Why did Jamie call me? He only just saw me at lunch. But he does do that sometimes. It’s not out of the ordinary enough for me to become paranoid. And I have other avenues down which to let my anxiety run free. In fact, for a brief instant, when I heard my brother’s familiar voice, I considered telling him about Zoe and how we left things. Jamie’s like a light version of Mom, less pushy, but still very easy to talk to. But what would I even say to him? I fucked it up. I haven’t fully figured out how I managed to screw things up so finally between Zoe and me, but I know—I feel it in the pit of my stomach—that there’s no coming back from this. It was as though, when she was here earlier, I could feel a screen come down, a wall being built between us at high-speed.
I shouldn’t have let her come over again after my meltdown. First that, followed by my… what did she call it? Defensiveness and self-pity. Especially the last one was like a dagger being bored straight into my heart. Because I truly believed I was steering clear of self-pity at least. I guess I was wrong. I’ve been known to be wrong about many things.
When Jamie called, I was still sitting in the same spot as when Zoe left. As though, if I stayed there, time would realize its cruel mistake, and would spool itself backward to give me another chance to say the thing that Zoe so desperately wanted to hear. Although I know, deep down in my bones, that I would never have been able to say it. And I also know that I have to let this go now, this thing between us, whatever it was—and the hope it sparked in me. The sooner I can get past it, the better. But that’s just theory and doesn’t take into account how I feel inside. How I can still smell Zoe’s perfume in my house. How all I want to do is go into my studio and paint her face over and over again. How all I really wanted to do was kiss her again, and I should have just done that, instead of being defensive and full of self-pity.
“Hem, come here.” I need to feel the comfort of my dog’s soft fur. He obeys immediately, as though he knows how sad I am. He probably does. “It’s just you and me again, buddy,” I whisper to him. “And you’ll see, we’ll be just fine.”
That night, I don’t sleep much, because I keep racking my brain for ways to be less defensive. But the thought of people talking about me, discussing my condition behind my back, causes such tension inside of me that yes, I do automatically go on the defensive. Because of all the unknown factors and all the speculation I get to do about it. But why did Zoe have to be so confrontational with me? And why did she tell me that story about her gay friend Ted? Being gay is not a disability so what the hell point was she trying to make?
In the morning, sleep-deprived and none the wiser, I conclude that it’s not going to be so easy to forget about Zoe Perez, because of the effortless lightness she brought into my life. Because of the memory of her glossy lips which tasted, somehow, exactly as they looked. I can barely even remember when and how I ever even earned the privilege to kiss the likes of Zoe. She obviously had some issues with me, while I didn’t really have any with her. She might be a bit direct for me, but she has always only been understanding and willing to meet me halfway—even to learn about my disorder. That’s already much more than I can expect from anyone who isn’t related to me.
In the darkest hours of the night, when the sleeplessness messed with my head so much, the only way out was for me to go online and read about other autistic people’s experiences. I came across an article written by someone claiming that the problem is not people who have Autism, but society in general that has a huge problem accepting us. And maybe Zoe’s right, maybe I see myself as a problem that I need to solve. Maybe I want to make myself more palatable for others, which, in the end, is almost always too much effort, so I no longer bother. Because if you’ve already spent forty-three years of your life trying to fit into a world that’s always confusing and always demanding something you’re not capable of giving, despite your best intentions, then it just becomes so much easier to give up. To have zero expectations and ask for nothing. Just be quiet and grateful for what you have, which, in my case, is a lot.
So now, I revert back to that position, and I try not to chastise myself for allowing myself to want someone like Zoe, to get so carried away with my feelings for her, to the extent that I actually believed it could work. I was hoping for a miracle, but it was just another fool’s errand. From now on, I’ll be more vigilant. I’ll stay in my lane. I’ll do my work and fall back into my routine and, ultimately, I’ll be all the happier for it.
As I boot up my computer, a small part of me wonders if I shouldn’t try to get some sort of closure. Or just let Zoe know that this is not her fault. But I did text her last night. I said I was sorry. And, frankly, today I don’t have the energy to try and explain. So I make no attempt to contact her again. But then Hemingway nudges my leg because it’s time for his walk and then I have a decision to make.
Even though Bookends is closed on Mondays, Hemingway and I take the alternative walking route I created after my first embarrassing moment with Zoe, when I walked out on her at Lenny’s. And I conclude, because that’s the kind of mood I’m in today, that our so-called relationship is purely a string of embarrassing moments, caused by me, once again, confirming what I’ve known all along: that I’m not cut out for a relationship. I can just about handle friendship—and only with someone like Sean, who doesn’t ask for much in the way of deep conversation.
I don’t go by Sean’s office today because I don’t feel like answering any nosy questions, although I do know I will have to tell him sooner rather than later. I only wish the social aspect of my fling with Zoe hadn’t progressed so quickly. Now it feels as though everyone knows—she’s had lunch with my family, for crying out loud—and I have to make sure they know it’s already over, thus opening myself up to a bunch of questions I don’t want to answer.
Jamie will probably hear it from Jaden, although he will also want to hear it from me. I stop at a bench and sit down for a minute so I can text him, assuring him that I’m fine and that he shouldn’t call me. I know he’ll respect my wishes as long as he’s at work.
I should walk to my parents’ house and just tell them, but I can’t face that particular ordeal yet. I know they won’t bombard me with questions but I also know Mom will be disappointed. She’ll again start thinking I’ll never be truly happy until I find someone to share my life with. I’ve told her time and time again that one is not a direct consequence of the other and that there are, in fact, so many people in relationships who would be much happier alone. Case in point, I was doing just fine before Zoe came to town. And that’s the real kicker, of course. I can stay inside my house and devise new walking routes for Hemingway all I want, but at some point, I will run into her, because she lives in Donovan Grove now.
Jamie texts me back to say he’ll stop by tonight and I continue my walk. I wasn’t hungry this morning so I skipped breakfast but now my stomach growls as I approach the Starbucks near Donovan Grove High. It’s the one I always try to avoid because there are too many youths hanging around, but the lack of sleep combined with the hunger is making me feel a little dizzy so I decide to make a quick stop regardless of my apprehension.
When I’m inside, I immediately regret my decision, because Brooklyn is sitting alone at a table by the window, hunched over her phone. My hope that she won’t see me is in vain because there’s only one other customer in the shop and of course she looks up when Hemingway and I enter.
“Hey,” I say, and I give her a curt nod and hurry to the counter, where I order a bagel so quickly, the young man behind the counter has to ask me to repeat it.
Then I curse myself for ordering a food item that needs to be toasted, because I’m left standing there, on full display for Brooklyn, who’s probably texting her mom that her weird ex-girlfriend, if I can even call myself that, has been spotted out and about.
I keep my gaze on Hemingway, who is being such a good dog I can barely believe it. It’s as if he knows I’m upset and he’s trying to help me by being on his best behavior.
While I was dating Zoe, I never really took into account the consequences of dating someone with a child. I certainly never contemplated having children myself and although Brooklyn is Zoe’s child, it’s hard to see her as such, because she’s a teenager and I’ve never known her as anything else. We’ve also never really had a conversation.
“Can I say hello to Hemingway?” Brooklyn asks from her table by the window.
“Sure.” I glance behind me to check on the status of my bagel and walk over to her table.
“Mom told me, um, you’re no longer dating,” Brooklyn says as she ruffles the fur on top of Hemingway’s head. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” What else can I say?
“Are you okay?” I can feel her gaze on me. Oh Christ, she’s just like her mother, it would appear. She’s not much for leaving people in peace.
“I’m fine.” I briefly meet her eyes. They’re the exact same brown as Zoe’s. “Is, um, your mom okay?” I have to ask, not only out of politeness, which I usually wouldn’t care that much about, but mainly because I really want to know the answer.
“She’s sad, I think. I mean, she didn’t, like, give me the details or anything.”
Brooklyn is such a sweet kid. I didn’t even know teenagers like this existed, even though I have a nephew of the same age. She’s just like her mother in more ways than one, I think. The pit of my stomach fills with dread again, and I know I won’t be able to eat the bagel I came in here to buy.
“Tell her that I’m really sorry.” This is probably highly inappropriate but it’s all I can think of to say.
“Bagel for Anna,” the guy behind the counter yells way too loudly.
“I will.” Brooklyn looks at me as if she knows something and then I remember that she does. Jaden told her about me.
“I’ve got to go. Bye.” I hurry outside, vowing to never set foot inside there again. I clench my fist around the paper bag with the bagel inside. It’s going to take a while before I’m able to erase Zoe from my mind.