Selena

2 weeks later

The next two weeks have been a social roller coaster of burnouts. Between going to the gym, doing homework, group chatting with coworkers, and living with Adam, I've been feeling so overwhelmed.

Not to mention, I have to research how to move to Germany, but Julie keeps bothering me about how I'm not planning the wedding. And I told her she can do whatever she wants, I don't care. She seems more excited about it than me anyway.

Then I felt guilty, because she clearly wants this to be a mother-daughter experience. So I've agreed to go try on wedding dresses tomorrow, which I'm so not looking forward to.

I don't even have the privacy to cry and let this stress melt off. I can't scream. Can't dance around and stim to my heart's content. I'm completely trapped. Mentally, emotionally, physically.

So on Tuesday night, when I open the freezer after the gym, to heat up my favorite pasta, and I notice that there's no more left...

I cry.

Thank God Adam is in the shower, because he'd take me to a psych ward. Who cries over a four dollar frozen Whole Foods dinner?

I do.

I'm at a zero. I have no willpower to choose what to eat. My brain is shutting down.

"Why are you still here?" Adam snaps behind me, making me flinch.

I turn around and—

He's butt naked with his shlong out.

"Ah!" I scream, ducking under the kitchen island. "What's wrong with you!"

I just saw his dick. I just saw his dick. I just saw his—

"I've told you to be in your room." He scolds.

I peek behind the kitchen at his flexed buttcheeks as he bends over the couch to grab his clothes.

Holy moly. He has the perfect inverted-triangle, beastly, wide-shouldered physique.

After Leah's surgery went well—thank God—Adam's been a little more social. But he's still stressed out that we haven't found the stalker.

And my wonderful father won't give us any new information. Apparently, his booty was tickled when he said that my brain is fucked up and I didn't call the next day to apologize.

Can you imagine? Such a horrible daughter...

"You haven't had food yet?" He brings me back to the present and passes me, opening the fridge.

He's changed to a clean pair of black shorts, but as always, he's shirtless.

I hate when he doesn't wear a shirt. It's simply impossible to look at him without bursting like a boiled tomato. My face immediately burns up.

"No, I'm not hungry tonight." I rush to go to my room.

"Wait." Not a request. It's an order. "Why not? Are you out of your food already?"

My shoulders tense up. Great. He already knows how weird I am.

"That's not why, I'm just not hungry." It's too embarrassing to admit that the thought of eating anything else makes me want to bawl my eyes out.

I'm not a child. I'm a grown ass woman. I need to suck it up and eat the damn food. Millions of people have nothing to eat. They're starving. I'm over here...just forget it.

Adam approaches me, leaning his head down as he inspects my face. "Have you been crying?"

"No." I turn my head.

"What's wrong? Talk to me."

"Nothing." I look down. Crap. He knows. I can't lie to save my life. I'm so bad at it.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval and tips my chin up with two fingers, making me look at him.

All I can feel is my heart pounding in my ears. I can't breathe. This is such an intimate gesture.

"Talk to me."

"Um..." I want to. I want to tell him, because I think there's a chance that he might understand. He might not laugh at me or call me selfish. But the fear of being laughed at is holding my tongue hostage. I physically can't form words.

"Sweetheart." He brushes his thumb over my jaw, caressingly it softly as if to keep me present. "I can't help you if I don't know what's bothering you. Tell me what's wrong. Hm?"

I'm starting to burn in a completely different way and if he keeps talking like that I might take my clothes off. How does a caveman who strolls around naked make me feel this weak?

"I ran out of my food and I don't want to eat anything else!" I smack his hand away. "There. Go ahead and judge me. I already know you're going to call me a spoiled princess. That I should be more grateful and eat what's available. I'm not selfish, okay? I just—"

"Calm down." He holds my shoulders firmly, looking me in the eyes. "Take a deep breath." He demonstrates it himself, inhaling deeply.

I'm so embarrassed that I'd rather laugh it off. "I'm fine—"

"I don't care, just do it. Come on." He does it again, never leaving his eyes off of me.

The deep exhale from his throat washes over me. I'm so mesmerized by the fact that this big guy is showing me how to do breathing exercises to calm me down. Wasn't expecting that.

No 'toughen up.'

No 'don't be such a cry baby.'

"That's it." He smiles as I finally take a deep breath. "Good girl. Now do it again."

Good girl.

Fuck. Please, say that again. Don't stop.

He smirks at whatever my dumb face must look like. Maybe he reads my mind.

"Better?"

All I can do is nod a little, chewing my lip off.

He chuckles, turning away towards the front door. "Now, let's go get your food."

~

Twenty minutes later, we park in front of the grocery store—also known as hell.

"Can I please wait in the car?" I ask. I'm shredding my fingernails. I don't want to be here.

"I need to be close to you, in case something happens," Adam coos, like he's rescuing a scared puppy in those sad adoption videos. "Just come. Everything will be fine, I promise."

Why is he being so nice? I liked it better when he was mean and sarcastic. At least then, I wasn't so embarrassed about being such a sensitive mess.

"Whatever, let's get this over with." I open the door and get out.

"How many times do I need to tell you to wait?" He reels his annoyance back, getting on my side.

Right on cue, that warm palm is touching my low back. Pushing me forward.

We go in...and I dreadfully look at the bright, harsh ceiling lights.

Hate it.

The shopping carts are wheeled left and right, all of them making loud, squeaky, rattling sounds. They hit each other. Kids scream. Barcode scanners beep. Cash registers fling open—

I am overwhelmed and I've barely been here for 10 seconds. I need to leave.

It takes me forever to get used to new routines. I'm still getting used to living with Adam. I'm still getting used to going to the gym. I'm trying to manage life-changing decisions in a matter of weeks. And I'm all alone. Adam is hired to be around me. My dad always puts me down. And I can't even go to the supermarket to feed myself and this totally sucks—

"Come on." Adam smiles at me over his shoulder and opens his hand, squeezing it a few times as I look in confusion. "Your hand." He orders.

Oh. Okay.

My brain acts without consulting with me, taking his hand.

I don't intertwine, obviously. I just kind of glare at him, look away, and hold his two fingers, because it's more comfortable that way.

Which he finds funny. For whatever reason.

"Oooh, chocolate!" A little boy says beside me. He's grinning at a round birthday cake in front of him by the bakery section, clapping his hands. "I love chocolate! Chocolate's my favorite!"

"Nobody cares," I grumble.

"Stop." Adam warns me with widening eyes.

I don't have time to argue, because at that moment, a random woman brushes past me and makes eye contact. I flinch, holding my breath until she passes me, so that I don't have to smell whatever body odor is seeping out of her.

Why did she have to pass me like that? People have no sense of personal space in public.

Adam pauses by the snack aisle. It's full of chips and candy.

Okay, you got my interest.

"What are you getting?" I ask. There are so many options. Endless colors and designs. I already have a few favorites in mind. I'm looking right at them.

I see you my darlings. Mama will be with you shortly.

Adam picks some lame ones, just like him, while I pick the best ones. Just like me.

"We should've gotten a shopping cart!" I complain, because all we have is the stupid basket Adam is holding that's already filled with frozen meals. Where am I supposed to put all these giants bags of chips and crackers?

Thankfully, I save us a trip by finding an abandoned one in the produce section. After dumping the snacks in it, Adam wheels it forward while I admire the fruits and veggies.

"So many options." I'm in love. This is like Disneyland, but farm edition. There's a beautiful stack of shiny red apples. Bright lemons. Deep purple eggplants and cute radishes.

I pick some apples, feeling healthier already.

For the first time in my life, I'm having a pleasant time shopping at a supermar—

"Aaaaaaaaaah!" The kid from earlier cries across from me, still standing by the bakery section.

I pinch my ears and wince. It's like someone's poking steak knives in there and twisting.

"Okay, time to leave." I rush to the checkout line.

"Shut that thing's mouth before you regret it." The kid's dad snaps at his small wife, who looks very sick.

I'm stunned and for a moment, I can't move.

Who talks to their wife like that? I've always seen such cruelty in movies. Never in real life.

That's your son. How can you call him a thing? How can you threaten your own family?

"Do you need help?" I ask the woman when the husband walks away from them.

Her startled eyes snap to mine. "No?"

"You sure?" I don't believe her, but maybe he's not physically abusive towards her. But that doesn't matter. Emotional abuse can be just as traumatizing, if not worse. Usually, others don't see the effects of emotional abuse and those who suffer, suffer privately. That's so unfair.

"Let's go." She yanks her son's hand and takes him to the checkout line.

Adam and I do a self-checkout, while I keep my eyes on the family. The dad just lingers around, playing games on his phone. The mom, who has the deepest dark under eyes, pays for the groceries. Which includes, a bottle of vodka, a case of beer, a bag of potatoes, and corn oil.

"They can afford to buy alcohol, but they won't buy chocolate for their own kid?" I snap while Adam bags our groceries. "Don't have kids, then."

"I know." Adam shrugs.

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Of course, it does." He glares across the crowd at the dirty-looking father. "Why wouldn't it bother me?"

"Should we do something?" I'm starting to panic, because we're running out of time. We need to decide now.

"No."

"Why not?"

"What are you going to do? Call the cops and tell them he yelled at his wife? Forget it."

"But I feel bad for the kid..." I frown at his sad, teary-eyed face. He's so cute. I can't leave him like this.

"I know," Adam says more compassionately, his tone softening around the edges.

There's a lot more to his 'I know.'

It's I know, because I've been in his shoes before. It's I know, because I've also felt alone. I know, because I've also felt helpless. I know, because that pain stayed with me and molded who I've become.

"Where are you going?" Adam asks as I turn towards the bakery section.

I pick up the exact cake that kid was raving about and take it back to our checkout machine. I scan it. I pay for it. And I look around for him, then notice his mom is leaving the store.

"Shit!" I'm running after them. I pass the old woman who brushed by me earlier. Hypothesis confirmed. She stinks like goat cheese.

"Careful." Adam catches up easily, jogging along.

I spot their truck as we step outside in the parking lot. They're right at the front. The mom and dad are putting the alcohol in the trunk and the boy is standing outside, staring at the traffic.

"Here you go!" I whisper to him, squatting down to give him the chocolate cake. "This is yours."

Adam urges me to hurry, so I don't have time to linger, I'm not sure if the boy even registers what's going on. I flash him a quick smile before running off.

I know this won't change his life. But maybe, it'll be a nice reminder that there are people out there who do kind things for others, and maybe he can cling to that positive hope to push forward when things feel too difficult.

I hope.

"That was really sweet." Adam notes.

"Maybe we should come to the supermarket more often." I look up at him, smiling.

~

"Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Cold bird juice sticking to my fingers. I repeat, cold bird juice."

Adam has asked me to season the chicken breast for the pasta he's forcing me to make, because he wants to eat too, but he refuses to eat the frozen one, because apparently it has too much sodium.

"You'll be fine, just wash your hands after." He chides, breezing through slicing zucchini and mushrooms on a large cutting board.

"Gross." I look away, but the sticky sound and cold, slimy texture, not to mention the salt and pepper getting stuck under my fingernails, it's too much. Too disgusting.

I flip the boiling water on and scrub my hands with soap, getting the gunk off my fingernails.

"What's next?" I wipe my forehead like I just butchered a goat.

"Now cook it."

"In what? The oven?"

"No, I think a pan should be fine..."

He thinks? Has he done it before? Why is he doubtful? "Okay, what kind of pan? And what temperature? And what do I cook it with? Also, how many minutes do I wait until I flip?"

"If I have to answer all that, I might as well just do it myself." He minces a clove of garlic, then chops green onions, holding the greens with his nerve-wrecking fingers.

I never thought I would say this, but I wish I was a green onion.

Put me in a choke hold.

"Did you hear what I said?" Adam looks over his shoulder at me.

"Hm?" CRAP.

He sighs, stepping over. "Of course, you didn't. Never mind."

He cuts a thick piece of butter and throws it on a hot pan. It sizzles, bubbling and melting.

"Sorry, I was checking you out," I say unapologetically.

"Get a large pan and heat some olive oil on it. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." I roll my eyes, doing as he says.

"Selena."

"I'm just impressed that you know how to multitask." I smirk as he slowly glares under his lashes.

"Move." He pushes me away and grabs the olive oil I just used, pouring more in the pan. He swirls the pan around, then sets it back down. Every move precise, confident, unapologetic.

I prop on the counter behind him and watch him work, admiring his focus and attention. He sure takes everything he does really serious. As if his work represents him, and he wants nothing less than perfect, only the best of the best.

"Alright, look." He tries again to explain the process, walking me through each step on how to make the cherry tomato sauce, when to add the seasoning, the mushroom stock, the cream...

I don't register a single word. None. By the time he finishes one sentence, my brain scrambles to visualize it, then pops like a bubble. Gone.

This is why I don't cook. Most tutorials are long videos or endless step-by-step paragraphs. Not to mention, the instructions are SO vague. It's so frustrating, I want to pull my hair out.

In the middle of cooking pasta and the chicken, Adam receives a call from Leah. They haven't talked in a while, so I know he wants to answer.

"Watch this, I'll be right back," he grumbles, going to the bedroom for privacy.

I got this. We got this. Who got this? We got this.

"What should I do?" I yell.

"Figure it out!" He closes the door behind him.

That's so unfair. How am I supposed to know, if I've never done this before? The smart thing to do would be to look up similar recipe videos, so that's what I do.

None of them are helpful. The chicken cooking instructions don't explain how many minutes it takes until it's cooked all the way through and I don't have the fancy thermometer they're using. And the sauce is bubbling and kind of sticking.

But he said watch it. He didn't say turn it off.

Do I turn it off?

What if he gets mad at me for turning it off?

I think he'd want me to turn it off. I ask Google how to know when the sauce is ready—

"What are you doing?" Adam snaps, barging back in the kitchen. "Why are you on your phone?"

"I was looking up—"

"Great, it's all ruined now!" He shuts the heat off and shoves the sauce on the cool side, then does the same with the chicken. When he flips the chicken on the other side, it's charred black.

I gasp. "I'm so sorry—"

"I told you it's almost ready—"

"No, you said watch it." I put my hands on my hips.

"It's the same thing!"

"In what world?" I scowl. "Watch it means stand there and direct your eyes at the thing. Almost ready means almost ready. Turn it off means—"

"I'm not doing this right now, stop talking." He grabs the burnt sauce and tosses the pan in the sink, scrubbing it off under running water.

"What are you doing?" I sulk with depressing guilt. This is all my fault. He's so mad. "I'll do—"

"It's fine."

"Are you making it again?" There's no way.

"Yeah."

"But why?"

"What do you mean why?" He scoffs, walking off to snatch the dish towel and dries the pan.

"Let me do it, you can just tell me what to do." At least that way I won't feel like shit for making him redo all that work again.

"It's fine."

"Why are you so angry? Did something happen on the phone?"

"No, I'm just annoyed! Even at the supermarket, you almost bumped into that woman. You never pay attention to your surroundings."

"Are you kidding?" I laugh like I've been kicked in the stomach. "I don't pay attention to my surroundings? If anything, I pay too much attention and that's why I can't focus!"

"No, because if you paid attention, you'd see that you need to turn the heat off."

"Like I said..." I clench my jaw not to raise my voice. "You didn't specify I need to—"

"I don't have to specify, it's called common sense."

All the fun and happy chemicals created in my brain evaporate.

"I'm sorry," I bite my emotions back, slowly stepping away.

A/N
Roller coaster, huh? Do you guys know how to cook? If so, what's your favorite dish to make?

P.S. Kind reminder that neurodivergence is different for everyone. A lot of people in the spectrum enjoy cooking, just not Selena ❤️