Page 20 of Out of Focus

“Are you propositioning me, carrot cake?” His smirk causes his dimples to pop, and I glare at him, waiting for him to answer the question. “No, red. I haven’t fucked anyone on this couch. I don’t bring women here.” He says it so matter-of-factly, so easily, that every instinct tells me he’s being truthful.

“Like ever?” I ask incredulously, despite his sincerity.

“Like ever,” he answers simply. “I know you think I’m some kind of fuckboy based on how we met, but that’s not really who I am.” He shrugs as if to diminish the statement that I’ve pegged him all wrong all this time.

As I lower myself to the couch, the words slip out of my mouth, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Then tell me who you are, Rafael Machado.”

“I’m… I’m not that guy you met who says crude things on the phone. I mean, I am, but only when I know someone likes it. And that particular person liked it. She told me so.” He eyes me intently, and he must see the question written on my face because he blows out a breath and continues, “I don’t know why I said it back to you that day. I guess I liked the reaction I got, and Maeve had told me you were a bit more serious, so I pushed. I know I pushed too far. I do that sometimes, and I’m sorry for it.” Again, I don’t hear any dishonesty. His body language hasn’t changed. He’s still sitting up, still looking at me with those unwavering chocolate eyes.

If I’m very honest with myself, I liked hearing him say those words the day we met. It was hot. No one had ever spoken to me like that before, and I wondered what it was like to be on the receiving end. But it was much easier to be repulsed by it than to admit that I wish it had been me he had been talking to. Not even necessarily him, just someone. Anyone.

Now, I have no idea what to say. I struggle with reacting to things like this, and being surprised only mars my ability to show emotion. I feel my mouth moving, but it’s not until the words have left my mouth that I realize what I’m saying.

“I’m autistic,” I quite literally blurt out. “And I have ADHD.” I can hear my heart beating. I have never flat-out told anyone else this. I’m not even sure ‘I’m autistic’ is a sentence I’ve ever said out loud before.

The people who know are my family, Elaina, and, of course, every doctor or teacher I’ve had since I was seventeen. And Robert, because I asked him once if he thought I fit the description of an autistic person, and he laughed and said no. When I revealed to him that I’m an AuDHD’er—a person with both autism and ADHD—he was disbelieving, saying he thought I was “just one of those really smart people who acted a little weird sometimes.” Those were his actual words.

Rafael hasn’t reacted to my revelation. Once again, he’s simply waiting for me. “That’s why this is all so hard for me. It’s why I’ve always struggled to talk to you or literally anyone else I come in contact with. It’s why I sometimes don’t understand if you’re being sarcastic and why I don’t always look you in the eyes. Not just you, of course.”

I look up, and while I don’t dare meet his eyes, I know they are steady on me. I can feel them. He doesn’t say anything though, and the lack of words being said is making my skin itchy, so I keep talking. “Sometimes, it feels like autism and ADHD are in a fight with one another inside my body. Sometimes, I feel one more strongly than the other. Mostly though, it’s just a lot of pretending and learning what society deems as acceptable behavior and then just doing that instead of being myself.”

“Is eye contact difficult for you?” Rafael’s question catches me off-guard. Considering I was mostly expecting him to dismiss my outburst or laugh about it, this is truly shocking.

Is it shocking, or is that what I keep telling myself because I’ve learned to expect the worst from him?

After many seconds of silence, I find him patiently waiting. “Sort of. I find it a bit uncomfortable, sometimes distracting, and it doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s easier to focus on what someone is saying when I can look at their whole face, their body language, or simply whatever’s around me so I don’t have to focus on them at all.”

Rafael nods and links his fingers together as he leans in, elbows resting on his thighs. “I need to say something to you, but I’d really like it if you could look at me when I say it.” I suck in a sharp inhale as his words sink in. “Just for a few seconds, can you try to look at me? Please?”

I shut my eyes tightly, wanting to say no, but something about the way he just asked makes me want to say yes. The vulnerability in his voice is brand new to me. I nod, but my eyes remain closed.

“Take your time,” he urges.

And again, the softness in his voice stirs something so deep in my chest that I can’t help but look up. And up and up until my eyes meet a pair of brown ones filled with emotions I couldn’t possibly name. It lasts half a second before my eyes move over the rest of his face, noticing the thickness of his lashes and how one of his eyebrows has a scar through it. I’ve looked at Rafael dozens of times, but never this openly.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” My eyes flit back to his again, and this time, I can’t look away. His coffee-colored eyes have me transfixed. He said my name; he’s never said it before. Not to me, anyway. There’s an erratic fluttering in my chest that I need to shoo away, but it’s also weirdly pleasant. I don’t have time to process it before he continues, “I’m so, so sorry. I never would have said or done so many things if I had known. And that’s not an excuse, I just want to apologize. And thank you for telling me. For trusting me.”

When I blink, I look away, focusing on a random spot on the floor. I feel two hot tears travel quickly down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them away, and before I can retreat into myself, I hear the whisper of my voice. “I’m sorry, too.” I don’t say what for. My throat suddenly feels tight, and I can’t get any other words out. I close my eyes again and hastily swipe the tears off my cheeks. “Do you think we could pick this up again tomorrow, or perhaps another day? I’d like to go home. I’m feeling quite tired.”

There’s no hesitation in his response. “Of course. Yeah.”

12/

your place or mine?

rafael

I’m packing leftovers in the kitchen, feeling like a complete asshole. I thought I could play it cool. I invited Charlie here, hoping she’d be comfortable and not have to worry about me coming into her space. I made spaghetti, knowing it’s a dish she likes because I’ve seen her eat it before. I didn’t force conversation, knowing she needed time to warm up, and she’s not much of a talker, anyway. I thought it was all going so well.

Fuck. I have never felt more like a total loser in my life than I did when she started to explain the things she struggles with. All the things I had judged her for. All the things I thought made her stuck up and difficult. Meanwhile, she was just doing her best to act in a way that people expected her to. That I expected her to.

Having those sky-blue eyes locked on mine nearly knocked all the air out of my lungs. It stirred a feeling I’m not sure I’ve felt before—like we were tethered by something much more substantial than eye contact.

So, it doesn’t surprise me now when she asks to go home. That was a lot for me, so I’d imagine it feels several times more exhausting for her, which is why I opt to give her a minute alone.

I’ve just finished packing some leftovers for her as she walks into the kitchen with her empty glass. “Thank you for this,” she says as she sets the glass down. “For dinner, I mean.”

“Oh, no sweat. I love to cook, so anytime.” The words slip out easily. Too easily. When I look up at her, she’s biting her bottom lip, looking down at her feet.

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