Talking is Hard

Copyright 2017

A short story by Mystery Jones

I screwed up. Big time. Life stinks without Kenzie. It’s boring. Average. And damn lonely.

“Tyler, I know you didn’t invite me to dinner because you enjoy spending Friday nights with your mother.” Mom takes a sip of her Moscato. “What’s going on?”

I don’t want to tell her. Because she likes Kenzie. Mom gets why she’s such a great catch. That’s why I asked her to dinner. No one else understands the situation.

“Kenzie and I got in a fight. A bad one.”

Laughter bursts from a table nearby. A group of young people, probably around my age, is drinking and eating desserts. They look and sound like they’re having a blast.

That will never be Kenzie and me. She doesn’t like big groups. Hell, she doesn’t even like people that much.

“What happened?”

Mom’s question jerks my attention back to our table. “I said some stuff I shouldn’t have.”

Mom takes another sip of wine. “Such as…?”

“I told her she wasn’t trying hard enough to be normal.”

Her brows arch for a second, and then she nods slowly.

“Let me make sure I understand. You criticized your high functioning autistic girlfriend — who you knew was autistic before you started dating her — for being autistic?”

I stare down at my empty plate. Mom never sugarcoats the truth. What I said was heartless and cruel. “I guess. That sounds about right.”

“We are talking about the same Kenzie, right? The one who checked out a stack of books from the library so she could study up on how to maintain healthy interpersonal relationships. And who bought that silly book about social cues for dummies. And I’m pretty sure this is the same girl who put on a cocktail dress and high heels so she could accompany you to your father’s charity gala where there was a huge crowd of donors to mingle with.” She leans forward in her chair. “Is that the Kenzie we’re talking about?”

My shoulders tense. “Okay. I get it.”

“Tyler, don’t become your brothers. You see where marrying trophy wives got them, right? They were lazy husbands and didn’t care enough to work through real-life hardships and the daily grind of marriage. That’s why they’re both divorced.”

I think on that for a moment.

“Do you love Kenzie? Can you see yourself spending the rest of your life with her?”

“Yes.” I think.

“Then stop focusing on all the things about her that are quirky and eccentric. She can’t change them. Kenzie will always have Asperger’s. If you love her, bend for her. Give in a little. She certainly has for you.”

I take a deep breath and nod.

“How do you think I’ve been able to stay married to your father for forty years?” She sits back in her chair and grins. “Trust me, he isn’t perfect. And God knows he’s had to bend to put up with me.”

She finishes her wine.

I mull that over. How many of Kenzie’s abnormal behaviors am I able to handle? Can I build a future with her knowing she’s always going to be an oddball?

“Mrs. Dupree, can I refill your glass?”

Our waiter stands next to the table in his classy white shirt and black tie. There’s an open bottle in his hand, and he’s ready to pour the pricey Moscato.

Mom smiles at the guy. “No, thank you, Simon.”

He nods, and heads back to the bar.

“You know, it’s a testimony to the kind of man you are when you rise above your partner’s disabilities or handicaps and strive to make your relationship work.”

Mom’s words sink in deep. Do I want to be like my brothers, or like my parents?

She glances at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I told your father I’d be home by seven so we could go meet some potential business clients for dessert and do some schmoozing.” She gathers her purse and sweater.

“Schmoozing. That sounds like a ton of fun.”

“It’s not. But I do it anyway. Because I love your father.” She winks at me.

“Thanks for the talk.”

“You’ll figure this out. I know you will.” She kisses me on the cheek and leaves the restaurant.

I sit back and take a hard look at my relationship with Kenzie. What’s it worth? How bad do I want it?

The moment I first saw Kenzie pops into my head. My crew was painting the interior of some rich guy’s home. Near the end of the job, my boss brought her daughter in to paint a Noah’s Ark mural in the nursery. I stood there and watched Kenzie one afternoon, in her baggy painter’s coveralls and Cubs baseball cap. Her brush glided across the wall like a butterfly in a gentle summer breeze.

I said something like, “You’re a really good painter.” She froze. It took her a moment, but she turned around and her gaze hit the floor. I caught my first glimpse of that beautiful face.

She cracked the faintest smile and said, “Thank you.”

I smiled back. I wanted to get to know this mysterious, talented girl.

Our waiter stops by and clears the empty plates.

I take in the tables around me. The twenty-somethings are still drinking and living it up; a blonde woman giggles while a loud guy across the table tells dirty jokes. At the table to my right, two middle-aged couples drink wine and scotch. Their discussion is heated and about some political issue. In the far corner, there’s a couple with white hair and wrinkled faces. They’re holding hands and smiling at each other. There’s a balloon bouquet at their table that says, “Happy 50th Anniversary.”

“Screw it.” I toss a wad of cash down on the table to pay the bill just as our waiter breezes by.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Simon says. “Your mother already took care of it.”

Sounds like Mom. I grin, grab the money, and head out to my truck.

I love Kenzie. It’s stupid to throw her away just because she’s different.

I put my truck in gear and barrel out of the parking lot.

There’s only one thing in the world Kenzie can’t resist. She hates chocolate. Not too fond of cake, pie, or cookies, either. But offer her a pretzel dipped in white almond bark, she’ll never turn it down.

I drive to Tabitha’s Gourmet Sweet Shop. It has the best desserts in town. I grab the pretzels, walk across the street to Lake Shore Spirits, and pick up a bottle of red Moscato.

Kenzie’s like Mom when it comes to wine; she prefers sweet over dry. And neither of them will just drink anything. Mom has to have the expensive stuff, but Kenzie only drinks red Moscato. Not pink or white. Only red.

I set the wine and pretzels in my passenger seat and slip behind the wheel. Nothing says, “I’m sorry” like bringing a girl two of her favorites, right?

It’s almost eight o’clock when I arrive at Kenzie’s studio apartment above her dad’s art gallery. I park on the street and walk around to the back of the building to access it.

I round the corner and freeze. Kenzie’s mom, Miranda, descends the apartment stairs and heads toward me.

She eyeballs the gifts. “I hope there’s an ‘I’m sorry for being a jerk’ to go along with those sweets.”

This is bad. I don’t need my girlfriend’s mom pissed at me. Especially because she’s also my boss.

I stutter. “Um, yes, Mrs. Bradshaw.”

She studies me, and then sighs. “Tyler, let’s talk.” She motions me to follow, and we sit down on Kenzie’s steps together.

“Kenzie told me why the two of you haven’t spoken in three weeks.” She purses her lips. “I’m going to let you in on something. Only because I like you. And you’re good for my daughter.”

Her words strip away the tension. I smile and listen.

Miranda laces her fingers together and rests her elbows on her knees. “I know Kenzie told you she’s adopted, but has she ever talked about how Devin and I met her?”

“No.”

“We’d only been married a year when we stumbled onto Mackenzie. It was Christmas time, and we’d been suckered into volunteering to dress up as Santa and Mrs. Claus at the mall on the north side of town.” She cracks a smile. “Can you imagine Devin dressed up as Santa? We still do it though, every year. Because it’s worth it to see those kids smile.”

She pauses, takes a deep breath. “When the line of kids waiting to talk to Santa thinned out, I saw her. This cute, scruffy little girl with a fat lip and a bruise on her cheek. And the saddest, most mysterious green eyes. She was alone. I asked where her parents were. She wouldn’t answer me. Didn’t even look at me. I notified mall security, and the officer let her talk to Santa before he approached her.

“When it was her turn, she scurried up on Devin’s lap. He smiled and asked her name. Her voice was quiet, but she said, ‘Mackenzie.’ Then he asked what she wanted for Christmas.”

Miranda stops and stares out across the back alley. “Kenzie looked him straight in the eyes and said, ‘I want to be normal so my mommy and daddy will love me.’”

I swallow hard and look down at my shoes.

We’re quiet for a while.

“Do you understand how your selfish words and demands affected Kenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Then get up there and fix it. And even if you don’t want to be with her, go make things right. You still have to get along together in the workplace. I don’t want to have to fire you over this.” She gets up and walks away.

I hop up. “But I do want to be with her! I love Kenzie.”

Miranda marches back to where I’m standing and folds her arms across her chest. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? My daughter’s biological parents beat her and abandoned her because they didn’t want to deal with her disability. Clearly, she doesn’t meet your standards, either, otherwise you wouldn’t have demanded she try harder to be more like normal girls.”

“I’m sorry! I acted like a total dirt bag. I get it. I hurt Kenzie. Bad. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Tell Kenzie.” Her arms drop to her sides. She sighs. “Kenzie avoids guys like the plague. But not you. She doesn’t talk a lot, even to me, but when she does, you’re one of the two or three topics she won’t shut up about.”

“I am?”

She nods. “Go apologize to her. She trusted you, and you broke her heart. She’s crushed. But I think she’ll come around. Because she loves you, too.”

I stare at her, hang on those words for a moment.

Miranda smiles and touches my shoulder. “I want things to work out for you and Kenzie. Now go do right by my daughter.”

She turns and rounds the corner.

I climb the steps to Kenzie’s door and take a deep breath.

I knock. “Kenzie, it’s Tyler.”

No response.

I give her a minute, and then knock again. “Can we talk? Please?”

The locks click and the door opens a crack.

“Talking is hard.”

Damn it. That’s her catch phrase when she doesn’t want to engage.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you. I know I hurt you. Please forgive me.”

The door closes, but she doesn’t relock it. Progress, maybe?

“I didn’t mean what I said. About being more normal. It was a stupid, horrible thing to say. I apologize.”

I wait. Still no response.

“I have pretzels and wine. Your favorite. Almond bark and red Moscato.”

Nothing.

I flop down on the top step and rub my hand over my face. What’s my next move?

Miranda said Kenzie loves me. Or did, anyway. Maybe this isn’t about her talking to me. She didn’t start the fight and said very little to fuel it. Maybe I should do the talking.

“Kenzie, I know you can hear me. I love you; I really do. It’s just…”

How do I say this without insulting her again? Be real, I guess. I’ve got nothing to lose.

“This whole Asperger’s thing is new to me. I don’t understand it all yet.” I sigh. “Guess that’s obvious. I wouldn’t have acted like such a dick if I did.”

I lean toward the door and listen for sounds inside her apartment. There’s nothing. Car engines hum in the distance. There’s a cricket chirping beneath the stairs.

“I want to understand you, what makes you tick. You’re a special girl, and I don’t want to lose you. I hope I didn’t wreck the good thing we had going.”

Should I knock again? No, keep talking. Open up to her.

“I think I understand what you’re feeling. I’ve been dumped and put down by a lot of rich, snobby chicks looking to tap into my dad’s money. I’m not a savvy businessman like him and my brothers. I’m just an average dude. I paint home interiors. Doesn’t get any plainer than that.” I pause. “I treated you the same way those rich girls treated me. I didn’t accept you for who you are.” I pause. “I know better now.”

The door opens wide. Kenzie’s there, staring at the welcome mat. She turns and goes deeper into her apartment.

I grab the pretzels and wine and go inside.

Kenzie is at her easel, and she’s dressed in her coveralls and ball cap. Her gold-brown hair cascades all over her shoulders. Just like the first day we met.

I walk up behind her and watch as she puts the final brush strokes on a sunset. I glance at the table next to her easel. There’s a photograph of an ugly farmhouse next to a cornfield. The photo is boring; but the oil paint rendition Kenzie has created on her canvas is vibrant and full of life.

“Your version of that farm is amazing,” I say.

Kenzie squeezes excess paint from her brush with a piece of newspaper and then dunks it in a jar of turpentine. She steps back and studies her creation.

“What’s it for?”

“A client,” she says. “He wants a painting of the sun setting over his farm.”

She’s talking now. That’s a good sign.

Kenzie strips off her coveralls and ball cap and hangs them on a hook. She’s wearing yoga pants and her favorite Bob Ross T-shirt. It says, “No Mistakes, Just Happy Accidents.” I grin and wonder if she grasps the humor in it.

“I brought you these.” I hold out the wine and pretzels.

She takes them, and a slight smile breaks across her lips.

“Are you ready to talk?” I ask.

“Talking is hard.”

How can we make up if she won’t say what she’s feeling?

I lay my hands on her shoulders. “Kenzie, I know you don’t like talking about difficult stuff. But I need to know what you’re thinking. Can we make this work? Will you take me back?”

She pushes my arms away and retreats to the kitchen. Kenzie grabs a wine tumbler and a corkscrew. She fills her glass damn near to the rim. After a couple of quick gulps, she refills the glass and sits down on the couch. She glances at me, then pats the empty cushion.

I sit down next to her.

She squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them, her gaze locks onto mine.

My God, those green eyes! I’ve never taken them in like this before. They’re like sparkling emeralds.

The eye contact is killing her. Her hands shake and her muscles tense. She never looks anyone in the eyes. Part of the Asperger’s, I think.

“You hurt me,” she says. “The way my real parents and the kids at school used to hurt me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t change me. I don’t want to change me. This is who I am.” She reaches up and caresses my cheek. “I love you. For the boring, untalented wall painter you are.”

I grin. That’s my girlfriend. Honest. To a fault.

“Why can’t you love me in the same way?”

“Kenzie, I do. I acted like a jackass. But I’m learning. About how to bend in relationships. Please, give me a second chance. We can make this work. I know we can.”

She drops the eye contact and goes back to her wine.

The wall clock ticks the seconds away as she sips her drink.

“Do you know why I paint?” she asks.

“Why?”

“I want people to see the world the way I see it. People don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them. But when they see my paintings, they do. They can feel what I’m feeling. And we can connect.”

I reflect on her words.

The silence between us seems infinite. Then Kenzie turns to me. “I forgive you.”

Her voice is faint, but I hear it loud and clear.

“Does that mean you’ll take me back?”

She stares down at the carpet. “Don’t ever hurt me like that again.”

“I won’t. I swear.” I put my hand on her knee. “I’m going to learn to understand you.”

Kenzie faces me. She doesn’t look me in the eyes but comes close. She cups her hands around my face and kisses me. It’s passionate; she means business.

When she pulls away, she leans back into the couch cushion. “Bring me the pretzels.”

I go grab them.

We sink back into the couch together. She crunches on a pretzel and rests her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her.

“So, what should we do tonight? Wanna catch a late movie, or maybe we could take a walk on the pier? Or would you rather — ”

“Stop talking,” she says. “Can’t we just sit here and snuggle?”

I smile, then lean in and kiss her cheek. “Sure.”

THE END