Bear. Otter.

This is not their story.

This is my own.

I SIT in the kitchen, seated at the table next to Ben. He’s staring down at the sandwich in front of him. He touches it once. Then again. Lifts the bread to see the peanut butter. Sets it back down. Stares at it some more.

“He’ll eat it,” Dom says, sitting across from us. “Eventually. He just has to decide that he wants to eat it.”

“He likes it?”

“Most of the time. Kids with autism can be very picky about what they eat. A lot of it has to do with texture and smells. It’s back to the routine. He wasn’t so bad when he was younger, but as Spectrum kids get older, they become more resistant to new foods. We’ve been on a peanut butter kick for weeks now. It’s all he’ll eat for lunch now.”

Ben looks up at me, that flat look on his face. I pick up my own sandwich and bite into it, and he watches me as I chew. Some people might find the look to be disconcerting, but I know he’s just gauging my reaction, seeing if I’ll put the food down in disgust. I don’t, and he picks up his own sandwich and bites into it. It sits in his mouth for a moment before he starts to chew.

“You don’t like peanut butter,” I say to Dom, suddenly remembering.

He shrugs. “It’s easier to eat what he eats. Everything will look the same and smell the same.”

“That’s….” I don’t know what that is.

A small smile. “I really hate peanut butter,” he says.

My phone beeps. “Sorry,” I say as I pull it from my pocket. Text message. From Corey.

Need me to come save you or are you balls-deep? Goddammit. My face burns.

Go away, I type back.

The response is immediate. Balls-deep, huh? That sounds hot.

“Everything okay?” Dom asks.

“Just Corey,” I mumble as I turn my phone off. Of course he would think that sounds hot, because it does sound hot, and now I’m thinking dirty things while eating lunch with Dominic and his three-year-old son who is watching every single bite I take. I’m an awful, awful person.

“Your ex, huh?” Dom says, as if discussing the weather.

“Yeah.”

“Date long?”

“A while.”

“How long’s a while?”

“Months.”

“He good to you?”

I’m pretty sure I’m being interrogated. Can a person be both the good cop and the bad cop? If so, he’s doing it perfectly. “He’s fine.”

“Why’d it end?”

“It just did. We’re better friends than anything else. He’s my best friend.” Well, that sucks to say out loud—telling your former best friend about your new best friend, who also happens to be your ex-boyfriend. I swear, these situations I find myself in sometimes are not my fault. They just happen to me.

Dominic, of course, doesn’t even flinch and continues to do that “vaguely interested, you’re guilty of something” cop thing. He must be very good at his job because I can’t quite seem to shut the hell up. Either that, or I just talk way too much. I don’t think I’d make a very good master criminal. I’d give everything up far too easily. In prison, I’d probably become a snitch and would eventually meet my end by being garroted in the prison showers after I’d met with FBI agents and given up the secrets of my cell mate, Pauley “The Destroyer” Galucci.