lody
I was still laughing while I was sitting on the toilet. More than anything, I was caught off guard by how quickly Train snapped into character and how willing he was to play along with . Most guys were way too cool to cut lose and be silly, especially in front of a woman, but Train was clearly secure with who he was.
I finished doing my thing and cleaned up before joining Train back at our booth. The coffee had arrived and slled heavenly.
"You okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t an to make you..."
"I made it just in the nick of ti," I said. "Good humor and my bladder are not always the best of friends. Just ask my sisters."
"Oh, I’ll bet they’ve got stories galore about you," he said.
"What about you?" I asked.
"Well, I dunno. I’d highly doubt your sisters would have any childhood stories about ."
"No." I laughed. "I ant do you have any brothers or sisters?"
Train shook his head. "Only child."
"I can’t imagine life without my sisters. I probably never would have started singing if it weren’t for my family dragging onto the stage."
"That’s funny," Train chuckled. "I may not have ever started playing guitar if I had siblings to play with. Music is what kept company."
"What about friends?"
"There were guys I hung out with a little at school, but that was about it."
"I’m surprised," I murmured.
"Why?"
"You’re such an outgoing guy. I would have guessed you made friends easily."
"Honestly, social situations can be difficult for sotis," Train said.
"Really? You seem so confident."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a polite way of saying cocky?"
"No, not at all. You just seem comfortable in your own skin." I shrugged. "That’s all."
"Then I’ll take that as a complint," Train said with a smile.
I’d been secretly naming and cataloging Train’s arsenal of smiles for so ti now. This particular smile, I called the ’Gentleman Strangler,’ because every ti he flashed it, I got a lump in my throat and felt short of breath.
June returned, ready to take our orders. "What can I get for you two?"
Not wanting to break character, I simply pointed at the chop salad and smiled.
"A slice of apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese lted on top, please," Train said.
"Coming right up," June said, and headed back to the kitchen.
"Are you sure you’re not from the south?" I asked. "Cheese on your pie?"
"My grandfather on my mother’s side was from Alabama, I think." He cocked his head. "Anyway, he always ate his apple pie like that, and I guess I wanted to be like him."
"Mom and dad?"
"Dad split shortly after I was born. It was just and my mom when I was growing up. She died three years ago. Lung cancer."
"I’m so sorry."
"Thank you. It was rough, but at least she’s not in pain anymore."
June returned with our food, and I noticed Train’s expression turn serious. He shifted in his seat and his fists clenched.
"Everything look okay?" June asked.
Train was silent, his eyes locked onto my plate.
"Yes, thank you very much," I said in perfect English to a confused looking June, who left us alone once again. "Are you alright?" I asked Train.
"You got a salad," he said as if I’d ordered a bowl of baby snakes. "A big, gigantic salad."
"I did," I confird, frowning. "What’s wrong?"
"I told you I’ve had trouble making friends in the past."
"You said you had so social issues."
Train nodded. "I have a condition called Misophonia."
"What is that?"
"It’s a neurological condition that makes hypersensitive to certain sounds. In my case, a lot of sounds," he said, his eyes still locked on my salad. "And those sounds can trigger anything from mild anxiety to a full-blown panic attack."
"Is that what you ant when you said there was a flip side to the gift of having a great musical ear?"
Train nodded. "The sa ears and brain that hear and interpret music are also wide open to receiving troubleso sounds. And when those sounds get in, my anxiety goes up."
"And what are those troubleso sounds?"
"Gum popping, pens clicking, dripping water." He glanced up at . "I could give you a list as long as my arm."
"Don’t those kinds of sounds annoy everyone?"
"Yes, and I’d give anything for those sounds to be an annoyance, but they’re far more intrusive than you might think for people like ."
I cocked my head. "How so?"
"Have you ever had a song change your mood?"
"Of course," I said.
"You didn’t consciously allow the song to affect your emotions and yet it did. Now imagine, instead of a song, it’s the sound of the person across the table from you chewing. And instead of making you feel happy and relaxed, the sound instantly enrages you. And as much as you may love that person, and don’t want them to starve to death, you desperately want to dive across the table to prevent them from taking another bite."
"Chewing?" she asked.
"It’s my most severe trigger."
I looked down at my salad. "Uh-oh."
"It’s okay," Train said reassuringly. "This is sothing I live with every day. I don’t expect you or anyone else to change a single second of their lives to suit ."
"Is this why you tend to turn into a ghost around altis?"
He nodded. "I’m not trying to be anti-social. It’s just extrely difficult to be in a group of people while they’re eating."
I bit my lip. "That must be horrible for you. I’m so sorry."
"It makes socializing almost impossible at tis because most gatherings revolve around food. At school, I usually ate alone or with the occasional friend who I could tolerate."
"Tolerate, how?"
"Although, I’ll always be aware of it, there are so people whose mouth sounds don’t bother nearly as much as others."
"What about your club brothers?" I asked.
"They all know about my condition and are used to my silent exits during club functions."
"Right." I picked up my fork. "Shall we find out which side of the spectrum my chewing’s on?"
"As long as you promise not to get offended if I have to beat a hasty retreat."
I nodded, then stabbed a forkful of salad.
"Croutons," Train said, as if facing off with an old sworn enemy.
"Go big or go ho," I said, and took a bite.
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