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She turned her head to the side. “Really? Because I could swear a few days ago—pre-injury—you were telling me how annoying my tapping and fidgeting was.”
“I didn’t say it like that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He nodded and grabbed the Frisbee, flicking it away with ease. He looked at his slobbered-on hands and groaned.
“Ahh.” She pulled sanitizer out of her bag and laid it on the grass next to him. “It’s necessary for walks.”
“Thanks.” He picked up the small plastic bottle and pumped a few squirts into his hands. When the Frisbee returned, he crossed his arms. “Sorry, I just can’t.”
“It’s all right.” She grabbed the Frisbee and flung it away. “I’ve got it.”
She rubbed her hand on the grass to wipe away the slobber.
“See?” he said. “How can you do that?”
“What?”
“Your hand against the grass?”
She rubbed the tops of the grass, loving the tickling sensation it gave her. “I love grass. And all things, really. Chalk is my favorite. Oh, and those rubber playground balls. Those are magic to my fingers.”
He shuddered and looked away.
“There must be something you like to touch.”
His eyes fell to her hand and then back up to her eyes. “Not a lot. I do have one blanket at home.”
“Only one?”
“Practically. I usually don’t like the feel of blankets. They’re scratchy after being used and washed a lot. But this one’s been soft for years. It’s like the softest velvet I’ve ever felt.”
“Ooh, that would be nice. Any fabrics bother you?”
“I’ve gotten used to a lot of things and have grown out of hating some things. I used to be unable to wear jeans. And ties were especially hard.”
She looked down at his pants. He’d chosen against changing out of his dress pants, although she was sure he was regretting it now.
“But I eventually got used to uncomfortable clothes, and now I feel secure in the things I’ve gotten used to.”
“Hmm, interesting how that works.”
“What?”
“I wonder if because you’ve gotten used to them, it’s grown your confidence in that one thing. And then you find security in it because you trust it.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess.”
“What about people? You seem unable to touch people.”
He sighed and looked straight ahead. “People are a different story. When I was younger, my parents took me to doctors and counselors, hoping to find answers for their weird son. They never gave me a full diagnosis because my parents became too embarrassed. They threw around phrases like sensory processing disorder, tactile defensiveness, and hypersensitivity. When I got into high school, I did a project on hyperesthesia and confirmed with my doctors that’s what my sensitivity had morphed into.” He ran his hands over the grass, stopped, and then started again.
“You don’t seem as sensitive to cold or heat or even objects.”
“I’ve overcome most of that, but I still struggle. But you’re right. Mostly, it’s just touching skin.” He looked down at her hand again. “Which is why I’m so curious over what happened today.”
She looked down too, her cheeks full of heat.
