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“Yeah.”
“But this is dangerous.”
“I’m good at it.”
There’s no doubt about that. But even so, I’m scared for him. “How did you even learn to do that?”
“People taught me.” When I frown at his vague answer, he elaborates, “There was this guy on the staff a few years ago. I got started on his bike. He taught me. He’d take me to the hole sometimes. He quit and went to New York. He hooked me up with people when I showed up at his door out of the blue.”
In this moment, Zach seems so worldly to me. So experienced and daring and brave.
“I’m scared for you,” I whisper when I have nothing else to say to him.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” he replies with a blank look.
But I am worried.
“Is that all?” he asks, curtly.
We’ve been dancing around each other for quite some time now and when my back hits the wall, I know it’s over. This dance.
I need to come out with the other, the bigger reason for my visit.
Plastering my spine on the wall, I tilt up my neck. “And I want you to come to my cottage. Tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Tina won’t be home; she’s working the night shift and I’m not babysitting Art. So I’ll be free.”
“Free to do what?”
He’s too close and his eyes are too scorching. Blazing. I want to look away but I can’t rip our gazes apart. I can’t be a coward and leave him alone when I ask this question. “Where’s your book? The one you had. About the stars.”
The tendons on his neck move in agitation. “I threw it away.”
“Why?”
“Not into reading.”
“Well, that’s still not a reason to throw away a perfectly good book.”
“It is for me.”
I lick my lips and his eyes follow the gesture. “Well, tomorrow. At my cottage. We’re going to read.”
He frowns. “Excuse me?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this deadly and this angry before. And I’ve seen him angry plenty of times.
“Yes. Because, Zach, you promised a little boy that you’ll read him a story. And I swear to God, you’re going to read him one.”
He leans down, his palms on the wall, caging me in. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” I inject every scrap of courage in my tone. “Dyslexia is a learning disability. Meaning, it makes it difficult to read. Not impossible. Lots of people have it. And I realize that it’s not convenient and I’ll never be able to fully grasp the difficulties associated with it, but damn it, Zach. You’re going to read. You should’ve been reading all along. I can’t believe your parents never made the effort. It’s just so ancient and archaic that I can’t even –”
“They made the effort.”
“What?”
