Decline? Reject, turn down, say no, pass up, demur.
“I’m not going to see you for Thanksgiving?”
“No.” She faces me while waiting for the coffee to brew. “I decided to drive to Brent’s to be with my family.”
“But, you are going to see them for Christmas. You are flying to Florida.”
“Yeah.” Her mouth twists to the side in an expression I can’t read. “Change of plans.”
“You are not going to Florida for Christmas?”
“No. I am.”
We stare at each other. She is closed off to me. Unreadable, statuesque, expressionless, inscrutable.
Fourteen point two seconds have passed.
My heart beats painfully in my chest; my lungs feel tight; my skin pricks like every molecule of air is berating my foolishness.
I did not want her to treat me differently if she ever found out about my autism. My worst fears have come true.
“We are not best friends anymore.”
She raises her eyebrows, a hint of surprise on her face. “No. We still are.”
“You are angry with me for my behavior.”
She points at the coffee pot but does not say a word.
I have no idea what that gesture means.
Eighteen point six seconds elapse.
She makes a tiny growl of frustration then grabs the carafe though it is only half full of black liquid. A sizzling sound fills the air as more coffee drips onto the heating element that is absent of the necessary vessel. Quickly, she fills a nearby mug then shoves the carafe back into position. She holds a single finger in the air as she blows on the hot liquid then takes several sips.
A sigh of satisfaction escapes her lips. “Much better. Not quite there yet, but I’ll get there in a few.”
Get where? A few what?
She gestures for me to sit at the island with her.
I pull out the stool and watch as she clearly enjoys her favorite morning drink. I am feeling very out of sorts. Liv is not behaving like herself though she says she is fine, that everything is fine, that we are best friends still.
She sighs again—a happy sound—then places her empty mug on the countertop. “Okay, so let me guess why you’re here, and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
“You do not have to guess. I will tell you why I am here.”
She makes a weird gesture with her hand.
Three point eight seconds pass.
The corner of her mouth lifts again. This is yet another unreadable expression. “Go on. Tell me why you’re here.”
“Oh.” I straighten in my stool. After her odd behavior thus far, I am not sure my donation is wanted anymore. “It is now your second ovulation period before Thanksgiving. You want a baby; I suggested I could provide you with one. I am here to make good on my promise.”
She tips her head to the side and studies me in a way that makes me struggle not to squirm in my seat. “You already told your mom I’m not pregnant. There’s no need to make that happen before Thanksgiving now.”
My fears have one-hundred percent proven true. I rise from my stool. “I see. You do not want an autistic father for your child. You are concerned your baby will be handicapped like me.”
She places her hand on my arm and squeezes her fingers against my skin gently. Her touch sends electrical signals and a rush of chemicals through my body that have been horribly absent for the past twenty-eight days. “I didn’t say that. I said I don’t need to get pregnant by Thanksgiving. We can take our time.”
I study her in return. There is no lust in her expression. She is obviously not wearing a bra beneath her tank top. Her nipples are not hardened. She exhibits no outward signs of desire for sex or of attraction to me.
Liv’s mouth is upturned slightly, the muscles in her face relaxed. Her eyes are smooth around the edges, and her gaze is steady and soft on my face.
This is a familiar expression. It conveys love. The friendly love she has always given to me.
I was so close to achieving my preferred type of love. On our date, I saw the expression on her face I have yearned for. I undid all of my hard work for the sake of my selfish pride.
“Liv.” I roll my arm and offer her my open palm, which she takes. “I am sorry for the way I overreacted. Will you give me another chance?”
Her smile widens. “I’ll give you as many chances as you want.”
“To be clear, I desire another chance,” I confirm.
“Okay.” She stands, too. “Let me go brush—” She snaps her mouth shut and squeezes her eyes closed before opening them again. “Never mind. Do you want to start now? It’s morning, so your sperm counts are higher. We don’t have much time though. You have to leave for work in a half hour.”
My curiosity about what she was going to say disappears. If she is willing to give me another chance, I will not waste the opportunity. “I will also call off work. I will spend the entire day inseminating you.”
“But, you—” Again, she closes her mouth before she is finished speaking. “Thank you. I would appreciate that very much.”
I dislike her word choice. The difference in meaning is quite subtle, but I understand anyway. “I will also make sure that you enjoy it. I will be very gentle and very good to you.”
My words provoke a very enjoyable response from her. A visible shudder racks her body. Her nipples protrude beneath the fabric of her shirt. Her pupils enlarge. She glances around. “Do you want to stay here, or should we go to your condo? I have a vibrator, but I don’t own a wedge-shaped pillow or any lube.”
I frown. My answer may negate her arousal. “Ideally, it would have been better for conception for you to have been exposed to my pheromones long term, so there is no reason to change location.”
“Oh, okay.” She nods, staring at my mouth. She is obviously thinking about exchanging saliva again. This brings me both great joy and intense anxiety. “I still don’t have a pillow or lubricant.”
I also am not in possession of a pillow or lubricant. I threw all the items I had purchased away in a regrettable fit of rage. “One of your pillows for sleeping will suffice. We should actually not use lubricant if it can be avoided. Most are detrimental to sperm motility.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Really? I didn’t know that. Why—” Once again, she stops speaking. She glances around. “I have an idea. Is that okay?”
My frustration is increasing, which will make achieving an erection more difficult than it should be. “I have never disliked your ideas. Tell me.”
She studies me for three point two seconds without saying anything. Surprisingly, she steps away from me then pulls her shirt over her head, revealing her naked breasts to me in the middle of her kitchen.
I have deeply missed the sight of her beautiful, full tits. My cock twitches in my pants. It has missed this sight, too. It has been pitifully neglected for longer than it is accustomed to.
Unable to break my stare, I watch as she strides to the adjoining living room. She stops by the couch to remove her panties. They disappear. My gaze is focused solely on the swell of her ass as she bends herself over the arm of the couch.
“This will work for a deep penetration position aid, right?” she calls to me.
“Yes,” I think I say. I am not certain if I produce sound. I am no longer concerned with my ability to achieve an erection. I free it by removing my own clothes. I pause steps away from her to breathe through my animalistic urges and study her position.