This close, she could measure the true length of his eyelashes, trace how they fanned and turned pale gold at their tips.
This close, she couldn’t miss the raw sincerity in his words, in his pained eyes.
She held very still, a steady presence as he seemed to struggle for words. “But?”
Softly. Softly. An invisible hand holding his as he faltered, not a shove in the back.
With his thumb and middle finger, he pinched his temples. Exhaled. “From the very beginning, there were issues. I took a long time to begin speaking. And once I started school, I kept, uh... kept reversing my letters and numbers.”
Oh.Oh.
Sheknew where this was going now, but he needed to get there in his own time. In his own way. “Okay.”
“My parents blamed the teachers, so they decided my mom should homeschool me. She taught at a nearby prep school, so she was more than qualified.” His little huff of laughter didn’t contain a single trace of actual amusement. “We all found out pretty quickly that the teachers weren’t the problem. I was.”
No, that couldn’t stand unchallenged. “Marcus, having d—”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “No matter how much she had me read, no matter how much she had me write, no matter how many vocabulary lists she made for me, I was a terrible speller. I had terrible handwriting. I couldn’t write or read quickly, couldn’t pronounce things correctly, couldn’t always understand what I’d read.”
Fuck. That early interview with Marcus, the one that had cemented his reputation as amiable but not especially bright, now seemed—
“My parents thought I was lazy. Defiant.” His eyes met hers, and theyweredefiant. Daring her to judge him, to second the condemnation of his family. “I only found out there was a name for my problem after I dropped out of college and moved to LA. A name other thanstupidity, anyway.”
Chin haughty, no hint of a smile softening that famous mouth, he waited. Knowing, somehow, that he didn’t need to use the word himself.
“You’re dyslexic.” She pitched her voice low, to protect his privacy. “Marcus, I had no idea.”
That stony expression didn’t flicker.
“No one does, except Alex.” When her brows furrowed, he clarified. “Alex Woodroe. Cupid. My best friend. He’s the onewho figured it out, since one of his ex-girlfriends had dyslexia too. Diagnosed, unlike mine.”
The bitterness in that last phrase painted the back of her tongue, and she pushed her panna cotta to the side. No need to get custard in her hair, and she wasn’t hungry anymore, not after hearing his story.
The skin over his knuckles seemed stretched to its limits, his fists almost as white as the tablecloth beneath them. When she rested a fingertip on one of those bony knuckles, a vein in his temple throbbed.
“Marcus...” Since he didn’t move away from her touch, she traced a gentle line across the back of his hand. “One of the smartest, most talented people I know is dyslexic. He’s an amazing writer too.”
Sometime after she’d beta-read and proofed a couple of his fics for the first time, BAWN had told her about his dyslexia via DM, amid a flurry of apologies for any spelling errors.
I have voice-to-text software, he wrote,but it sometimes has issues with homonyms. I’m sorry. I afraid I won’t be much help proofreading your fics.
I can deal with spelling on my own, she’d written back.Where I need help is plotting and making sure I remain true to the characters, even in a modern AU. Emotional depth too. All strengths of yours. If you could help me with those bits, I’d be very grateful.
He hadn’t responded for a long time.
I can do that, he’d eventually written.
“There are workarounds,” she said, when Marcus remained silent and still beneath her gaze, beneath her touch. “I’m sure you’ve found them already.”
When she withdrew her hand, he startled, then shifted restlessly in his seat.
Atthe heat lingering on her fingertip, the guilt churning within her gut at touching another man while thinking of BAWN, she did the same.
“Yes. Lots of workarounds.” He cleared his throat. “This person you know, the one with dyslexia. The smart, talented one. Does he write fanfic too?”
She had to smile. “That’s how I know what a great writer he is.”
“What name does he use?” As Marcus scooped out a perfect semi-oval of custard, his attention once more seemed entirely focused on his spoon. “For his stories, I mean. In case I ever visit your fanfiction site.”
