Chapter 3: The Boy on the Porch

At fifteen, I met a boy at the Smiths’.

He was sitting on the back porch, rain drizzling down, lost in his own world. The Smiths were hosting a barbecue, the air thick with laughter and smoke, but he was alone, headphones blocking out the noise.

He’d been cut by a rose thorn, his arm still bleeding.

The blood dripped onto his jeans, but he didn’t seem to notice. I hesitated, then walked over, hands shaking as I offered him a band-aid.

But he didn’t seem to notice, just sat there with his headphones on, listening to music in the backyard.

I watched him for a minute—his eyes far away, fingers tapping a silent beat. Something about his stillness drew me in.

I thought about it, brought him some antiseptic and a band-aid.

He flinched when I touched his arm, but didn’t pull away. I dabbed at the cut, handed him the band-aid, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Later I learned his name was Jason Carter.

His grandfather had brought him over to visit the Smiths.

For some reason, Grandpa Carter took a liking to me and wanted me to be his granddaughter-in-law.

He pulled me aside after dinner, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve got a kind heart, Annie. The Carter family could use someone like you.”

The Carter family was well established, so my dad agreed without a second thought.

It was decided over bourbon and brisket—my future traded like a hand of cards. No one asked me what I wanted.

When my sisters heard, they all laughed and mocked me.

Their laughter rang down the hallway, sharper than any slap. They called it a consolation prize—a step up for someone like me.

“You think you’re marrying up? If it was really a good match, would it be your turn?”

They huddled by the kitchen island, smirking over their phones, sure I’d fail.

“That Jason Carter’s been autistic and moody since he was a kid—he’s not normal.”

Their voices dropped to a whisper, but I heard every word. They made it sound like I was being shipped off to a haunted house.

But because of the engagement with Jason, Mrs. Smith finally treated me a little better.

She stopped glaring at me and even let me eat at the big table sometimes. It wasn’t warmth, but it was something.

My days at the Smiths’ got easier; at least they stopped bullying me.

I took my victories where I could, even if it meant learning to live with the cold shoulder.

I often thought of that first meeting—the skinny boy quietly listening to music in the backyard.

He was the first person who hadn’t looked right through me. I replayed that moment in my mind on hard nights.

He didn’t know it, but just by being there, he helped me a lot.

There was comfort in his silence—a reminder that not every presence needed to be loud to matter.

I was honestly grateful to him.

I’d whisper thank yous into my pillow, wishing he could hear them.

I started to learn about his diagnosis, trying to figure out how to get along with him in the future.

I read library books, searched message boards, even called a social worker once for advice. I wanted to be ready—to do better by him than anyone had done for me.

Then at twenty, under the arrangement of both families, I married Jason Carter.

The wedding was quiet, just family and a few close friends. The Carters paid for everything, but there were no speeches, no toasts, just a contract signed in silence.