Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“If you go,” Tremaine whispers to me, “you know they’ll do it.”
“You didn’t say anything about riding a pickup truck through the woods.”
“Woods? Judah, I see the parking lot of Walmart from here. They play tag football on this field. This is the closest Skyland can get to rustic, though, so throw yourself into it for the boys.”
“Okay. I’ll ride the hay thing, and then I have to get back to the house and finish these reports.”
“I hope those reports keep you warm at night.”
I don’t answer because my nights recently have been filled with the memory of one woman whom I would deeply enjoy keeping warm. Soledad appearing on my front porch was torture and a blessing. I was thrilled to finally see her after so long, but I can’t stop fantasizing about her. Even the word “fantasize” feels weird because I generally don’t have fantasies, but the smell of her on my porch that day. I don’t even know what scent she wears, but it haunts me, the way it’s light and sweet and hangs in the air after she’s gone.
Her hair was longer, swinging past her shoulders. From a distance, you assume it’s just black, but what a privilege, being close enough to pick out the amber that streaks subtly through the dark strands.
And her mouth.
That damn mouth.
Her lips are the color of crushed plums, like the juice that oozes out. I know because I bought plums and squeezed one to see if it matched my memories of those pretty, pouty lips. It absolutely did, and the thought of Soledad’s lips wrapped around my dick. I just want—
“Earth to Judah.” Tremaine snaps her fingers in my face. “If you could stop dreaming of tax write-offs for a second, we could get you on this truck and back to your home office in no time.”
I disguise my mortification with a droll look and a roll of my eyes before agreeing to the hayride.
As Tremaine predicted, the boys acquiesce as soon as they find out I’m willing. At first the three of us are stiff, which seems to be our default setting, but we loosen into laughter as the trip goes on. It’s the crisp autumn air on our faces, the smell of fresh hay and trees all around, leaves spiced with the colors of saffron, turmeric, and sumac. Adam is smiling, and he may not be talking to the other kids on the ride, but he enjoys being with them. Aaron just watches and takes the occasional photo with his phone. With so much of his communication reliant on pictures, he’s constantly adding to his encyclopedia of images.
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.”