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“What? Don’t you dare!”
“Don’t dare me.”
“Dammit, Barrett.”
“I like the anger.” He points to me with his fork. “Keep that.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I don’t believe you.” I fold my arms stubbornly.
“Well, excuse me, sweetheart!” he shouts, bursting out of his chair. “I expected you to have a tooth filled, not your—”
“Barrett, please!” I stand and reach over the table to grip his forearm. Every pair of eyes in the café swivel to us.
“I promise I’ll stop,” I whisper.
“Okay then.” He waves at the diners around us and announces, “My apologies for the interruption.” Then he sits down and tucks into his meal like nothing happened.
I sit, too, earning a few admonishing glances from our neighbors.
“You are unbelievable.” I push my plate aside. Half my heavenly sandwich is left, but I’m no longer hungry.
“I’ve been told,” he says around a bite.
“Can you at least explain it to me? Can we talk about it?”
He sighs, a weary sound, and swipes his mouth with a napkin. “Take that pitying tone out of your voice, and I’ll explain. Briefly.”
“Deal.” I agree quickly, barely hiding my excitement.
“Curiosity killed the Kitty Cat.” The amused twitch of his lips transforms his entire face for the better.
“Being curious is my nature.”
“Being an asshole is mine.”
I shake my head. It’s not true and we both know it. But I don’t argue because I don’t want to stray off topic. “Dyslexia. When did you know?”
“Fourth grade. Spelling bee. There was lots of laughing coming my direction for hastily spelling the word dumb d-u-m.”
My heart aches for that embarrassed little boy, but I don’t show it. “Honest mistake, that’s how it’s spelled on the lollipops.”
“Exactly.” He gifts me with a warm smile that drops a moment later. “I can write, and I can spell, but it takes a lot of concentration to do either with any proficiency. Unlike you who puts her fingers on the keys and out it comes right the first time.”
“It’s not right the first time.”
He eyes me with suspicion.
“Not always,” I mumble.
He leans over our cozy table to tip my chin with his knuckle. “Don’t apologize for being an incredible writer.” He holds me there until I agree with a nod, and then he returns to moving his salad around his bowl with his fork. “I do my own work. I’ve always done my own work. But I’m not turning in a shoddy, half-assed piece while you turn in the equivalent of Shakespeare.”
“You can still do your own work, I’m offering to beta read. And make a few edits. Professionals do it all the time!”
“I’m not a professional.” He sips his water.
