Page 44 of Spicy Ever After
And I’m the last person in the world who should expect neurotypical behavior.
Beck is working. He’s focused.
It doesn’t mean this was a mistake and I should have listened to my doubts when he said he wanted to see me again.
When I’m piecing a sleeve and hyper-focused on keeping my seams at exactly ? inches, don’t expect language, much less social niceties.
So as I wait in line, just feet away from my Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date, I scold my ableist stomach, my catastrophizing brain, and my lily-livered heart to calm the fuck down.
And it’s then I realize the man-bun guy in front of me isn’t buying sweet potatoes. He’s buying?—
Vodka?
Wait. What?
I look up. Yep, that’s the Olivier Family Farms sign.
Bushels of sweet potatoes line the folding table in front of Beck. Along with a tidy display of cling-wrapped sweet potato breads, muffins, and one scrumptious-looking sweet potato pie.
All evidence suggests I’m in the right place.
Except—
“Can I help you?” Beck asks.
A jolt zips down my spine when I realize he’s talking to me.
Me.
His Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date date.
And, just like that, my stomach, brain, and heart scream in unison:
SEE!!! WE TRIED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING WAS WRONG!!!
My shoulders creep up and sounds from the surrounding stalls somehow grow spikes. The moment telescopes and sort of splinters and too many thoughts compete for my attention.
Because I had expected him to smile at me. And the absence of his smile is like the dissonant clanging of a warped bell. Is this how others feel when I greet them with my own distracted stare?
Is this why people are supposed to smile when they meet each other?
Is this why the soundtrack of my childhood was Mom saying, “Smile, Hattie. Where are your manners?”
So, I arrange the muscles in my face into something I think might resemble a smile.
“I’m here,” I tell Beck. Which is the lamest greeting imaginable because my presence is the one thing that should speak for itself.
Beck blinks at me before a little amused frown marks his brow.
Except, I remember the color palette in Beck’s hair. The wheat, flaxen, and gold woven into blond glory.
But now there’s chestnut and cinnamon where there wasn’t before.
Did I miss that?
“Yep. You’re here.” He gives a little nod like, Duh. Then he grins a lopsided grin that makes me feel like I’ve tripped on broken pavement.
The grin isn’t for me.
