CHAPTER 1

IT’S STORMY

Shawn’s legs tangled as a flash of red caught his peripheral vision—a tourist’s jacket whipping in the wind. He stumbled, catching himself on The High Line’s railing.

“You okay?” Emily asked, stepping closer.

He couldn’t look at her directly, at least for very long. Eye contact felt like staring into the sun. But he forced himself to try. One second, maybe two, before the connection became too electric, like jamming his finger into a wall socket. “I’m fine. The colors here can be . . . intense.”

Emily’s eyes lingered on his face before she looked away. “You have very blue eyes,” she said, then immediately seemed embarrassed by the observation.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit that left it even more disheveled. At least she was still talking to him, unlike his previous two dates this month. Emily seemed different and not just because she was unusually tall. She’d actually responded to his messages with complete sentences.

They continued walking through this elevated park lined with flowers and water features that snaked above 11th Avenue on former railroad tracks. The bashful sun finally peeked through gray clouds and kissed the Manhattan skyscrapers. This would be perfect dating weather if Shawn could get through this one without disaster striking.

Emily tilted her head. “Are you even listening?”

The surrounding trees swayed in the wind, their leafy branches colliding and clanging like wind chimes. Shawn focused on the melodic tones until everything else faded: the tourists posing for photos, the locals power walking with their dogs, even his date’s voice. Shawn’s world had narrowed to shifting shadows and emerald light, Emily’s presence dimming like a radio losing signal.

She knocked on the invisible wall between them. “Hello?”

Shawn snapped back. “Sorry. I get distracted sometimes.” His gaze jumped to her face. “It’s rare for a woman to tower over me. You must be good at basketball.”

Her smile dimmed. “Yeah, except I’m so tall I have to crouch to get it in the hoop.”

“You don’t seem that tall.”

“You must be great at miniature golf.”

Shawn scuffed his shoe. “Not really.”

“Are you gonna ask me how the weather is up here? I’ll save you the trouble.” She popped the cap off her water bottle and threw water at his face. “It’s stormy!”

Shawn stood frozen, water dripping off his cheeks. His chest ached as Emily stomped off, vanishing into the crowd of tourists. What did I do? Maybe she doesn’t like basketball.

He sat on a wooden bench, its slats still warm from the afternoon sun, and logged into his dating profile. Time to set up the next date.

At the end of the week, Shawn explored The High Line with Anna. He had rehearsed conversation topics during the subway ride: cats, weather, maybe something about the park’s history if things went well.

Anna’s thin fingers worried at the cat buttons on her rainbow suspenders as she glanced around the park, checking her phone every few seconds. Her profile highlighted her love for all things feline. Shawn hoped there’d be more to her personality, but he was getting less picky.

“You really love cats,” Shawn said as he guided her down the path.

“I’m obsessed with those furry love sponges.” Anna relaxed slightly. “I volunteer at a shelter on the weekends. Are you a big cat fan?”

“Not really. They make me sneeze. They also sleep seventy percent of their lives. Like lions. They have the intelligence of a two-year-old.” Shawn had more cat facts ready, but these didn’t land as he expected. He hoped she’d find the rest captivating, so his preparation wouldn’t go to waste.

Anna shrugged. “Cats are smarter than most people I date.”

“Then you’re dating the wrong people.” He studied her face. “You look different.”

“So, um . . . ” She fidgeted with her cat buttons. “I should probably tell you. That picture on my profile? It’s actually my sister’s.” Anna’s cheeks flushed. “I know it’s weird, but I get more matches with her photo. We look similar, though, right?”

“Not really.”

Anna recoiled. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” Shawn said. “She got the looks in your family.”

When Shawn’s thoughts spilled out unedited, he knew people had to adjust or they wouldn’t stick around. Anna’s eyelids fluttered as if she didn’t know what to say. She scoffed, shook her head, and hurried down one of the metal stairways to the street below.

Shawn fought the impulse to chase her. That never worked on previous dates. Instead, he gazed at the red snapdragons encircling a nearby tree trunk. The petals shivered and hummed like sustained violin chords. The next one will work out.

Saturday afternoon, he met Lindsay at The High Line. She was in her twenties with delicate features. Most importantly, she looked exactly like her photo, which relieved Shawn.

Their conversation started with how their days were going (fine), progressed to the state of the world (worrisome), and then moved on to New York’s cost of living (high, though technically, Shawn didn’t pay any rent). Then the conversation detoured to how people perceive colors.

This was Shawn’s moment to shine. He struggled to keep his thoughts on track as they strolled past wild grasses swaying beside the old railway tracks. “Light receptors in our eyes transmit messages to our brains about what we’re seeing,” Shawn said. “Newton first realized that the surfaces of objects reflect some colors and absorb the rest. So, our eyes only perceive reflected colors.” He forced himself to stop, a skill that usually encouraged people to talk with him longer.

Lindsay leaned closer. “You’re like a walking Wikipedia.”

Shawn beamed, then noticed sunlight sparkling off the brook beside them as it bubbled along the path. He lost himself in the soothing water flow until Lindsay nudged him.

“You still there?” she asked.

“Sorry about that.” He searched for a new topic. “I read an article about how this park would still be abandoned railroad tracks if someone hadn’t used their imagination to make it beautiful.”

Lindsay tossed her long hair back. “So true.”

“When it first opened, people called it a secret, magical garden in the sky.”

Shawn bounded along enthusiastically. Lindsay reached over and took his hand. Startled, he shook her off. She stepped back, eyes wide with surprise. Shawn looked down, arms hanging at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a pause. “Sometimes touch can be too intense for me.”

Lindsay pressed her tongue against her cheek. “Oh.”

“Did I—” Shawn shifted uncomfortably. “Say something wrong?”

“Your profile didn’t mention the no-touching thing.”

“I tried that once.” Shawn gave a half-smile. “Zero matches.”

Lindsay bit her lip, studying him. “Are you . . . on the spectrum?”

He nodded and dropped his eyes. Shawn could never tell what people were thinking after he revealed that about himself. Their faces became unreadable puzzles. Sometimes dates ended quickly, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. His brother Colin thought he should wait longer to mention it, maybe until the second date. But when Shawn tried hiding his autism, dates seemed even more confused by his reactions to the world.

Shawn looked past her at a slender woman with curly black hair in a flowing wedding gown, holding purple and pink roses. The bride intertwined her hands with her smiling groom, who kissed the top of her head as a photographer captured them against the Hudson River backdrop. Shawn took in the moment. This is special.

Lindsay checked her watch. “So . . . ”

“Would you like to grab coffee?” Shawn asked.

She shook her head. “Not a coffee drinker, I’m afraid.”

Shawn swallowed. “I didn’t see that on your profile.”

“You know what? I should head out. I need to meet someone. Not sure how that slipped my mind. Sorry to cut this short.”

Shawn pointed to the bride and groom. “They couldn’t be happier.”

Lindsay slid on her sunglasses. “Sure looks that way. It was nice meeting you.”

“Should we go out again? I love how you smell. Like laundry detergent.” He wondered if he should’ve mentioned her scent. Colin always told him to keep olfactory observations to himself.

“I’ll call you, okay?” She stepped back while maintaining her smile.

“I’ll wait for your call,” Shawn said, confident that day was just around the corner.

As Lindsay disappeared into the crowd, the world rushed back—tree branches clanging their metallic song, water tinkling its melody, flower petals singing their notes. Without his date to focus on, everything became too bright, too loud, too much. Shawn shielded his eyes and hurried toward the bus stop.

The bus ride home passed in a blur of muted colors and engine noise, giving him time to replay every moment, searching for clues about what had gone wrong. I’ll call you, Lindsay had said, but they never did. He pulled out his phone, logged into his dating profile, and scrolled through the possibilities. This was definitely a numbers game.

Soon he’d be back in his grandma’s carefully ordered world on the Upper West Side, with its soft lighting, monochrome artwork, and the gentle chirping of her birds. She’d want to hear about his date. She always did.

Twenty minutes later, he turned his key in the familiar lock, grateful to escape the city’s overwhelming sensory chaos. He stepped into the spacious apartment he shared with his grandma, where the kitchen, dining room, and living room offered inspiring views of Central Park. Black and white oil paintings adorned the silver-gray walls: sea lions basking at the Central Park Zoo, the iconic Flatiron Building reigning over its corner, a couple in intimate conversation outside a SoHo florist shop. These were Ruth’s proud creations, and her immaculate home could easily be mistaken for a museum if the furniture ever went missing.

A golden birdcage hung near the living room window where the yellow and green lovebirds, Sunny and Cloudy, snuggled together. Shawn dropped a generous spoonful of cooked lentils into their feeding trough. His grandmother liked to reach in and stroke their feathers, but Shawn only dared to feed them.

Shawn propped his feet on the walnut coffee table and tried to sink into the red velvet couch, though it never let him. It was too much like his grandmother: stiff and proper. He turned on the TV and scrolled the offerings until he found a black-and-white movie featuring a woman gritting her teeth while a seamstress struggled to zip her wedding dress. Turning toward a mirror, the bride’s face brightened while the seamstress wiped away a tear.

Ruth’s voice echoed from her bedroom. “Shawn, I can hear your feet on my furniture.”

Shawn moved his legs off the table. “You can’t hear feet.”

“I can hear everything in this apartment. Comes with age and too much time on my hands.” Ruth glided into the room wearing a lavender cardigan over her blouse and black slacks. Her hand brushed the wall as she walked. In her late seventies, she had curly auburn hair and a slim figure, a gift from years of swimming. Her stateliness masked her artistic side. She never left home without “putting her face on,” but today her lipstick was smudged at one corner.

“I want all the details,” she said, her voice carrying fatigue.

Shawn looked away from her curious eyes to gaze at the darkening clouds outside.

Ruth tapped her foot. “I’m waiting.”

“Same as always . . . ”

Ruth frowned. “You didn’t look her in the eye, did you?”

Shawn glanced at the floor. “No one’s going to marry me.”

“Marry? We need to get you a second date.” She straightened a painting.

“If I don’t get married, I won’t have anyone after you die.”

“I’m still ticking. And when I’m not, you’ll have your brother, whatever that’s worth.”

“Sometimes, to keep myself going, I picture you lying in a casket.”

Ruth gasped. “How dare you say that? You know I want to be cremated. So no one can screw up my makeup.”

“Maybe I should start picturing you as an urn.”

Ruth shrugged. “Whatever works.” She reached for a chair back, steadying herself.

Shawn peered out the window. A breeze rustled through the trees in the park while a drizzle fell in sheets. “I miss Grandpa.”

“That makes two of us.” Ruth slowly filled a silver teapot and placed it on the stove. “He’d love to ask me about my day, then turn off his hearing aid.” Ruth shook her head and laughed quietly. “Once, he told me the best part of growing up was getting less peer pressure since all his peers were dying.”

Shawn sighed. “I don’t want you to die the way he did.” His voice cracked.

Ruth grabbed a nearby chair. “Oh, Shawn . . . ”

“Who would buy my cereal? Or help me pay bills? Or . . . ”

“Glad I’ll be missed,” she said with a wry smile. “Just promise you’ll keep my urn shiny.”

“Of course.”

Shawn turned back to the TV, where the bride glided down elegant stairs, draped in satin and lace. Her groom waited below in a white tuxedo, smiling ear to ear.

“Tell me about your wedding day again, Grandma.”

Ruth’s expression softened, the way it always did when she talked about Grandpa. “Which part? The part where I tripped walking down the aisle, or the part where he whispered, ‘worth the wait’ when I finally made it to the altar?”

“The altar part.”

“He was so nervous, his hands were shaking when he tried to put my ring on. I had to steady them.” Ruth smiled, lost in the memory. “After fifty-three years, he still got nervous around me sometimes.”

Shawn imagined himself in a tuxedo, waiting for the love of his life, someone who might steady his hands, too. “What would you change if you could do it all over again?”

Ruth didn’t respond.

Shawn looked over and saw her slumped in her rocking chair, her body limp like a marionette without strings.

“Grandma?” He rushed over and shook her. She flopped in his hands, her skin cooling beneath his touch.