I wait on the edge of the bed, jeans pulled on, hands folded between my legs.
She glances over at me, eyebrows peaked in question. “Are you reading these because of me?”
I nod, wondering what’s going through her mind. Do I need to apologize? Fish for some pathetic excuse?
Dorothy tosses them onto the ottoman and rubs her lips together. “What do you want to know? You don’t need a book. All you have to do is ask me.”
Dropping my head, I massage the back of my neck. “I wasn’t looking for answers. I was looking for insight. I was looking for the questions I never would have thought to ask until after I screwed up. Until it was too late.”
She nods slowly, forehead wrinkled. “I bet it was frustrating reading these. Because for every three things that you could relate directly to me, there had to be at least one … maybe two that don’t quite fit. I know this because I’ve read all the books. I think even this one.” She picks one of the books up and glances at the back of it.
I look up at her and whisper, “Yes.”
“If I picked up a book about men, would all the stereotypes apply to you?”
I shake my head.
“If I figure you out, will that mean I know everything that makes Dr. Warren act the way he does?”
I shake my head.
“The spectrum is human. It’s not autism. Doesn’t matter what the so-called experts say. But I owned the label years ago anyway.” She giggles. “Imagine being my parents … sitting around a table with your ten-year-old kid (after years of being told girls don’t get autism), and the doctor finally says, ‘Yes. The diagnosis is Asperger’s.’ And your kid yells out, ‘Oh great … now I have ASS BURGERS.’”
I bite my lips together, until my face turns blue.
Dorothy smirks. “It’s okay. You can laugh. It’s pretty funny.”
I fist my hand at my mouth and laugh until my stomach hurts, just like I did in the back of her Audi when she said “snacking on Dorothy.” It’s not me laughing at her in a mean way. It’s her making me laugh in the most refreshing way. After Julie left, I wondered if I would ever laugh like this again.
Roman makes me laugh, and it’s real. And it feels good. But it’s bittersweet because every time he does something cute or funny, I want to call Julie’s name and tell her to come watch him or listen to him repeat it. But Julie isn’t here. We are no longer a family unit. And that always steals a tiny piece of joy from the moment.
“My parents tell that story all the time. It took me years to see the humor in it. But now it makes me laugh. Humor can be difficult for me. Laughing at myself never came naturally. I can do it now, but only because I learned to do it. Through many meltdowns and tears, I forced myself to laugh it off. And journal. I work things out that way. And sometimes I talk stuff through with my parents. They aren’t board-certified talk doctors like your mom, but they suffice. They help me put things into perspective. Tell me when I’ve overreacted in a situation or underestimated the importance of doing or saying more.”
I make my way to her, removing the books from the ottoman and sitting on it, resting my hands on her legs, hoping it’s okay. She places her hands on top of mine. I need this. I need to know that I can touch her—at least sometimes—and that it’s okay. Some things in these books worry me. They make me think she will never want to be touched. Never truly want to have sex.
“I don’t read those books to figure you out. I read them to learn more about a part of the human spectrum.”
She glances up at me and smiles.
“It never hurts to study different perspectives. Right?” I ask.
“Right.”
“Think it’s too late for pizza?”
Dorothy’s jaw drops as she gasps. “It’s never too late for pizza.”
“Okay, Wonder Woman. Let’s eat.” I stand, taking her hand and leading her to the kitchen.
She piles half the pizza onto her plate.
I chuckle. “Worried I’m going to eat more than my share?”
“It happens a lot to me.” She grabs her bag and fishes out a pill container.
“Cholesterol meds for all the cheese you eat?”
“Not yet.” She smirks as I hand her a bottle of water.
“Anxiety pill. Sleeping pill. Multi-vitamin. Magnesium. Turmeric. What