Page 97 of Playing Games

Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking toward the brownstone I used to call home and pulling my spare key out of my purse. I unlock the door, and when I step inside, the sounds of the security alarm start to give a warning ding. I quickly head to the keypad and shut it off before dropping my purse and keys on the small catch-all table in the entryway.

I slip off my shoes and walk on bare feet down the hallway, taking the stairs that lead to the bedrooms on the second and third floors.

And when I reach my mom’s room, I carefully push open the door and find her lying in her bed by herself, completely asleep and unaware of the rest of the world.

I know my stepdad Wes is on some business trip related to the Mavericks, and he won’t be home for another two days. And while I normally love his presence, tonight, I’m silently thankful that my mom is the only one in her bed right now.

Without delay, I slide into the empty spot to her left and wrap my arms around her back, cuddling my body close to her warmth. Instantly, she stirs, turning over onto her side with groggy eyes, and she tries to focus on my face.

“Lexi?” she asks and reaches out to smooth some of my blond hair out of my face. “What are you doing here, honey?”

The softness of her voice and her gentle, motherly touch break something inside me, and I just start crying. I press my head intoher shoulder, and she hugs me tightly as I let the uncontrollable tears fall down my cheeks.

“Aw, honey,” she whispers, gently rubbing my back with her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Everything,” I whisper back, my voice strangled around my emotion.

She lets me cry, tenderly rubbing my back the entire time, and I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, a sort of numbness washes over me, and I find the strength to pull away from the safety of her embrace and meet her eyes.

“I messed up, Mom,” I admit. “And I don’t know what to do or how to fix it.”

“How about we go downstairs and I make us some hot cocoa, and we can try to sort it all out together?”

I have so many memories of my mom doing exactly this when I was a little girl. Being on the spectrum isn’t an easy thing in general, but being on the spectrum when you’re in middle school and trying to understand how to socialize and make friends is really freaking hard.

If it weren’t for my mom and our many hot cocoa chats, I don’t know how I would’ve survived my adolescence.

I nod. Grateful. “Sounds perfect.”

My half-drunk cup of hot cocoa sits in front of me, my hands still clutching the mug like a lifeline as I continue to tell my mom all about my summer with Blake.

I’ve told her how it all started and about my stupid research project and how, at some point, it was like I was spending all my waking moments with him.

I’ve told her about how thoughtful he is and how much fun he is, and without giving her too many details, I’ve told her about how I’ve never felt so intimately connected to another person.

I’ve told her pretty much the whole trajectory of what went down between us, and she’s mostly just listened, only occasionally interrupting me to ask a question to clarify.

“I told him to move on,” I explain. “He wanted to be together, and he wanted our relationship to be out in the open where everyone would know that we’re together. He told me he loved me, and I honestly don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone like that. I don’t know if I’m capable of loving someone in the same way that you love Wes.”

My mom nods and takes a drink of cocoa, silently encouraging me to continue.

“But tonight, I saw him at a party. That dumb party Ace talked me into going to after dinner,” I explain. “And Blake was there, but he was with another girl. A redhead who was pretty much fawning all over him, and it made me feel…terrible. But I know that’s not fair because I told him to move on, you know? He wanted to be with me, and I told him I didn’t want to be with him.”

“Is he with that girl now?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. It was like I couldn’t hold back the urge to cry, and I just had to get out of there before I sobbed in front of a bunch of drunk college kids. But he did text me.”

“What did he say?”

I slide my phone across the table and let her read the last few messages between us.

“He was worried about you, Lex,” my mom says, lifting her eyes to meet mine.

“Yeah.”

“But I don’t think you actually mean what you said here,” she says, searching my eyes carefully. “I don’t think you want him to move on.”

“Why do you think that?”

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