She describes her planned kitchen garden expansion for the following spring and the issues with growing food near the soybean fields, where Ethan needs to spray pesticides to protect the crop. “I’m not going to even try to get organic certification, that’s too expensive, but I do want the food I grow to be safe and healthy. I’d appreciate any ideas you have for alternatives.”
Instead of mouthing off about the pesticides or jumping in with half-thought-through ideas for alternative uses of the land near the new garden, I nod slowly. “Let me think on it, and if it’s okay, I’ll come back to the next meeting with some proposals.” I look up at Ethan. “If there is a next meeting, that is.”
“This has been very helpful for me, and I hope it has been for all of you, so yes. I think we’ll make this a monthly occurrence, if that’s okay with you all,” Ethan says. When he gets a resounding round of “Ayes,” he brings the meeting to a close.
“You get a massage or something? Take up meditation?” Carlos asks the next morning on the way to our second appointment of the day. “You seem more relaxed than usual.”
“What? No. Do you get massages and meditate?” I shoot back, not sure if he’s making fun of me.
“On occasion. Have to find healthy ways to de-stress in this crazy world.”
Carlos is the least-stressed person I’ve ever met, so maybe he’s got a point. But I have a feeling that having had athletic, adventurous and probably addictive sex for the past week has something to do with my positive frame of mind. Even though I know this thing with Diane has an expiration date—or maybe because I know that—I’m savoring every sip of her.
Gomer nudges my shoulder, reminding me to focus on what my boss is saying. It doesn’t take long to realize that he’s talking about the farm we’re heading to. He tends to think out loud, and for the first time since we’ve been working together, it dawns on me that while I may know a heck of a lot about soil science, Carlos knows people.
Also for the first time, I don’t say a damn word as we walk the fields with farmer Don Reynolds. Every time my mental chatter starts up–they’ll never listen to me, their ideas are old school, they’re too stubborn to change–I remind myself that even if I’m right about the science, I might not be right about the situation.
When the inner monologue gives up and drops away, I notice a few things. Like I’m wearing comfortable work boots instead of dress shoes that pinch. I’m working under blue skies instead of fluorescent lights that flicker annoyingly. When I take a deep breath, I take in the scents of loam, autumn leaves, and drying hay, instead of burnt coffee and whatever’s rotting in the breakroom fridge.
Best of all, nobody’s breathing down my neck expecting me to help sell more products like I’m more of a drug dealer than a scientist.
By the time we get back to the truck, I’m not only smiling, I’ve had an epiphany. As I clip Gomer in, I ask my boss, “Why didn’t you tell me you have a formula?”
He grunts as he settles into the passenger seat. “Formula? For what?”
“For working with clients. I just realized it. You do the same damn thing every time.”
After I fasten my seat belt, I look up, but he’s just staring at me, shaking his head. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“You have a formula. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before.” I punch in the address for our next stop, eager to get to the next operation so I can try it out myself. Putting the truck in gear, I pull out onto the road. “First, you listen. Next, you answer all of the client’s questions. Next, you point out two things they’re doing that are working—always two—and your voice has this distinct tone of admiration. Then, you show them the results of the tests we’ve run, and you give them three recommendations. No more, no less.”
I glance over at him at a stop sign, but he’s just looking straight ahead, brows furrowed, stroking his beard, so I add, “The thing that I’m curious about? You put the one they really need to act on third on the list. Not first. And you don’t tell them there’s a hierarchy. Why is that?”
Carlos continues to stare out the window, his weathered skin creased in thought. Finally, he barks out a laugh. “You know, you’re right. I had no idea I do that.”
“Could’ve saved us a couple weeks of riding around like this,” I can’t help but grumble as I pull through the intersection.
“Yeah, but then I would’ve missed out on really getting to know you.” I can’t quite tell if he’s joking, so I glance over, only to find him staring out the window again. “You know, being neurodivergent can be tricky, but I personally think the strengths outweigh the challenges.”
Not quite following the non sequitur, I ask, “Are you neurodivergent?” Feeling his gaze on me, I glance over again.
“I’m not, but my nephew is. He’s just a few years younger than you and wasn’t diagnosed until a couple of years ago. When I was coming up, there was a lot of stigma around anything that was different, so being labeled with a developmental disorder could be really damaging.”
The sudden roar in my ears makes it difficult to concentrate. Still, I need to hear his words like I need to take my next breath.
“From what I see in my nephew,” Carlos is saying, “understanding more about how his brain works has been freeing for him. Empowering even.”
A car honks behind me, and I realize that I’ve been sitting at another intersection, my hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s a horse that’s going to run away with me. Gomer’s muzzle lands on my shoulder, and I take a deep breath.
My heart still hammering behind my sternum, I look both ways before pressing on the accelerator. And then I make myself ask, “Are you talking about me?”
“Might be something to research,” Carlos says like it’s no big deal.
Like he hasn’t just given the kids who called me a freak, the women who broke up with me because I was difficult, and the grandfather who rejected me justification for their actions. It’s not just that I don’t fit in here in Fork Lick or with my family.
I don’t fit in anywhere.
CHAPTER 17SAM
It’s easy to keep my mouth shut during our final appointment of the day because all I can think about is what Carlos said. When we return to the office, I tell him that I want to do some research on alfalfa pests—the only thing I remember the woman we met this afternoon asking about—but instead, I pull up an incognito search window and go down a neurodivergence rabbit hole.
Twenty-five open tabs later, I’m more agitated than I was before. I don’t think I have any of the dyslexias, or Tourette’s. But I could have OCD, autism spectrum disorder, ADHD, sensory processing issues, or a cocktail of all of the above. I take a few online tests, but they just get me more confused. So I do the next best thing. Text my sister.
Me: Did you ever think I was neurodivergent
The dots come and go under her name so many times I almost break down and call her, but I don’t want to talk about this out loud at work.
Colleen: Why do you ask?
Me: Give it to me straight Ree
More dots.
Colleen: Okay. After a training at work a couple years ago, it did occur to me that you might be on the autism spectrum or maybe have ADHD. It would have been easy for it to go undiagnosed when we were in middle school because we were going through so much change and grief.
Me: Why didn’t you say anything about it
Colleen: It didn’t seem important. You’re well-adjusted. You’re successful. I figured it would just stir the pot unnecessarily.
Colleen: I’m sorry if that wasn’t the answer you were looking for.
I just stare at my phone for a long time. Is she right? Am I well-adjusted? Or is Carlos right? Would knowing how and why my brain works differently be a relief? Or would a diagnosis just give people permission to isolate me further?
These questions continue to circle the drain of my brain for the rest of the workday. On the drive home, I try to focus on the world around me. Autumn has always been my favorite time of year. There’s something about the quality of the light. Even though it’s a crazy time for farmers as they rush to get the harvest in, there’s that feeling that everything you’ve worked so hard for is coming to fruition.
Which, until today, I’ve been able to relate to. I’m finally loving the work I do and feeling like my hard-won education is doing good. The icing on the cake I didn’t realize I wanted? A gorgeous, smart, sexy woman to come home to.
If only it were my home and the woman was sticking around. But maybe it’s better this way. The more time we spend together, not only will I get more attached, but the more likely she’ll come to the conclusion that every other woman I’ve dated has. A conclusion that now has a scientific basis. I’m different, and there’s nothing they can do to change that.
Anyway, like the seasons, everything comes to an end.
The driveway is full when I pull up to the farmhouse, and I can hardly find a place to park my truck. Gomer’s out of the car the minute I turn off the engine, racing off somewhere. Excited barks have me worried, so I hightail it after him.
I can’t figure out where the sound is coming from until I realize that it’s echoing off Baabara’s house. When I finally find him, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Gomer’s on his back, belly exposed, tongue lolling. Then he jumps up, barking as his front paws hit the ground in a play slap. He and the sheep face off for a moment, and then they race in a circle until Baabara butts the dog and he flips onto his back, which starts the cycle all over again.
