and to also try new things, like dating someone. That should be the fun part.”
I exhale, because that’s easy for her to say.
“I know it feels different for you,” she adds, not letting me off the hook. “But what you’re describing is a different way of processing, responding, and experiencing the world.”
I look away, jaw tightening slightly.
“Ty,” she says gently, “what we’re talking about—your diagnosis—falls under Autism Spectrum Disorder.”
I nod once. We’ve said that part out loud before.
“But it’s important to understand that autism isn’t one fixed presentation,” she continues. “It’s a spectrum for a reason. There are a lot of different ways it shows up.”
I shift back in the chair, listening despite myself.
“In the past,” she says, “you might have heard terms like Asperger’s syndrome.”
I glance at her. “Yeah. I’ve heard that.”
“It used to be a separate diagnosis,” she explains.
“Typically used for individuals who didn’t have language delays and who were considered ‘high-functioning’—people who could navigate school, work, relationships, but still experienced significant differences in social communication, sensory processing, or cognitive patterns. ”
“That sounds…” I hesitate. “Close and familiar.”
“It is,” she says. “But the field moved away from that term. It’s no longer used as an official diagnosis. Everything now falls under Autism Spectrum Disorder, because we understand that those distinctions were often arbitrary, and sometimes misleading.”
I nod slowly.
“So what I have—” I start.
“—would likely have been labeled Asperger’s in the past,” she finishes for me. “Yes.”
I let that sit. It feels…clarifying. And not.
“But here’s the important part,” she continues. “Your brain processes information in a way that can be incredibly focused, incredibly detailed, and deeply committed. You form strong connections. You care intensely.”
I let out a quiet breath. All of these things she says feel true.
“You also experience things differently,” she adds. “Overstimulation. Processing delays. The need to mask in certain environments to feel safe. But none of that makes you less worthy of a relationship. It means you bring a different set of strengths and challenges into one.”
I glance back at her.
“She isn’t choosing a version of you that doesn’t exist,” Dr. Hale continues. “She’s choosing you as you are. The question isn’t why she would want you.”
A small pause.
“It’s whether you’re willing to believe that she can.”
I sit back, exhaling slowly, my mind already trying to turn it over, pick it apart, make sense of it.
Because wanting her? That part is easy.
But believing she could want me back? That’s the work.
Dr. Hale watches me for a second longer, like she’s letting everything settle before she moves on.
“You’re doing really well, Ty,” she says, and this time there’s a little more weight behind it. “Not just with the work here, but with your awareness. With how you’re applying it in your life.”
I let out a quiet breath, some of that tightness easing again. “Doesn’t feel like it all the time.”
“It rarely does. Growth isn’t always comfortable, and for what it’s worth,” she adds, folding her hands loosely in her lap, “you’re not alone. Not even close.”
I take that on board.
“In the last several years, we’ve seen a significant increase in adults being diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder,” she continues. “Partly because our understanding has improved. Partly because people like you are recognizing patterns in themselves that were missed earlier.”
She tilts her head slightly. “There are a lot of adults—men and women—who went through school, careers, relationships, all without a name for what they were experiencing. They adapted. They masked. They coped.”
That lands.
“Now they’re getting answers,” she says. “And with that comes clarity. Support. Language. You’re part of that group. You’re not behind. You’re someone who finally has the right information.”
I sit with that. It doesn’t fix everything. But, something is steadier.
“And the fact that you’re doing the work while also opening yourself up to a relationship?” she adds, a hint of a smile returning. “That takes courage.”
I huff out a breath, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “Feels more like bad timing.”
“Or good timing,” she counters. “You’re learning about yourself in real time. That’s not a disadvantage—it’s an opportunity to build something honest from the start.”
I nod slowly.
“Just don’t decide for her what she’s capable of wanting,” she says. “Let her show you.”
I look over at the clock, realizing we’re at the end.
Dr. Hale stands, signaling the wrap. “I’ll see you next week?”
“Yeah,” I say, pushing to my feet. "You're not getting rid of me now.”
We exchange a quick, easy goodbye, and I step out into the hallway, already reaching for my phone. I turn it back on and immediately—
Bing
Bing
Bing bing bing…
My phone lights up like it’s having a meltdown. Messages and missed calls stack on the screen faster than I can process.
Lucy.
Liam.
Vivian.
Vivian.
Vivian.
Vivian.
I frown, a flicker of unease cutting through the calm I just managed to find.
“What the—?” I tap Vivian’s name, and the message opens.
Vivian:
I’m at the hospital with my grandmother.
Everything in me goes still, and then moves at warp speed. I don’t even think about it as I run down the hallway, keys in my hand, heart kicking up hard and sharp in my chest.
No overthinking. No second-guessing.
Just one clear, immediate thought—
Get to her.
Hospitals are loud in a way that doesn’t make sense to me.
Not loud like an arena. Not loud like a crowd.
They’re sharp and layered. The rhythm is constant.
The beeping. Voices. Shoes squeaking against polished floors.
A cart rattles somewhere down a hall while a phone rings that doesn’t get answered fast enough.
It all hits at once when I walk through the doors, and my brain does that thing where it tries to take all of it in at the same time. To sort it, prioritize it, or make it manageable.
And underneath it, louder than it should be, is the thought I can’t shake, even though I know I should.
I wasn’t there when she needed me.
It loops, slipping in between everything else, catching on the noise, sticking there. I should’ve seen the text. I should’ve been there. I should’ve…
Another cart rattles past. Someone laughs too loudly. A voice calls out a name that isn’t mine, but my head turns anyway.
Focus, Ty. One foot in front of the other. That’s the goal. One thing. One person. Get to her.
But everything keeps crowding in, stacking, pressing, asking to be noticed all at once, and I can feel myself trying to grab hold of all of it instead of letting anything go.
Like if I can just get it all lined up, just get it in order, then I’ll be able to move, able to think. Like I’ll be able to make it manageable.
I slow for half a second, forcing a breath in.
Find her.
I move toward the front desk, the words already lining up in my head before I say them.
“I’m looking for…” I pause, reset. “Vivian Sullivan. Her grandmother was admitted. I have the room number.”
The nurse gives me directions—left, then right, down the long corridor, second wing—and I nod, repeating it back once to lock it in.
Left. Right. Long corridor.
I turn, moving faster now, the sounds following me, pressing in, but I keep my focus narrow. Follow the directions. Follow the numbers on the doors.
Left. Right. Long corridor.
I turn the corner, stopping when I do. She’s at the far end of the hall, slumped in a chair, elbows on her knees, head in her hands like she’s trying to hold herself together and not quite managing it.
Everything else drops away.
“Vivian.” Her name comes out before I’m even fully aware I’m saying it.
She looks up. And I see it.
The tears. The way her face crumples just slightly when she recognizes me. I’m already moving, and she pushes to her feet at the same time. We meet halfway, no hesitation, no space between us as I pull her in.
She folds into me like she’s been holding it together until now and doesn’t have to anymore.
My arms tighten around her automatically. “Hey. Hey.”
She presses her face into my chest, breath hitching.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, quieter now, steady even if everything in me is already keyed up.
“She—” Her voice catches. She pulls back just enough to look up at me, eyes glassy. “She came in because she fell. She hurt herself. Sprained her wrist.”
“Okay,” I say, grounding it. “Sprains aren’t horrible.”
“But she’s been coughing,” Vivian rushes on. “And they ran tests and—she has pneumonia. They admitted her. They’re keeping her.”
I nod, absorbing it, breaking it down into pieces I can work with.
“She’s here,” I say. “They’ve got her. She’s being taken care of.”
Vivian shakes her head, hands lifting like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “I know, I just—I don’t know what to do. I don’t—” Her voice falters. “I’m frozen, Ty. I feel like I should have pushed her to go to the doctor.”
I tighten my hold on her slightly, grounding both of us.
“It’s okay now,” I say again, softer. “She’s in the best place she can be.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction, and we move back to the chairs together, side by side. Her hand stays in mine like she’s not ready to let go. I’m not either. Everything else keeps coming at me—sound stacking on sound—but this, right here, gives me somewhere to put my focus.
A few minutes pass before a doctor approaches. “Vivian?” he says gently.
She straightens immediately. “Yes.”
“I just wanted to let you know your grandmother is resting comfortably,” he says.
“We’d like to keep her for a couple of days—just to run a few more tests and make sure the antibiotics are doing what we expect.
But assuming she responds well, there’s every chance she’ll be home before the weekend is over. ”
Vivian nods, absorbing it. “So she’ll get to come home soon?”
The older man dips his head. “We’ll keep you updated,” he says with a small, reassuring smile before moving on.
She watches him go, then exhales slowly.
“Okay, home by the end of the weekend,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
“You should go home and get some rest,” I suggest, already knowing my words will fall on deaf ears.
“I’ll stay here as long as they let me, Ty,” she whispers, already in her head making plans. “I can close the store for the next few days, put off any meetings. But I’m supposed to be with the girls for their session on Saturday.”
I glance at her. “The workshop.”
She nods, stress creeping back in. “I can’t leave her, but I can’t just not show up either. Emma’s counting on me, and the girls—”
“I’ve got them.”
She turns to me. “Huh?”
“Saturday,” I say, like it’s already decided. “I’ve got the girls.”
“Ty, that’s a lot. You’ve got so much on your plate right now, too.” Her reaction is immediate. “No. You don’t have to do that. You really don’t.”
I can see it—the instinct. The reflex to not lean on anyone, not to ask.
“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I can handle it. It’s a group of girls. I already coach them.”
“That’s not the same,” she insists, shaking her head.
“I’ll figure it out,” I cut in gently. “We’ll talk about jewelry. Or I’ll let them talk and pretend I know what’s happening.” A small shrug. “It’ll be fine. You need to be here. With her.”
She opens her mouth. “No, I—” I can see she wants to protest, to tell me to not worry. Finally, her shoulders drop just slightly, the fight easing out of her.
“Okay,” she says, almost like she’s surprising herself. “Fine. Yes. Please.”
I nod once. Done.
Relief flickers across her face, followed immediately by another worry, which could be real or invisible; either way, I want to take some of her burden.
“It’s fine,” I say, steady. “It’s all going to be okay.”
Vivian looks at me, searching, like she’s trying to figure out how I’m so certain.
“It really is okay,” I repeat. “I’ve got you.”
She exhales, long and shaky, and leans into me again, her head resting lightly against my shoulder this time, and I let her. I’d love to curl up in a dark room with headphones on and take a nap, but that’s no good to her, is it?
Because right now—this is what she needs.