Her gut demanded she tell Michael the truth. Though he wasn’t aware of the true extent of them, he already knew about her issues: sensitivities to smell, sound, and touch; her obsession with her work; her need for routine; and her awkwardness with people. What he didn’t know was there were labels for that, a diagnosis.
But was pity any better than hatred? Right now, he thought she was insensitive and rude, but he still viewed her as a regular person who happened to have some eccentricities. With the labels, he might be more understanding, but he’d quit viewing her as Stella Lane, awkward econometrician who loved his kisses. In his eyes, she’d become the girl with autism. She’d be . . . less.
With other people, she didn’t care what they thought.
With Michael, she desperately needed to be accepted. She had a disorder, but it didn’t define her. She was Stella. She was a unique person.
There was no way to salvage this situation. No way to keep him.
She still had to apologize to his mom. She’d never made someone cry before, and it filled her with self-loathing. His mom’s evasiveness made sense now that she knew about his dad. Stella wished she could have understood earlier, before she hurt the woman and ruined everything, but all she could control were her future actions, not the past.
As the night dragged on, she constructed and reconstructed her apology, recited it over and over in her head. When the sun rose, she dragged herself out of bed and got ready to tackle the day.
She drove to the same strip mall she’d gone to yesterday and parked in front of Paris Dry Cleaning and Tailors. As soon as they flipped the sign, she’d apologize and leave.
A night of sleeplessness had left her head clouded, and her heart ached from the relentless pressure of her anxiety. Her fingers had been clenched around the wheel so long the joints were locked. She was drained and wanted to get this over with so she could go to the office and lose herself in work.
Five minutes before nine, the sign flipped from Closed to Open. Taking a deep breath, Stella picked up a second box of chocolates and a bouquet of peach roses and exited her car. Inside, Janie sat behind the front counter.
She lifted her attention from the textbook on her lap and blinked in surprise at Stella. From the tense set of her mouth, it was not a good kind of surprise. “Hi, Stella . . . Michael doesn’t work on Saturdays.”
“I wasn’t looking for him.” What was the point? They were done. She held up the roses and chocolates. “I brought these for your mom. Is she here?”
Janie’s expression softened. “Yeah, she’s here.”
“May I speak to her, please?”
“She’s working in back. I’ll take you there.”
She followed Janie into the backroom and stopped in front of a green commercial sewing machine, where Michael’s mom was busy feeding fabric beneath the sewing foot with quick efficiency, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
Stella’s muscles tensed, and her heart thundered. It was time to do this. She hoped she didn’t screw it up. She hoped she said the right thing.
Janie murmured something in Vietnamese, and Michael’s mom looked up. Her gaze jumped from Janie to Stella.
Stella swallowed and forged ahead. “I came to apologize for last night. I know I was rude. I’m not . . . good with people. I wanted to thank you for inviting me over to your house.” She held out the flowers and chocolates. “I got these for you. I hope you like chocolate.”
Janie snatched the truffles before her mother could touch the box. “I do.”
Michael’s mom accepted the flowers and sighed. “We still have a lot of food left over from last night. You should try to come again.”
Stella looked down at her feet. Michael would be horrified if he saw her at his mom’s tonight. “I need to go. I’m truly sorry about last night. Thank you again.”
She turned around to leave but caught sight of Michael’s tiny grandma at the couch. The old woman nodded at her, and Stella fumbled on something that was half curtsy, half bow before she left.
* * *
• • •
Michael walked into the studio and tossed his duffel bag on the blue matted floor next to the other two bags.
The fighters in the middle of the room broke apart, took five steps back, switched their swords to their left hands, and bowed.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” said the fighter on the right. It was Quan. A helmet obscured his cousin’s face, but Michael knew it was him by his voice and the name embroidered in white on his black sparring gear. Also, Quan was an inch shorter than his baby brother.
Khai waved a gloved hand at him and seamlessly switched from sparring to strike drills using his reflection in the mirror. Ten whip-fast head strikes, ten wrist strikes, ten rib strikes. Then back to the beginning. Ten more head strikes . . . When Khai worked out, he worked out. There wasn’t downtime. His single-minded focus was impressive. And reminded Michael of Stella. He released a heavy sigh.
“Don’t usually see you Saturdays. What’s up?” Quan asked.