“But it's not,” I say. “It's not true. You can function just fine. You're brilliant, Xavier.”
“I know that, Emma,” he says, his voice steady and strong. “Intelligence has nothing to do with it. I see the world very differently from other people around me. That doesn't scare me. Or hurt me. That's how I've always been. And it makes some things more difficult for me. It's not wrong or something to be upset about. It just… is. When you spoke to me in the courtroom, were you making fun of me?"
I'm taken aback by the question. “No, of course not. I thought it would help calm you down.”
“Then you understand,” he says.
I'm flustered and not sure how the conversation got this far out of my grasp.
“I understand you think about things in a different way. Some things make you feel better that other people wouldn't understand. But the way they were talking about you… it's as if they think you can't do normal things for yourself. As if you can't just live without someone helping you,” I say.
I feel strangely protective of Xavier. The way the judge and the opposing lawyer talked about him felt insulting, but it doesn't seem to bother him. I don't understand how it can be so easy for him.
"Have you ever built yourself a house, Emma?" he asks.
"No," I say, feeling us starting down one of his spirals that I'm going to have to take hold of and ride until it finds an end.
"But you are smart and capable. You are strong and skilled."
"Not at carpentry," I admit.
"And if you were stranded out in the wilderness with only yourself to rely on you wouldn’t know where you were or what would happen to you, but you would need shelter. How about then?"
“I could probably put something together,” I say. “But it wouldn't be good, like a real house.”
“But it would protect you. It would cover your head and be a basic shelter?”
“Yes,” I nod.
“And you may feel a little uneasy about it and wish someone who knew better could help you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“So not can't. Just harder. The world is made for people who see what you do. I can do those things. But they aren't the way you would do them. And I often wish there's somebody there who knows better who can help me. Not can't, Emma. Just harder.”
Tears fill my eyes unexpectedly. I try not to show them, but Xavier immediately notices. His eyebrows knit together, and I shake my head.
"I'm fine," I say, waving him off.
"No, you aren't. Why are you crying?" he asks.
"I hate that the only way they would let you out before your trial is if Dean agreed to be with you all the time," I sigh. "You've been locked up for so long. You deserve to just live."
“There's no reason to cry for me. You don't have to be upset that I don't experience life the same way you do. I'm not upset that you don't experience life the way I do. I'm sure there aren't a lot of carpenters out there crying because you can't build a house. So, don't cry because I have trouble making phone calls or telling directions, or interacting. I'm glad Dean will be there with me. I trust him. You trust him. The world is a different place from when I went in. I'm already working at a deficit. But I won't be alone. And I'll be fine.”
“Absolutely you will,” Dean smiles, throwing his arm around Xavier’s shoulders. “I'll be there to make sure of it.”
I wait for Xavier to flinch away from Dean's touch, but he doesn't. He's comfortable with him. Maybe this is going to work out after all.
Xavier looks ahead of us to the doors. Sunlight streams in through the glass, and I can see people walking in both directions down the sidewalk. I watch him watching it, his eyes tracing their movements back and forth.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask.
It's the first time he will walk outside without shackles around his wrists and ankles, without somebody holding onto a chain and forcing him along.
Xavier takes a deep breath, then nods. “I'm ready.”
We cross the lobby and push through the large glass doors out into the deep, buttery sunlight of the October afternoon. He walks a few paces away from the building and hesitates at the top of the stone steps leading down onto the sidewalk. A few people pass him, and his head snaps to each one as if he's trying to watch every one of their movements.
He takes a few steps down, then retreats. He gets close to the handrail and stops again. He looks lost, as if he doesn't know what to do. Without a word, Dean rushes forward and stands beside him. He touches his hand to the center of Xavier's back. For a moment, they just stand there together, and I notice Xavier's breaths slow, his shoulders relaxing.
They walk down the rest of the steps together, Dean guiding Xavier with no more than his presence beside him.
And suddenly, I understand the difference.
“Are you hungry?” I ask Xavier once I’ve rushed down the steps to catch up with them on the sidewalk.
“I am,” he says. “What time is it?”
“It doesn't matter,” Dean says.
Xavier looks at him strangely. “It doesn't matter?”
“No,” I say. “It doesn't matter. You don't have to eat on a schedule anymore. You eat when you're hungry.” What I said hits me, and I look at him with a concerned expression. “It doesn't matter, does it? Or do you like your schedule?”
He shakes his head. “Not particularly.”
“Good,” I say. “What are you hungry for? What sounds good?”
His lips press hard together,
