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“Congratulations.”
Jonah sets down the label maker he was happily using to name my filing system and looks around the room like I might have been talking to someone else. “What?”
“It’s Friday afternoon. You finished the first week of your internship.” He’s only done busywork so far, nothing that’s going to help him in his career, but we’ll get there eventually.
“Oh.” He studies me. “Do you even take weekends?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought.” Pursing his lips, he stretches out his back where he’s sitting rumpled up on the floor. The way he abuses his suits makes me want to blind myself so I don’t have to watch anymore.
“That’s not an expectation I’m going to hold you to. I’m driving up to see my client tomorrow, but—”
If he were a dog, his ears would have pricked right up. “Can I come?”
“You should go out with Elliott, I don’t know, clubbing or something.”
His dimples flash. “Clubbing? Really? Anyway, I want to ride in your car. It’s probably still warm enough to have the windows down, right?”
God help me, I’ve adopted a dog.
“It’s not a joyride. If you come, you’re on the clock and I expect you in a full suit and behaving like a professional.”
“Uh-huh.” He bounces a little as he goes back to making labels. He thinks I haven’t noticed him checking all the spellings on his phone so he gets them perfect, the time he spends throwing away the wrong ones and making them again. For all that he never stops moving, he’s the most patient person I’ve ever seen in my life.
I don’t know how a boss tells his intern “I’m proud of you”, but I know it’s not by wrapping his arms around him, pulling him in, murmuring it into his hair and feeling the electric shiver of happiness Jonah tries to hide every time I say something kind to him. So I don’t say anything.
Getting up, I grab a stack of paper off the printer and set it on my desk. “Come look at this.”
“What is it?” He stands a few feet away, like they’re going to bite. “Do I have to read all that?”
“It’s the information file for the case.”
“I finished that.” He finally did, after two more late nights I pretended not to know about.
“Look at it.”
He picks up the top page and studies the big sans-serif font, the extra space around each word, his head tilting as his eyebrows pull together in a frown. “What did you do to it?”
“I researched some typographical styles that can help someone with dyslexia. Obviously, you should see a professional if you want a diagnosis, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.”
Blinking slowly with his long, dark eyelashes, he looks up at me.
“Does it help?”
Then he crouches down, his forehead resting against the edge of the desk, staring at the sheet in his hand. “Fuck.”
“What is it?” But I have a guess, and it’s heartbreaking. “It helps, doesn’t it?”
He nods, head still pressed against the mahogany. “Not all the way, but some.” His voice comes out hoarse.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wish I could—”
“It’s just the font? That’s all you did? How long did this take you to make?”
“Five minutes.”
