The friends shared a quiet laugh as Griff closed the file. “Well, the money is safe in the bank, so you have plenty of time to think about it.”
Logan got to his feet. “Free for lunch?”
“I wish. I’m due in court at one.” He extended his hand, and as Logan grasped it, Griff added, “Be careful, pal.”
“Hey. I’ll sleep easy knowing you’re handling the official stuff.”
“I’m not talking about this school project,” he said, pointing at the file. “I mean this Bianca woman. You barely know her and already you have that gleam in your eye. Last thing you need is to go head over heels for a woman just because she has a kid like Sam.”
Bianca’s son was largely responsible for the hours he’d spent this week boning up on specific disorders within the autism spectrum. When he’d deepened the research by interviewing a few experts, he was surprised to learn that more than half of the markers could just as easily describe him and other athletes who’d suffered head injuries. The similarities between him and Sam made Logan more determined than ever to build a facility that would help normalize their lives. “Just be careful, okay?” Griff said, walking with him to the door. “I don’t have time to put you back together again, Humpty.” Then, “Do me a favor?”
“No, I will not give you J-Lo’s number.”
Griff’s eyebrows rose. “Whoa. You mean to say you actually have Jennifer Lopez’s—”
Logan only laughed.
“Oh, you’re a regular comedian, aren’t you?” But he wasn’t laughing when he added, “Don’t let this one lead you down the primrose path, okay?”
Logan had recently earned his six-years-sober chip, but because he’d seen him hit rock bottom—and stay there for years—Griff had a right to wonder what might shove him off the wagon. And time was the only cure for that.
“Break a leg in court,” Logan said, walking backward toward the elevators.
“Chesapeake fishing trip next week. Call me if you’re interested.”
“Will do,” he said, stepping into the elevator. As it dropped toward the basement garage, Logan remembered how, after the Willow debacle, Griff had suggested counseling, “to find out why you’re attracted to women with more baggage than an airport luggage carousel.” Griff hadn’t been the only one who felt that way, which sent Logan on a quest to prove his friend and family wrong. Unfortunately, what he’d learned confirmed their beliefs; according to articles and the results of dozens of university studies he’d read, Logan suffered from what experts called Prince Charming Syndrome. To this day, it remained one of his most embarrassing secrets. Because he’d self-diagnosed the problem, it made sense to prescribe a cure: abstinence.
CHAPTER FIVE
“MOMMY?”
Bianca turned down the volume on the tiny kitchen TV. It had been Drew’s idea to leave it on while he did homework. “I have to learn to work with distractions around me,” he’d said on the first day of school. Amazingly, he’d been right.
She tucked her pen into the checkbook register and traded it for the math assignment he held.
“Finished my homework page,” he said.
Not an easy feat, she thought, tears in her eyes. “You answered every question correctly, and it’s so nice and neat. I’m so proud of you!”
A slight furrow appeared between his brows as he studied her face. “Then...then why are you sad?”
“Oh, honey, I’m not sad. These are happy tears. I’m happy because...” Because you’re looking at me. Straight into my eyes and seeing me! She got up, walked to his side of the table and wrapped her arms around him. “Because I love you so, so much!”
Drew groaned good-naturedly. “I know. Love you, too.”
Her three favorite words. He’d been reciting them since before he could walk. They had always sounded hollow, robotic, anything but sincere...until about six months ago, when his facial expressions and voice proved he meant them. How far he’d come since September!
“Can I have a snack break before I do my spelling homework?”
“What would you rather have—string cheese or apple slices?”
“Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!” he bellowed.
Bianca laughed. “Okay, how about a healthy snack now and ice cream when your homework is finished?”
He thought about it for a minute, then said, “Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do—string cheese or apple slices.”
“Apple slices will get my pencil sticky,” he said, hopping toward the fridge.
She went back to balancing the checkbook, and he went back to his assignment. His willingness to cooperate made it hard to believe he’d been misbehaving in class. Bianca thought about her recent conversation with Mrs. Peterson. “Is something going on at home, Mrs. Wright,” the teacher wanted to know, “that will help me understand why he’s acting out?”
Months before his first day of school, Bianca had hand-delivered Drew’s file and spent hours defining every test, explaining every result, listing every specialist who’d evaluated Drew and their every conclusion. There were photos. Charts. CDs and DVDs of sessions with occupational, speech and behavioral therapists. She’d been deliberately thorough, for the very reason Mrs. Peterson had mentioned during the meeting: so his teacher would better understand Drew. “He isn’t acting out at home,” she’d wanted to shout, “so maybe the problem is at school!”
Instead, she’d said, “You’re too busy teaching and monitoring the other children to keep an eye on Drew every single minute.” Bianca promised to spend a lot more time in the classroom so that hopefully, she’d notice something—anything—that would explain Drew’s behavior. Because when all was said and done, only one thing mattered: Drew.
She took her son’s hands in hers. “So how’s school these days, sweetie?”
His pupils dilated before he looked quickly away. And when he started bobbing his head and chanting “school, school, school,” Bianca had all the proof she needed that home was not the source of the problem.
She adopted a deliberately sing-song tone to break the cycle. “Drew. Honey. Tell Mommy what’s going on at school.”
An article in Autism Advocate explained that kids could sidetrack themselves from stemming, that distracting tendency of autistics to flap their hands, bob their heads and any one of a dozen other repetitive actions. When she explained how the process worked, Drew came up with his own distraction tactics. Dancing, not spinning; jumping instead of running; watching a video to stop himself from staring at lights. It had been months since he’d learned that sitting on his hands put a stop to hand flapping. Longer still since he’d bobbed his head once he figured out that touching his chin to his chest controlled the urge. Yet there he sat, doing both, and it seemed he’d forgotten how to stop himself. Her heart ached, knowing she’d caused it with her ill-timed question.
Then an idea sparked, and she went with it. “What is the boy’s name?”
When Drew looked up, his expression said, How did you know it was a boy?
“It’s okay,” she said, scooting her chair closer. “What’s the boy’s name?”
“His name is Joseph. Joseph is his name. Joseph is the new kid.”
Proceed with caution, Bianca thought. Putting ideas in his head to get the information she needed wouldn’t help Drew in the long run.
“What can you tell me about Joseph the new kid?”
“I