Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
She lets me cry, tenderly rubbing my back the entire time, and I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, a sort of numbness washes over me, and I find the strength to pull away from the safety of her embrace and meet her eyes.
“I messed up, Mom,” I admit. “And I don’t know what to do or how to fix it.”
“How about we go downstairs and I make us some hot cocoa, and we can try to sort it all out together?”
I have so many memories of my mom doing exactly this when I was a little girl. Being on the spectrum isn’t an easy thing in general, but being on the spectrum when you’re in middle school and trying to understand how to socialize and make friends is really freaking hard.
If it weren’t for my mom and our many hot cocoa chats, I don’t know how I would’ve survived my adolescence.
I nod. Grateful. “Sounds perfect.”
My half-drunk cup of hot cocoa sits in front of me, my hands still clutching the mug like a lifeline as I continue to tell my mom all about my summer with Blake.
I’ve told her how it all started and about my stupid research project and how, at some point, it was like I was spending all my waking moments with him.
I’ve told her about how thoughtful he is and how much fun he is, and without giving her too many details, I’ve told her about how I’ve never felt so intimately connected to another person.
I’ve told her pretty much the whole trajectory of what went down between us, and she’s mostly just listened, only occasionally interrupting me to ask a question to clarify.
“I told him to move on,” I explain. “He wanted to be together, and he wanted our relationship to be out in the open where everyone would know that we’re together. He told me he loved me, and I honestly don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone like that. I don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone in the same way that you love Wes.”
My mom nods and takes a drink of cocoa, silently encouraging me to continue.
“But tonight, I saw him at a party. That dumb party Ace talked me into going to after dinner,” I explain. “And Blake was there, but he was with another girl. A redhead who was pretty much fawning all over him, and it made me feel…terrible. But I know that’s not fair because I told him to move on, you know? He wanted to be with me, and I told him I didn’t want to be with him.”
“Is he with that girl now?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. It was like I couldn’t hold back the urge to cry, and I just had to get out of there before I sobbed in front of a bunch of drunk college kids. But he did text me.”
“What did he say?”
I slide my phone across the table and let her read the last few messages between us.
“He was worried about you, Lex,” my mom says, lifting her eyes to meet mine.
“Yeah.”
“But I don’t think you actually mean what you said here,” she says, searching my eyes carefully. “I don’t think you want him to move on.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because what you felt at that party when you saw him with that girl was jealousy, honey,” she says, and even though, deep down, I know that to be true, I’m still having a hard time processing the fact that someone as logical and rational as me could be jealous about anything or anyone.
Admitting that I was jealous feels worse and just as productive as swallowing a handful of nails.
“I have no reason to be jealous,” I respond, and she smiles softly at me.
“No, you don’t,” she answers. “But we can’t always help how we feel.”
A deep sigh escapes my lungs, and I have to avert my eyes for a long moment as my mind tries to process it all. But when my mom gently reaches out her hand to touch mine, I meet her eyes again.
“Lexi, honey, it’s okay that you were jealous. We all do that sometimes. It’s normal,” she says. “And you’re capable of loving someone like I love Wes and Wes loves me. You’re very much capable of that and being in a relationship, and I think your summer with Blake proves that.”
I know she’s right. I know she’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to confront the undeniable truth that’s staring me down. The whole idea of love is such a complicated thing for a girl like me. Being in love equates to being out of control. And that’s the one thing I always try to avoid.
I want to be in control of everything. Of data and statistics and routine and schedule. And I most certainly want to be in control of my emotions.