Perfectly Adequate

“Or …” She wipes her mouth and leans back in her chair, working her tongue over her teeth a few times. “You have an undeniable chemistry with this young woman. It can be that simple, Eli. I didn’t need three years to fall for your dad. It happened in a single moment. He came out of his shop, covered in grease and sweat, to tell me my brakes were shot. I didn’t care that I was a poor college student who didn’t have the money to replace them. All that mattered was the world tipping on its side, doing all kinds of weird things to me when he smiled at me. A smile, Eli. I knew my life would never be the same from a smile.”

I love that story. So do my sisters. Probably because fifty years later, our dad still smiles at our mom the same way. And she still blushes every time he does it. I thought that would be Julie and me.

“He could cheat on me tomorrow.”

I blink several times before squinting my eyes. “What?”

“Your dad. He could cheat on me tomorrow. You know how people say they could die tomorrow? They do it to give today better perspective, to lessen their worry over an unpredictable future. Break apart lifetime into two words—Life. Time. You spent a time in your life with Julie. Let it be a lifetime. Then move on and give someone else a chance to be part of your time in this life. I’ve spent a lifetime with your father, but that doesn’t mean I won’t spend a lifetime with someone else. If something is meaningful … impactful … then it can be a lifetime. Think about phobias. For someone with a fear of something, facing that fear, even if it’s for mere minutes or even seconds, can feel like a lifetime. It’s an impression that stays with you forever. Someday when you find yourself in a really good place again, you will look back at the years you spent with Julie, and it will feel like a lifetime ago.”

I love my psychiatrist because she never talks to me like she talks to her patients. She gives me seventy-five percent heart and twenty-five percent mind. As much as she wants to give me her professional side, it’s a conflict of interest. Her mom side always wins over.

“She didn’t kiss me back.”

Mom grins.

“Dr. Warren told me she’s autistic.”

She shrugs. “Does that matter?”

I frown. “You know it doesn’t.”

“But you’re wondering if that’s why she didn’t kiss you back?”

I nod.

“Has she had other relationships?”

“I don’t know. I’m too busy being infatuated with her to really know her. I need to slow down.”

“Don’t slow down. Then you’ll think … overthink. And trust me, if she has ASD, then she’s overthinking enough for both of you.”

CHAPTER NINE

Never Enough Journals

Dorothy

The kiss disaster took up two entire journals—blue and hot pink. Starting with bold, all caps, one word per page of:

I

WASN’T

READY!!!

He wasn’t making fun of me. He wanted to kiss me.

Legit.

No sick jokes.

Dr. Hottie Hawkins hot for Dorothy.

One hundred percent wanted to kiss me.

And …

I

WASN’T

READY!!!

I just sat there frozen, completely unmoving. I couldn’t have been less responsive had I been dead. And that wasn’t a bad idea.

Seriously … kill me right NOW!

What’s next? I have no idea. A different zip code, on the opposite coast, seems like the best idea. He either thought I didn’t want to be kissed or that I didn’t know how to kiss. Both are untrue. Both scenarios are embarrassing. And both possibilities leave me with no options.

The finicky vegetarian who didn’t like chunks, spices, or kisses.

Nooo!!!

I spend the next forty-eight hours coasting through classes while contemplating my options.

One: New zip code.

Two: The afterlife.

Three: New profession.

Four: Ask for a redo.

Five: I have no five. I just like options I can count on one hand. I like the number five.

Friday morning I arrive fifteen minutes earlier than usual to avoid any possible encounters with Dr. Hawkins. And because I have the luck of a one-legged mouse in a room full of cats, my first transport after lunch is Dr. Hawkins’s patient. His nurse calls me to his floor.

I wait outside the room while he finishes talking to the patient’s parents. My head remains bowed, hair covering most of my face. Maybe I can literally be a wallflower when he comes out.

“Good afternoon, Dorothy.”

No such luck.

“Hi,” I murmur as he walks past me, talking to Dr. Warren.

“Page me when you take a break, Dorothy,” Warren says, glancing over his shoulder, wearing a cocky grin that Dr. Hawkins seems to ignore.

I stick my tongue out at Warren before pushing the wheelchair into the room to get Jasmine for an MRI. If only my tongue would have worked properly when Dr. Hawkins tried to kiss me.

Tried … that eats at me. The poor guy had to try to kiss me.