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666 pages, ebook
First published May 6, 2016
“I work long hours. I have a stressful career. I’m on the autism spectrum and I’m crap at social skills.”
“You’re—” Will stares at him. “Wait, hold up. You’re autistic?”
“No, I’m on the spectrum. There’s a difference.” Patrick counts out five beats of Will’s heart. “You don’t see me screaming and banging my head on tables because the spaghetti noodles aren’t done, do you?”
Eyes lighting up, Will places his hand over Patrick’s again. “No, but I’ve seen you bitch out the downstairs kitchen because they put thyme in your meatballs and no one should ever put thyme in meatballs.”
“Who puts thyme in meatballs? It’s disgusting. It should be a crime. Punishable by ten years minimum.”
Will grins. “Wow. This makes so much sense. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you. Loudly. You said thyme is—”
“No, about the autism thing.”
“On the spectrum. And why would I? I can’t change it.”
“No, but it changes things.”
“How? I’m still me.”
Will laughs. “You are. But you make a lot more sense now.”
“You and me both.” Will’s fingers are cold, but the heat is coming on in the car. “I won’t mention the autism thing again.”
“Spectrum. There’s a difference. Like the difference between Type 1 and Type 2 diabetes. Like the difference between dogs and cats.”
Patrick doesn’t understand how Will gets it so wrong sometimes. “No, I want you to interfere. I want you to do whatever it takes to make this lawsuit disappear. Unlike me, you’re not a jerk who makes her feel stupid.”
“She doesn’t know you’re on the autism spectrum.”
“Oh, no you don’t.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to file me away like that. That’s one reason I don’t tell people.”
“Exactly. Because it doesn’t change anything, but you act like it does. For you.”
Will reaches out. The leather of the bomber jacket is old and cracked from the weather, and it scrapes against his palm as he rubs a hand down Patrick’s shoulder. “It only changes things because it helps me understand you. I can put your behavior in this box labeled ‘autism’ and it’s okay. But sometimes your behavior isn’t okay, even if it’s in the box. Telling me to shut up, for example.”
“I’m not a box.”
Will smiles gently. “You’re Patrick.”
“I want you to forget what I told you.” Patrick’s fingers seem restless, and he runs them along the dash. “I’ve lived my whole life without this being used against me.”
“It’s established that I’m rude.”
Irritation flares. “You may have some autism thing happening, but you don’t get to be an asshole.”
Patrick turns in his seat, the bomber jacket big on his wiry frame. “What do you think it means that I’m on the autism spectrum?”
“That you’re rude and don’t have a filter? That you feel stuff differently? I don’t know.” Will looks over at him. “Why?”
“I am rude and filters are boring. But I feel things. I’m capable of the same feelings you are.” Patrick stares at Will. “I’m not that different from you.”
Will’s stomach tenses. “You’re pretty different, Patrick. It’s not an insult. It’s just facts.”
What does happiness even look like to Patrick? He’s admitted to being on the autism scale, and Will has no idea what that means for his ability to have romantic feelings for another person, or for Will specifically. Patrick has made it clear: work, sex, and friendship is enough for him.
“He’s—” Will recalls the word he’s seen on the grant requests he’s fielded for learning disabilities. “Not neurotypical.”
Owen nods, the light through the still-closed blinds glancing off his bald head. “And you’re struggling with his atypical neurology?”
“Not really. He’s still Patrick.”
Owen’s brow lifts slightly. “You seem unsettled.”
Unsettled isn’t the half of it. He’s like a shaken can of soda. He’s about to make a mess and there’s nothing he can do about it. “I need to know more. Like, does he feel the same things I do?”
“He’s a human being, but, as you say, he’s not a typical one.”
“He says he feels the same things…” Will trails off, thinking about Patrick’s statements about love. “But I’m not sure he knows what neurotypical people feel. How does he know it’s the same?”
Owen caps his pen and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re wondering if he can love you.”
“I know he’s capable of love.” Will’s felt it in the way Patrick deals with Jenny, in the way he deals with his foster mother, Dinah, and those kids. He believes Patrick can love, but whether or not he can love Will? He’s not as sure. The little voice that’s been hissing to him since high school whispers: Can anyone really love me? “I don’t know if he understands the difference between liking someone, enjoying sex with them, and being in love with them. Maybe to him, it’s the same thing.”
“Patrick, my great-grandfather insisted on a love match.”
Patrick rubs the bridge of his nose. Dear God, he’s saddled himself with a lunatic.
“You’re safe with me.”
“And you’re safe with me. So stop worrying about it and go to sleep.”
“Don’t worry, puddin’-pop. You’re my best friend, okay?”
Will’s throat goes dry. “Yeah?”
“Of course. I’d never let Jenny share the bed. She’d be stuck on the couch forever.”
“Do you know my favorite thing about you, Dr. McCloud?”
Patrick shrugs.
“You stick up for my son and you’ve taught him to stick up for himself. Consider yourself under my protection, under Molinaro protection, no matter the outcome of this marriage.”



