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.
My dog is in love with a sheep.
Despite my worries, I can’t wait to show Diane. To share this moment with her. To make her laugh. She’s usually editing this time of day, so I take the back stairs two at a time to the bedroom. Her computer is there, but she’s not. Back downstairs, I follow the sounds of female voices to the parlor and slide the pocket door open a fraction.
Once again, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
Ethel Bedd, the woman who in most of my childhood memories is sweating away in the kitchen or being run ragged by five kids, is wiping tears from her bright pink cheeks, and she—along with every other woman in the room—is howling with laughter. It takes me a moment to figure out what’s so funny, but when Colleen steps to the side to reveal Diane tangled up in what looks like an entire skein of yarn, I get it.
Diane’s got Gran’s knitting club under her spell.
Closing the door before anyone notices me, I head out the front door and down the lane to the barn. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so angry. Am I jealous? Maybe. But is it that I don’t want to share Diane in what little time we have together? Or is it that she so easily fits in around here, while I never have? Not wanting to think about either scenario, I grab the basketball that always sits in the barn office. It’s only when I head back outside that I notice the hoop is gone.
I need to throw things right now, and chucking a basketball at a backboard is definitely safer than anything else I could hurl at the moment. Ball on my hip, I search for Ethan, but he’s not in the barn or the equipment shed. The tractor’s parked, so he’s probably not out in the field. Hoping he’s moved the basketball hoop to his driveway, I continue down the lane. When I get to his house, I don’t see a hoop anywhere, so I bang on his front door until it opens.
Ethan rubs his eyes like I woke him up. “Where’s the fire?” he asks grumpily.
“Where’s the fucking basketball hoop?” I shoot back, matching him grump for grump.
“I took it down. There’s a new one in the barn by the side door. Haven’t had time to install it.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Without further ado, I stomp back down the lane. After reading the installation instructions for the new hoop, I call my dog and teach him the words for wrench, tape measure, and bolt, just in case I drop something.
After I locate the studs and drill the pilot holes, it’s a little tricky to haul the mounting bracket up the ladder and screw in the lug bolts, but I manage it. I’m just trying to figure out if Gomer could help me get the backboard up the ladder, when a voice startles me from behind.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I catch my balance by grabbing the bracket and the top of the ladder before craning my neck to find Ethan’s scowling face. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Hanging off the side of the barn like an idiot. And why didn’t you put it where the old one was?”
Naturally, Ethan has to criticize the placement of the hoop.
“I thought it’d be better under the side roof. That way we can play when it’s raining.”
I nearly fall off the ladder again when he agrees with me, but I catch myself just in time. He helps me lift the backboard and then holds it in place—claiming that he’s stronger than me—while I screw in the bolts. We hang the net, and while Gomer helps me put away the tools, Ethan looks around with a frown on his face.
“I have no idea where the basketball went.”
“No problem. Gomer, fetch the basketball.” I have no idea where I left it either, but Gomer trots around the corner of the barn and returns nosing the ball in front of him.
Ethan jogs over to grab it. Gomer barks, miffed that he didn’t get to bring me the ball, so I yell, “Good boy! Come get the tool bag, Gomer.”
Happy to have another job, he gallops back, takes the handle in his jaws, and proudly returns the tools to the office.
Ethan shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Game of HORSE?”
“You’re on.”
It kills me that he barely even has to try to make his shots, just heaves the ball willy-nilly, while I have to go through my whole routine every time. Place my feet, do a mock arc with my hands, three dribbles, and then shoot.
“Overthinking it, like always,” Ethan mutters before making yet another easy basket.
Hmm. Overthinking. Is that because I’m autistic or I have OCD? “What happened to the old hoop, anyway? Did it get rusted or something?”
“It was headed that way,” Ethan says as he tosses me the ball. “And I realized I could use it to make a grate for the fire pit Lia asked me to put in.”
“That’s an impressive reuse.” Feet, arc, dribble, shoot.
