An odd impulse grabs hold of me, and without actively deciding to do anything, I hear myself saying, “My therapist told me something the other day.”

“Yeah, what did they say?”

“She said I have autism spectrum disorder. I’m autistic with low support needs.” The words sound strange falling off my tongue. They’re too new. But they’re mine, and I want her to know. They explain so much about me—the trouble I had when I was little, the things I’m going through now, everything.

Even so, I hold my breath as I wait for her to respond. It feels like my heart pauses its beating. Will she be ashamed? Will she walk on eggshells around me now?

Will she still love me?

“No, you’re not,” she says with conviction.

For a moment, I’m too flustered to speak. Disbelief wasn’t a reaction I’d foreseen. “My therapist told me this. One of her specializations is—”

She makes an impatient sound. “None of that means anything. People get diagnosed with all kinds of stuff nowadays. It’s a scam to get your money. Don’t let them take advantage of you, Anna.”

My jaw drops as her words seep into my brain. How she can so easily disregard a professional opinion just because she doesn’t like it? How can she be so certain?

“Autism often looks different in women,” I try to explain. “It’s due to a phenomenon called masking, which is when—”

“Trust me, you’re not autistic,” Priscilla says.

“I think I am.”

“Don’t use this as an excuse for your shortcomings, Anna. You’re minimizing the struggles that real autistic people face when you do this.”

“I’m not trying to minimize anything for anyone,” I say, horrified by the accusation. “Autism can be different from what you’ve seen. They call it a spectrum for a reason. There are people who have more obvious impairments, but there are also people like me. Just because I look like I’m doing okay doesn’t mean it’s always true.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe we’re even discussing this. You’re not disabled,” she says in an exasperated tone.

“I didn’t say I was. I don’t think I qualify, personally. But it’s true that there are certain things that are harder for me to—”

“I have to go. Let’s talk about this later.” The line disconnects.

I lower my phone from my ear and stare ahead without seeing anything. That didn’t go at all how I thought it would, and a deep sense of disappointment and frustration grips me. I told her because I yearned for her to understand me. But it’s never been more clear how much she doesn’t.

Self-doubt takes control of me. I must be wrong. Jennifer must be wrong. Those epiphanies that I had were fake. That sense of identification was misguided. It is human to struggle. If there was a diagnosis for every difficulty, they wouldn’t mean anything.

My intercom buzzes, and I scramble to my feet and run to the front door to hit the button. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Quan says. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I say, but I don’t really know if it’s true. I’ve done a lot of thinking about tonight, and I haven’t found a way around my issues. I can’t do the things he wants. I can’t. But we put this thing in motion, and I want to see it through. I finish what I begin. If I don’t … it fills me with suffering. “Come on up.”

When a knock sounds a short while later, I take a second to collect myself, paste a smile on my face, and open the door.

He’s dressed similar to the first night we met—motorcycle jacket, dark pants, boots. His helmet is tucked under his arm, and he’s smiling at me, that smile that makes it hard for me to think. Once he gets a good look at me, however, his smile fades.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.

He gives me a skeptical look, so I explain, “I was just on the phone with my sister. I told her about … you know.”

“She didn’t take it well?” he asks, his brow wrinkled with concern.

“I’m not sure how to answer that question. She thinks my therapist is wrong, that I’m wrong. And maybe I am. I don’t know anymore.” I hold my palms out and drop them to my sides as a sense of heaviness weighs me down.

He frowns at me for a second before looking at my living room over my shoulder. “Do you want to get out for a bit? Take a walk or something? Fresh air usually helps me feel better.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. Aside from what I have to do for transportation purposes, I’m not much of a walker. Or jogger. Or any kind of exerciser. But it’s been days since I’ve been out, and I don’t mind the idea.

I step into my ballet slippers, which are neatly arranged in the entryway, lock the door, and follow him out of my building. The sky is darkening and it’s a bit chilly, but I don’t go back for a sweater or coat. I don’t expect us to be out long.

When we walk past a black motorcycle parked next to the curb, I ask, “Yours?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Want to go for a ride? I promise to be careful.”

I fumble with a response. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before. I’ve never wanted to because Priscilla thinks it’s a foolish thing to do. According to her, anyone who gets injured while riding was basically asking for it and shouldn’t be surprised when they get brain damage.

Before I can answer, he aims a carefree smile at me and says, “I was just asking. Don’t feel pressured.”

He walks past the motorcycle, but I grab his arm to stop him and quickly say, “No, I want to. I’m just a little nervous.”

“You sure? I won’t be sad if we don’t. Really.”

“I’m sure,” I say. Priscilla isn’t here to judge me. More important, I’m tired of the never-ending and fruitless battle to earn her approval. It’s brought me misery more than anything else, and right now, I want to give in and see what it’s like not to fight so hard. On my last night with this wonderful, completely wrong-for-me man, I want to do something memorable.

“Okay, but just tell me if you want us to stop, and I will,” he says.

As he settles the extra helmet he brought onto my head and clips it under my chin, I smile up at him—a real smile. I am nervous, but I’m also strangely energized. He said he’d be careful, and I trust him. Before climbing onto the bike, he hesitates, takes his jacket off, and settles it over my shoulders.

“Just in case,” he says.

I’m about to protest, but the jacket is deliciously warm and it smells like him. I thread my arms into the sleeves and pull the front portion over my nose, so I can breathe in his scent. “Are you sure you don’t need it?”

“Nah, my temperature runs hot. I’m good.” He zips me up and nods with satisfaction, and I laugh awkwardly as I wiggle my arms, making the too-big sleeves flap like wings.

“I must look pretty funny like this.”

“You look perfect.” To prove it, he leans in and kisses me on the lips. It’s a short kiss, but it goes to my head anyway. His lips are cool, his breath warm. When he pulls away, it takes me a moment to reorient myself, and he grins as he rolls one of his jacket sleeves up to my wrist.