“I can do this myself,” I say, not used to people helping me with something like this—or anything, really.

He simply shakes his head and continues working on the other sleeve. “I like to.”

That’s a novel concept to me. In the world unique to my workaholic, success-driven family, self-sufficiency is key. I vividly remember a time when I was sick during grade school. My dad handed me a Tylenol bottle and instructed me to read the directions as he rushed out the door to catch a flight for a business trip, leaving me to manage my fever on my own. I was old enough that it wasn’t illegal to be home alone (I think), and clearly, I managed just fine. But I lost something that day. Or maybe I just grew up. I don’t know.

What I do know is that right now, as Quan does this trivial thing for me, I feel downright spoiled. And I love it.

He puts his own helmet on, climbs onto the motorcycle, and motions for me to join him. “Put your feet here and wrap your arms around my waist.”

Once I’m behind him, holding on tightly, excitement, both good and bad, rushes through my veins. It’s like I have carbonation in my blood.

“Ready?” he asks, looking back at me over his shoulder.

I nod, and he smiles at me and revs the engine.

My stomach dips as we pull away from the curb, and every muscle in my body tenses. There’s nothing between me and the giant metal vehicles hurtling down the street. I can feel the wind on my legs, on my hands, on my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut as terror seizes me. If the end is coming, I don’t want to see it.

The end doesn’t come, though. Not in a minute. Not in two, three, four, or five. The thing with feelings is they pass. Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.

Even though I understand I could still get in an accident at any moment, my fear recedes, and I open my eyes. It’s too much to take in at first. We’re going fast, and the world around me is a blur. But eventually, I catch my breath, and my heartbeat slows a notch.

The city is alive. Streetlights shine, taillights blink, a cloud of exhaust from a passing truck washes over my face. Somehow everything is sharper, brighter.

I get my bearings. I’ve walked these streets. I know where I am. Especially when he turns onto Franklin Street. The modern geometric design of the Davies Symphony Hall comes into view. It’s the back of the building so it’s not as impressive, but it feels like home to me. I’ve missed it.

Next, we pass the War Memorial Opera House and the San Francisco Ballet, glimpse the back of the grand rounded dome of city hall, and continue north. I assume we’re heading to the ocean, somewhere I never go unless I’m introducing the city to someone from out of town, but he turns before we get there. We head down quiet side streets lined with trees, upscale apartments, and parks, and I realize he’s steering clear of the busy parts of town. He’s being careful, just as he promised. He’s keeping me safe.

Gratitude and something else swell in my chest, and I hug him tighter. This is when I become aware of our physical proximity. Our bodies are pressed against each other, his back to my chest, my thighs to his, my arms around his waist. He’s solid against me, a steady anchor in this whirlwind chaos. My focus narrows to him. I watch, captivated, as he competently steers us through the traffic. He doesn’t speed. He signals when he turns. He doesn’t run the yellow lights. He’s not trying to show off—he’s confident enough that he doesn’t need to—and I really, really like that.

He stops across the street from a park and helps me climb off the motorcycle and remove my helmet, asking, “How was that? How are you doing?”

“That was … I don’t have words,” I say. I’m trembling slightly, but I can’t stop smiling.

“Good, then?” he asks just to be sure.

“Yes.” I smile wider. “Thank you.”

He nods, pleased by my response, before looking at the park across the way. “Have you ever been here? It’s best at night.”

“No. I mean, I’ve gone past it a bunch of times, I knew it was here, but I never stopped to walk around and explore,” I say.

“Come on. I think you’ll like it,” he says.

As he takes my hand and crosses the street with me, I take in the view, seeing the Palace of Fine Arts with new eyes. A fountain sprays within a lagoon surrounded by drowsy weeping willows, and beyond it, Roman colonnades rise, leading to a soaring rotunda that glows golden beneath clever nighttime illumination. It looks, I decide, like a fairy-tale setting.

There’s a large stretch of open grass before the water, dotted here and there with blooming trees. I can’t see the color of the flowers in the dark, but when the breeze picks up, petals fall like snowflakes, lending a honey scent to the air. Couples amble along the pathways. A stranger takes a group photo for a family of six (two parents and four little girls of varying ages with matching dresses and pigtails) and hands the phone back to them. A shaggy dog barks enthusiastically as it hurtles by, its leash dragging on the grass. Several yards behind, a harried man races after the dog, yelling, “Bad boy! No chasing!”

A laugh bubbles out of me, and Quan squeezes my hand. “Feeling better?”

“Yes,” I say automatically. The ride was such a good distraction that it takes me a few seconds to remember why I was unhappy before, but as soon as I recall my recent discussion with Priscilla, heaviness settles on my shoulders. “My sister thinks I’m trying to use the diagnosis as an excuse for my failures.”

He grimaces. “What the fff—heck?”

I shake my head at him, smiling despite the tightness in my chest. “You can swear around me, you know. I’m a grown-up.”

“You never do,” he says.

“I would if I was better at it, but the words sound wrong when I say them. Also, why are they so bad anyway? One is just … feces, which every healthy person makes. The other is sex, and most people really like sex, so …”

“Says the person who can’t tell me what she likes in bed,” he whispers in my ear, sending a shiver down my neck.

“Okay, you have a point.” I squirm internally as my face heats to a thousand degrees.

He gives me a good-natured yet knowing kind of look before switching back to the original topic. “What did you say to your sister after she said that? Did you get mad?”

“No, mad is never okay. It’s disrespectful, you know? I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t really listen. I don’t know what to do now. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I am just looking for excuses.”

“Fuck that,” he says abruptly. “You’re not like that.”

“Is autism right for me, though? She said I’m hurting real autistic people when I claim it for myself.”

“What?” he says in disgust. “You’re not hurting anyone. If a diagnosis can help improve your life, it’s the right one for you, and only you can know that. What do you think? Does it help you or not?”

“I think … it helps.”

“Then your therapist is right,” he says simply, like it’s all settled.

“But what do I do when my family doesn’t believe me?” I ask.