Taking Connor (16 page)

“Will do,” Jeff replies as he heads out. “Have fun you two.”

When the screen door slams closed, Vick and I chuckle. When he steps toward me again, close as he was before Jeff walked in, my laughter fades. He leans toward me and softly asks, “Are you ready yet?”

My eyes widen. He said he wouldn’t kiss me until I was ready. Is that what he’s asking? Already? “For you to kiss me?” I blurt out.

He smirks—an incredibly sexy smirk—and chuckles. “To go,” he says, as he backs away. He loves doing that, playing on my naivety. I fall for it every time.

I want to run from the room I’m so embarrassed. Instead, I clear my throat and blink a few times to clear my head of the thoughts that are flying through my mind. “Um, yes,” I manage after a beat. “Let’s go.”

We make the rather lengthy drive into Denver in Vick’s beat up truck, and along the way he tells me about this house built in the late 1800’s that he and his uncle have been contracted to paint. We stop at a restaurant called Cooper’s; he made reservations. I like that he took the time to plan this. Once we’re inside and seated, Vick orders a bottle of wine for us and with our glasses in hand, he toasts, “To new friends.”

I smile as we clink our glasses and take our first sip. There’s an awkward silence and my leg bounces as I struggle not to fill it. There wasn’t a second of quiet on our first date. I’m not sure why we’re struggling right now.

“How about a little this or that?” I finally ask.

“This or that?” Vick questions with a smirk.

“Yeah, I’ll start. Coke or Pepsi?”

He leans back in his seat and answers, “Coke.”

“Me too,” I laugh. “Now you go.”

The game although somewhat childish is a great ice breaker. We play and laugh until our food is brought out, and then I figure it’s time to get down to business. I want to know a little more, vet him out a bit.

“So what were you doing before you came to Colorado?”

He lets out a long breath through his nose as if he’s been dreading this question. “I worked part time for a graphic design firm and painted on the side. Hit a run of bad luck and my uncle offered me a job out here.”

“No lady friend back in Cali?” I question as I cut my steak.

Vick gives a nervous chuckle but doesn’t look up at me as he works on cutting his steak. “Uh, well. There was, but I never made enough money for her. It ended as soon as I moved out here.”

I wait a moment wondering if he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t. Instead he changes the subject, “I have somewhere I’d like to take you after this if you’re game.”

“Okay,” I agree, deciding not to push the subject.

After dinner, where Vick’s charming personality and gift for storytelling consume the evening, he drives us further in town to the Art Walk. It’s a seasonal exhibit of over sixty vendors out on the sidewalk that runs every summer. I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to go. We stroll down the sidewalk as Vick tells me about the paintings and what he sees, asking me from time to time what I see.

“How about this one?” I stare at the painting of a black dog lying next to an empty dog bowl.

“Maybe a painting about loneliness? The dog feels empty?” I do my best to respond articulately but fail miserably.

“I think the painter is trying to tell us of his inner turmoil. He lost the love of his life at a young age and never recovered from it.” I can’t help pursing my lips at the painting, trying to understand how he sees all that. Maybe I’m just not the artistic type. When Vick bursts into laughter, I look up at him.

“God, I swear I love your facial expressions sometimes.”

I scowl at him. He’s messing with me again.

“Sorry, hon,” he chuckles. “You were right. It’s just a lonely, hungry dog.

“You know, one day I’m going to get you. You won’t even see it coming,” I warn.

He smiles down at me as we move on. “I’ll be waiting.”

We continue, stopping to look at other paintings and discussing what we see. To his credit, he doesn’t let on if he thinks I’m an idiot. He simply nods and smiles thoughtfully at my nonsense. About halfway through, his hand finds mine, and he threads our fingers together. My stomach feels like I’m on a rollercoaster, but when he squeezes my hand gently I realize I like it; I like holding his hand as we lazily stroll down the sidewalk. It’s been a long time since a man’s held my hand. Near the end, there’s a three-piece jazz band playing a slow song. Vick pulls me to him and slowly, we begin moving in rhythm with the song. The side of his chin is resting against my temple, and he’s humming along. I close my eyes and open myself up. I want to soak in this incredibly romantic moment, make the most of it. So when he pulls back and looks at me, his blue eyes full of mirth, I tell him, “I’m ready.”

We were already dancing slowly, but his movements slow even more as his expression morphs to a serious one. Then, his hands come up and gently grip my face as he stares into my eyes, his calloused thumbs brushing ever so softly over my cheek bones. The music, the lights, the people, the art—it all fades away as he leans in and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is soft and eager yet unassuming. His mouth parts slightly as mine opens for him, all the while we sway with the music. When he pulls away, I know my face must be seven shades of bright red. His hands are still gripping my cheeks softly as he leans in and quietly says, “Thank you, Demi.”

Without another word, he takes me in his arms once more and dances with me. I press my forehead to his chest as we move and smile.

That. Was. Perfect.

By the time Vick dropped me off at home, it was late. I noticed as soon as we pulled in the driveway that Connor’s bike was gone, and I couldn’t help wondering where he was. Vick walked me to the back porch and kissed me again, this time a little more aggressively, but not inappropriately. We agreed to meet for dinner Wednesday at Turvey’s, and after another longer kiss, he went on his way.

“So he’s a good kisser?” Wendy muses as she pours us both a mug of coffee. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes telling her all about the new guy in town, and she’s eaten up every word.

I can’t help smiling a little as I stare down at the mug she’s just slid to me. “He’s a great kisser,” I confirm.

Wendy takes the seat next to me at the table. The kids are outside playing and somehow she managed to get Grayson down for a nap which is perfect because I need her undivided attention. This is a conversation that may not go over well. As a whole, parents hearing someone tell them their kid may have a disability, specifically autism, doesn’t usually go over well. Denial is common.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had a first kiss,” Wendy sighs.

“But you have sixteen amazing years under your belt. That’s something to be proud of.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I’m a lucky lady.” Just then, Jeff walks in the kitchen. He’s tugging his shirt over his head, but it appears it’s stuck because he didn’t unbutton the collar, and his midsection is bulging out as he yells, “Honey? A little help here?”

I look back to Wendy, biting my lips to keep from laughing as she shakes her head in silent laughter. “The luckiest lady in all the land.”

She stands and goes to him as he stops moving; his shirt still stuck over his head. “Who are you talking to?”

“Demi,” she chuckles as she yanks his shirt back down revealing his flustered expression and sparse hair, wild and unruly. He looks to me and juts his chin. “Hey, Demi.”

“Hi, Jeff,” I wave working hard to hide my amusement.

Wendy sets about unbuttoning his collar as she speaks. “Demi was just telling me about her date last night and I was bragging about my big strong man here,” she pulls the shirt back up and together they manage to get it off of him. Jeff, while strong, is a softer looking man. Working long hours and having five kids hasn’t exactly left him a lot of time to work out. So his protruding belly is no surprise to me.

Wendy tosses the shirt on the counter and takes her seat beside me again as Jeff smooths his hair back. “Well, you
are
pretty damn lucky,” he muses. “You get all of this.” He motions his hands down his body.

Wendy sips her coffee and giggles. “I know it, baby.” I’m clenching my eyes closed trying to keep my laughter under wraps. When I open them, Jeff is rolling his back, his belly moving as his hips thrust forward, walking toward Wendy.

“Do you need me to show Demi what a real man looks like?” he asks as he takes her mug from her hand and sits it on the table and proceeds to give her a rather G-rated lap dance.

“I’m sorry, Demi,” Wendy adds as she places her hands on Jeff’s hips to hold him back a little. “He’s all mine.”

“I’m not sure I could handle all that manliness,” I laugh.

Jeff stops and bends down, giving Wendy a chaste kiss. “How are you today, beautiful?”

“I’m good.”

“Got a lot done today, Demi. Heading back over there bright and early tomorrow.”

“Good,” I answer. “Thank you. And I’m actually glad you’re here. I have something I need to talk to both of you about.”

Jeff walks backward until his back hits the counter and he crosses his arms, they almost rest on his protruding belly. “What’s up?”

Taking a deep breath, I look at Wendy. “This isn’t easy for me to . . . bring up to you. It’s an incredibly sensitive subject, and I hope you both know I only have your family’s best interest at heart; specifically Grayson’s.”

“Grayson?” Jeff questions, his brows rising.

“The last few times I’ve been around him I’ve noticed some things that concern me. When he spent the weekend with me, a lot of my concerns were solidified.” I pause and take another breath.
Please don’t let them get pissed off at me.
“The umbrella of autism is very wide.”

“Autism?” Jeff clarifies, his shock evident in his tone. “You think Grayson is autistic?”

“I think he falls somewhere on the spectrum, yes. But he’d need testing to accurately diagnose him.”

They both look at each other then back to me. Emotions flitter across their expressions, anger, denial, shock, and so on. “Some things I’ve seen that concern me are the way he always lines things up. How he doesn’t respond when you call his name; even when you’re right in front of his face, he won’t look at you while you say his name. But if he hears his favorite cartoon come on he goes running. Hyperness can be another indicator.”

“He’s just an active boy,” Jeff defends.

“He’s not just active,” I point out. “He’s constantly moving. When a child struggles to communicate, they can become frustrated and seem . . . distracted.”

“He’s not autistic,” Jeff insists. “You’re . . . you’re just wrong.”

I expected this reaction, but I can’t say it doesn’t hurt a little. Do they think I would just toss this around without really looking into it? “Jeff, I work with autistic children. I know what the signs look like.”

“Then how come you haven’t said anything until now?” Wendy pipes in, disbelief thick in her tone.

Now, I feel guilty. I should have noticed before now. “I haven’t been around the kids as much as I would have liked. Otherwise, I would have.”

Jeff walks to the fridge and grabs a beer, twisting the cap off of the bottle and tossing it in the bin. He shakes his head before putting one hand on his hip and taking a long swig. I say nothing, waiting for one of them to ask me anything. Finally, Jeff turns to us, and his expression reads one way. Denial.

“I don’t mean any disrespect Demi, but I think you’re wrong.”

The blood drains from my face with his words.

“I’m going to let you deal with this Wendy.”

I’m stunned silent as we watch him walk out of the kitchen, beer in hand. I stare after him, shocked a little myself. But not completely surprised.

At least not until Wendy says, “You should probably go Demi.”

My mouth drops open in shock. No matter how bad I saw this conversation going, I never thought she’d kick me out of her house. “I know this was hard to hear, but please Wendy. Please have him tested. I can help you get it going. If you test him, and I’m wrong, then you’ll know. But I’m telling you, he needs help and the sooner you get it for him, the better he’ll be in the long run.”