I shake my head, though I smile, too. “That’s not what I mean, but thank you.”
“Then what do you mean? I won’t be a dick, I promise.”
That’s when I realize that I trust him. Over the past weeks, he’s proven time and again that he respects me, that he won’t hurt me. I can tell him things. Not because he doesn’t matter. But because he is kind.
“She told me I’m on the autism spectrum,” I say. And there it is. The words are out. It feels real now.
“Is that it?” he asks, like he’s still waiting for me to share the big news.
A disbelieving laugh spills out of me. “That’s it.”
He tilts his head to the side and looks at me in a considering way.
When he doesn’t speak for the longest time, my insecurities catch up with me, and I say, “If this changes things and you don’t want to meet tomorrow, I completely understand and—”
“I want to meet tomorrow,” he says quickly. “I was trying to think of similarities between you and my brother.”
“And?”
“Honestly, you’re both really different, and I don’t even know what to look for. I’m not a therapist or anything. What do you think? Does it feel right to you?” he asks, and I can tell that’s what matters to him. He trusts me to know myself. I didn’t know how important that was to me until now.
I get to be the expert on me.
I touch the center of my chest and nod slowly as my eyes sting. “It fits. When my therapist described autism to me, when I read about it, I felt understood in a way I’ve never been before. I felt seen, the real me, and accepted. All my life, I’ve been told that I need to change and be … something else, something more, and I try. Sometimes I try so hard it feels like I’m breaking. Like my music right now, no matter what I do I can’t get it to be more. Being told that it’s okay to be me, it’s …” I shake my head as words fail me.
He touches his thumb to the corner of my eye, wiping a tear away. “Then why are you so sad?”
“I don’t know.” I laugh, but a knot is forming in my throat. I swipe at my eyes with my sleeves. “I can’t seem to stop crying.”
He gathers me closer and holds me tight, pressing his cheek to my forehead, his skin to my skin. His calmness spreads to me, the steady beating of his heart, the even rhythm of his breathing.
When his pocket buzzes, we’re both startled.
“It’s just my phone,” he says. “Ignore it.” But it keeps buzzing.
“You should answer. It might be important.”
With a sigh, he breaks away from me and lifts his phone to his ear. “Hey … No, sorry, I just got held up with something … I probably won’t make it today—”
“No, no, please,” I hurry to say. “You should go. I’m okay, really.” I don’t want him canceling his plans on my behalf, especially when I’m not having any sort of emergency.
“Hold on a sec,” he says into the phone before putting it on mute and focusing on me. “Are you sure? I can stay, and we can get breakfast or something. Whatever you want.”
“That’s super nice of you, but …” A series of excuses and tiny lies pile up in my mouth, but I decide to be honest and say, “I need to be alone and process things. Plus, I have to practice soon, and I can’t do that with you here. It’s better if you go.”
He smiles in understanding and unmutes the phone to say, “Actually, I’ll head down. See you guys in a bit.” After hanging up, he clasps one of my hands. “Sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. You should go. You’re already late.”
He leans in and kisses me softly on the lips. It’s the briefest kiss, but shivers ripple over me. “Tomorrow night.”
I nod. “Tomorrow night.”
He squeezes my hand once before he leaves. As I shut the door behind him, I hesitate. Neither of us said good-bye.
But tomorrow we will.
FIFTEEN
Quan
AFTER PRACTICE, WE DECIDE TO HANG OUT IN KHAI’S BACKYARD and have drinks to celebrate the LVMH news instead of going out. He’s remodeling and just had a fire pit installed. There’s nice outdoor furniture and blooming whatever-the-fuck trees （the flowers are purple, that’s all I know）， and the fire keeps people from getting cold at night. It’s a sweet arrangement.
“What are we celebrating again?” Khai asks as he hands margaritas to me and Michael. He makes the best margaritas. They’re strong, and he lines the rim with salt—my favorite part.