Once I gave Spencer my address, he began to drive. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He seemed focused on the road in front of him, sitting straight and rigid. I began to pick at my fingernails, the quiet bugging me.

"Are you stressed about something?"

"What?" I said, turning to look at Spencer.

"Are you stressed about something?" he said, removing his eyes from the road and glancing at me. "You're picking at the skin around your nails. Picking at your skin is considered a type of body-focused repetitive behavior, and it's often associated with stress or anxiety."

"Oh," I said, clearing my throat. "Not really, just thinking about too much." Spencer looked at me again, a look that clearly said that he didn't believe me, but he didn't push it.

Silence was again overcame the car.

"You know," I said, trying to come up with something to talk about, "You look awfully young to have three PhDs as well as two BAs. What's the secret?"

"I graduated from high school when I was 12 and then went to Caltech before finishing my undergrad when I was 16. I got my three PhDs over the next four years, before joining the FBI when I was 21," Spencer said, not removing his eyes from the road. I saw his hands tighten on the wheel, and could tell that he wasn't a huge fan of driving.

"You literally are a genius," I said, letting out a small laugh.

"I don't believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but based upon societal notions, I have an IQ of 187, can read 20,000 words a minute, and have an eidetic memory," he said, giving me a small smile. "So yeah, I guess I am literally a genius."

"Damn, 20,000 words a minute… If I had that I could finally finish my list of books," I said.

"It is helpful in that respect… What kind of books do you read?"

"Mostly murder-mysteries, but I also have a soft spot for any feminist-dystopian novels," I said. "You can thank The Handmaid's Tale for that."

"I mostly read scientific fiction or nonfiction myself," Spencer said.

"Any recommendations? Always trying to broaden my library."

"Depends. Nonfiction or scientific fiction?"

"Honestly? Anything. Doesn't even have to be in those categories."

"I have a fascination with Arthur Conan Doyle-" Spencer began.

"Sherlock Holmes guy, right?" I asked, before realizing I interrupted him. "Sorry."

"Yes, he wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories, but his book The Mystery of Cloomber is a good one."

"Noted. I'll have to see if I can check it out or buy it somewhere."

"If you can't find it, I could lend it to you," Spencer offered, but I waved a hand dismissing it.

"No, I'm sure I'll be able to find it."

"Just let me know."

"I will," I said.

Silence.
Again.

"So you met Hotch at a coffee shop?" Spencer said, interrupting the silence. Seemed that we both didn't like the awkward lack of conversation.

"Yeah, Backroads Coffee? I go there pretty much every day and we talk for a few minutes every morning," I said.

"Every day?"

"Yeah," I said, letting out a short laugh. "I'm a sucker for their mochas. I don't understand how Hotch can drink his coffee completely black."

"I have to put sugar and cream in it before I can even think of drinking it, otherwise, it's too bitter and acidic.

"Exactly! Although, I find that the chocolate syrup adds an extra level of protection from the battery acid he calls coffee," I said, laughing.

"In Central and South America, there's a plant called psychotria nervosa, or wild coffee, which produces a small, red fruit. This species is not known to contain any caffeine and instead can cause headaches, and if induced in excessive quantities, other potentially dangerous side effects can occur. It's actually rather interesting how something so far removed from coffee is commonly known as wild coffee," Spencer said. It was funny. He got so excited talking about it that his grip of the wheel relaxed. It seemed as if reciting random facts put him at ease.

"That's crazy," I said. Then another thought occurred to me. "So eidetic memory is photographic memory, right?"

"Yeah."

"So, you never forget anything you see?"

"No, I don't."

"Wow," I said, slightly amazed. "That's got to be useful but kind of a curse, right?"

"How do you mean?"

"Like you can never forget anything you see, right? So, every case you work, you remember all the details? I mean, I don't know exactly what stuff you guys see on the job, but chasing after the crazies… well, there's a reason they're considered crazy."

Spencer looked at me quizzically, before turning back to the road.

"Never thought of it that way before, but yes. I guess it is a curse, but it's worth it to remember the things you would never want to forget."

Now I didn't have an eidetic memory, but I felt a deep pang in my gut. There were somethings that people could never forget as hard as they tried.

"And I think we are here?" Spencer asked. I looked out the window to see the familiar apartment building.

"Yes, this is me," I said, before gesturing to the sidewalk. "You can just pull up there… Thank you again, you saved me a solid $30."

"It was really no problem," Spencer said, putting the car in park. I grabbed my bag and was about to say goodnight when Spencer spoke again.

"Let me give you my number so you can let me know if you can't find The Mystery of Cloomber," he said, grabbing a small piece of paper and scribbling some numbers on it.

"Oh, ok… thanks… well, have a good night?" I said taking the paper and giving him a wave.

He returned the sentiment, and I watched as he drove off. I glanced at the paper and smiled as I saw his number written in sloppy handwriting. Walking into my apartment and locking the door, I put his contact into my phone before sending a quick message.

This is Sarah- thanks again for the ride. :)

Maybe one more friend wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.