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sleeve hiked up to match my shirt, we walked up the street again, but the other way this time. The sandwich shop was infinitely better than the Greek place had been. It had lots of plants and fish tanks. Small tables sat half-hidden in intimate corners.
    Nick gestured toward the counter. “I can order for us, if you want to pick a table.”
    I was touched once again by his sensitivity. He was allowing me a chance to hide rather than having to deal with any of the employees. “Something with turkey,” I said.
    He smiled at me, causing my stomach to do somersaults. “You got it.”
    He brought us identical sandwiches, although he had carrot sticks instead of French fries. Always the healthier option. It was no wonder he looked so good.
    “I’m sorry about the restaurant.”
    I couldn’t believe he was apologizing to me. I was the one who’d made a scene. “It wasn’t your fault.”
    “No.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I mean, I’m sorry about when you tried to order. I’ve never seen you struggle with your speech so much, and I wasn’t sure if I should stop you and order for you, or if it was better to let you work it out.”
    Blunt and honest. I was beginning to get used to it. “It depends a lot on how the listener responds. When they get impatient, like the waitress, it m-makes it harder for me to speak clearly. Once p-people start to notice it, it’s l-like it takes on a life of its own.”
    “Why didn’t you just point to what you wanted?” Such a simple question, and it brought me up short. Why hadn’t I? My mother had never allowed that, but still, my mother wasn’t here. It was the most obvious solution, so why hadn’t it occurred to me? “I guess I just panicked.”
    “You told me the stutter used to be worse. What happened? Did you do some kind of therapy?”
    I swallowed hard and took a long drink of my soda, trying to decide how much to reveal. He waited, patient as a stone. I took the easy way out and said, “A bit, yeah.”
    “And is that why you get nervous around people?”
    “It doesn’t help, but the real reason is my arm.”
    “You don’t seem uncomfortable with me, though.”
    “You’re different.”
    “Why?”
    It was a simple question, but the answer was complex. Because he was patient. Because he was direct, yet not insensitive. Because he never laughed at me, and he made me feel safe. What I ended up saying was, “Because you aren’t weirded out by it.”
    “And others are?”
    “You said your sister has the same defect—”
    “Don’t call it a defect. It’s a congenital amputation.”
    “Fine. My point is, you’ve probably seen how people act. The way kids always ask about it—”
    “And that bothers you?”
    “It’s not the kids themselves who annoy me. They don’t know any better and it’s natural for them to ask questions. It’s the way their parents hush them up and rush away, like they can pretend I don’t exist. Kids may be the most vocal, but adults are the worst.”
    “How so?”
    “They either get so flustered trying to help with every little thing that I end up feeling like an invalid, or they do their best to ignore it altogether, like they somehow don’t notice that I’m missing an arm.”
    He cocked his head at me in puzzlement. “How do you want them to act?”
    “I don’t know. Normal, I guess. I want them to act like I’m not a freak.”
    He shifted carrot sticks around in his basket, thinking. “You know, most people are trying to treat you the way they think you want to be treated.”
    “They think I want to be treated like a pariah?”
    He looked up at me with a piercingly direct gaze. “Owen, this isn’t high school. Most people are genuinely good. They don’t want to be cruel.”
    I ducked my head, feeling like a recalcitrant child. In alluding to high school, he’d hit the proverbial nail on the head. All of my insecurities went back to my teen years, but most adults didn’t act the way teenagers did.