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I could try and hack his password and finish the article for him. The clock says I have twenty-seven minutes. That’s plenty of time to review what he wrote, polish it, and email it to Mia.
Depending on how quickly I can figure out his password.
I hustle to Barrett’s cubicle and sit in his chair. I barely contain a “Yay!” in celebration when I discover that his screen saver is on, but the screen isn’t locked.
Hallelujah!
Hurrying, I begin reading the words before me, realizing after a few sentences that I’m reading a starchy, dry paragraph from an e-book and not the Word document Barrett was working on. I tap the screen and then scroll to the top of the page.
Dyslexia and You.
I tap a few pages back, noting several highlighted sections. This chapter is called “In the Workplace.”
I close the book’s window to find a menu listing other e-books sitting behind it.
Writing with Dyslexia.
How to Thrive with Dyslexia.
Dr. Fields’s Guide to Adult Dyslexia.
Realization dawns as shame heats my face. Every rude comment I said or thought about Barrett’s skill or writing style or slow typing lines up in front of me like a firing squad.
My attempts to help him were met with nos. Not because of his stubbornness, but likely his embarrassment. I made it a point to pull him away from his work last night, and he suffered through a four-hour writing session this morning as a direct result.
“I am such a bitch,” I whisper to his laptop.
“You’re not all bad,” comes a low, gentle voice behind me.
I jerk away from the screen feeling (and probably looking) as guilty as hell.
“Forgot my money.” He leans around me, pulls open a drawer, and grabs his wallet. “Change your mind about lunch? Now’s your chance.”
“Barrett.” I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know why he’s not shouting at me for invading his privacy.
“Now you know my secret. Quite the plot twist, huh?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my tone flat. “Why didn’t you explain this was going on?”
“Didn’t you see the book entitled Dyslexia: The Silent Shame?”
“Don’t joke.”
He pockets his wallet and squats in front of me. He’s looking up at me with gorgeous blue eyes, his expression one of patience. “I’ve lived with it my entire life. It’s not news. Lunch?”
“You should tell Mia. She’ll extend your deadline. She’ll—”
He places his finger over my lips and shakes his head.
“I’m not telling Mia. I’m not letting you finish the column for me. I’m going to do it myself and it’s not going to be done by noon.” He stands and I tip my chin to take in his height. “Lunch. Let’s go.”
When I turn longingly back to his laptop, he shuts the lid and offers a palm. I take his hand and stand, then stop by my desk to grab my phone and purse. We walk to the elevator in companionable silence.
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting inside a café a few blocks from work, enjoying the A/C in quiet company with other professionals on their lunch breaks. The café serves chicken salad sandwiches I can’t pass up, so I’m enjoying every calorie of the buttery croissant drenched in mayonaissey goodness. Conversely, Barrett ordered a salad, but it does have a medium-rare filet on top.
He chews, swallows the bite, and then says, “If you don’t stop looking at me like an abandoned puppy on the side of the road, I am going to stand from this chair and announce to everyone here that you’re my wife and I caught you cheating on me with our dentist.”
