This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(56)

By the time the ride ends and the truck returns to the small shed where we started, the boys are more eager to explore.

“Can we get our faces painted?” Adam asks.

“Sure,” I agree. We head for the group of kids waiting their turn.

Maybe most fifteen-year-old boys aren’t excited about getting their faces painted, but these guys have their own timetable. So many societal “norms”—like at what age you should stop playing with certain toys or indulging certain interests—are actually pretty arbitrary and don’t make sense to a lot of autistic people. They don’t make sense to me. Why should I hold my kids hostage to useless constructs that deny them things that make them happy? Aaron still carries a stuffed Cookie Monster in his backpack at all times. Adam has “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” in his playlist for when he feels anxious. Small comforts in a world filled with sounds and sensations that, though completely harmless to most of us, sometimes feel hostile to them.

Sometimes feel hostile to me.

When I was growing up, tags in my shirts bothered me so badly, my mother cut them out of everything. To this day tags agitate me. If a shirt has a tag, I won’t rest till it’s gone. Should I have grown out of that? Like Adam and Aaron, I often find the world too loud, too bright, scents too strong. I don’t judge where they find comfort or tools to help them navigate a life that feels like one of Aaron’s cubes—pieces sliding and shifting until a picture forms that makes sense. I don’t try to make them fit in with anyone else or compare them to their peers. I remember how that feels. Our family is on its own journey, and we’ll take it at our own pace, one day at a time. It’s how we’ve gotten this far.

Tremaine stops at one of the artisan tents.

“I wanna see if they have any beaded bracelets,” she says.

I glance at my watch. I said twenty minutes, and I’ve given it an hour. I’m poised to extricate myself when a stack of floral bookmarks catches my eye. They’re clear, with flowers pressed inside.

“Pretty, right?” the lady running the booth asks, walking over and picking one up. “Made these myself.”

I reach for one and, before I can talk myself out of it, respond, “I’ll take it.”

Tremaine eyes me with surprise. “Need to mark your place in one of your accountant handbooks?”

“Something like that.” I grin but don’t look at her as I pay for the bookmark. “Speaking of which, I think I’m gonna take off. Get some work done.”

“All right.” Holding Kent’s hand, she rises up on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. “Thanks for coming. I know you had other—”

“Farm to table!” A tall woman dressed in a discreetly expensive, deceptively casual dress brandishes flyers. “We have a few more spots for Soledad’s Farm-to-Table Experience.”

I stare at the woman, not just because she said Soledad’s name, but because she looks vaguely familiar. She must feel the same because she narrows her eyes and tilts her head like she’s trying to place me.

“You’re the accountant,” she finally says, a smile on her striking face. “I met you at Soledad’s house. It’s Judah, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, surprised she remembers. “Great memory.”

“I’m her friend Hendrix.”

“Nice seeing you again.” I try not to sound too interested. “What’s this for?”

“Soledad’s dining experience.” She waves the flyers. “Food she’s prepared at a table she’s set. Basically like attending one of Sol’s dinner parties.”

“Soledad with the vinaigrette?” Tremaine asks, her voice perking up. “Oh, I follow her. She’s here?”

“Yeah.” Hendrix smiles broadly. “She’s prepared a meal completely sourced from local growers, butchers, and fishermen. We had a three o’clock and a six o’clock seating, but those are sold out. We had to add a nine o’clock to meet the demand.”

“You said the three and six are sold out?” Kent asks. “That’s too bad. I would have loved to go, but we’ll be leaving soon.”

“Yeah.” Tremaine pushes her lips into a disappointed moue. “I need to get back home.”

“Maybe next time,” Hendrix says.

I must be eyeing those flyers like they’re winning lotto tickets because Hendrix smirks knowingly and hands me one. “Just in case you change your mind.”

“You’re leaving, right?” Tremaine turns to me.

“Uh, yeah,” I answer absently, my attention following Hendrix walking away. “I really need to go.”

“Can we check out the pumpkin carving, Mom?” Adam asks.

He takes off as soon as she says yes, but circles back to grab Aaron’s hand and drag him along. Aaron has his cube out, a sure indicator that he’s losing interest in this event.

“We better go after them,” Tremaine says. “See you tomorrow. I’ll drop the boys off around six.”

“Got it,” I acknowledge. “Bye, Kent.”

In moments, they’re swallowed by the bustling crowd. Instead of heading for my car, I search the field for the pavilion with a sign that reads Soledad’s Farm-to-Table Experience. It’s only five o’clock. Hendrix said the six o’clock seating is sold out.