“Me too. But he was kind of distracted.”
“By us fighting.” Fresh guilt swamped me.
“Among other things.” Conrad’s thunderous expression made it clear that somehow my shortcomings were a big part of those other things.
“That’s not fair.”
Conrad huffed out several breaths. “Fair or not, we’ve got no spare and I think the rim is bent.”
“Well, heck.”
“You can say fuck, Alden. I won’t tell.”
“Fine. Fuck it.” The curse felt sharp, unnatural in my mouth. “Nope. Cursing doesn’t help.”
“True. But it feels better momentarily, right?”
“For you maybe.”
“God. Can’t you stop being so damn perfect for like ten minutes? Please?” Conrad paced back and forth in front of me.
“I’m not perfect.” How utterly hysterical a concept. Rather than give in to the urge to laugh like a maniac—another impulse that wasn’t likely to help—I started repacking the trunk in the correct order.
“Oh? You’re Mr. GPA, never a single misstep. Perfectly virginal. Perfectly studious. Have you even been drunk? Or fucked up?”
“All. The. Time.” Pausing from my work, I ground out each word. “Messed up, I mean. Not the drunk part. My anxiety meds tend to contraindicate alcohol.”
“My point. You can’t even violate a prescription warning.”
“I don’t like dying, thank you very much.” I placed the next bag in the trunk with more force than necessary, making the other bags jump.
“Fair enough.” He looked slightly chagrined, chin tucking in, eyes shuttering. “But I don’t mean messed up like a panic attack at the wrong moment. Or a B on a test. I mean big, huge errors in judgment. The kind that change everything.”
The pain in his voice gave me pause. “I’m not sure,” I admitted slowly, putting the last box away more cautiously. “But I’m not perfect. That much I know. And I’ve got the bulging medical file to prove it.”
“Doctor stuff?” His mouth twisted. “Not sure that health problems count or—”
“Just stop.” I rounded on him, bristling with twenty-odd years of righteous indignation over people and their assumptions. “You’re so darn sure I’ve got the perfect life just because I’ve got two moms, the nice house, the tuition, and whatever else you wish you had, but you can’t see past the external and I am sick of it.”
“Sor—”
“I’m not done.” I’d rarely been this angry, and it felt like a freight train trying to leave my chest, like I couldn’t hold it back any longer. “You want to know how imperfect I am? Fine. My moms have spent years trying to get a label for my imperfection.”
“Oh. You mean like a panic disorder?” His voice was cautious, but I plowed on.
“That. Personality disorder. Learning disability of some sort. Speech problem. Autism spectrum disorder—what they used to call Asperger’s. The moms were desperate for an explanation for why I wasn’t like other kids. They latched onto neurodiversity, but all the doctors they dragged me to couldn’t come to a consensus on a single label. But they all agreed that whatever I was, I wasn’t a typical kid.”
“Well, duh. You’re a genius. Don’t plenty of geniuses have neurodiversity or whatever you want to call it?”
“My IQ isn’t quite that high,” I felt honor bound to correct him, even as I warmed to the compliment.
“Okay, maybe not a literal genius, but dude, you’re hella smart.”
“That wasn’t enough,” I whispered as the wind whipped through my hair, heat of the day beating down on me just as much as the memories and shame were. “Not enough for medical school, at least. I’m smart, sure, but there’s tons of applicants with the same GPA. And good at math doesn’t mean good at baring my soul in an admissions essay. That and socially awkward equals fast rejection.”
“I wouldn’t say you’re that socially awkward.” His tone was kind, but I hated that I couldn’t tell whether he actually meant it or was being nice to get me to calm down. Which wasn’t happening. My pulse was still pounding, the need to make him understand as intense as the sun, impossible to hold back.
“And the worst part—the truly worst part—is that the moms wanted me to write about being neurodiverse. Like they knew it wouldn’t be enough to just be myself to get in. It’s never enough being me. We have to label it. Work to overcome it. Treat it. Fix it. Because, yeah, I’m imperfect.”
Conrad was silent a long moment, undoubtedly stunned by my tirade, chewing on his lower lip as he squinted into the sun.
“I don’t think so,” he said at last. “And it’s not me having rose-colored glasses about your family situation. I get it now. They were too hard on you. But you’re not imperfect. Neurodiverse or not, you’re right. You’re just you. Just Alden. It’s who you are. Changing any of it isn’t necessary.”
“It’s not?” I could barely get the words out. I wasn’t sure anyone had ever quite so readily defended me.