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He palms my jaw and drops another kiss on my temple. “Go.”
“Okay.” I unbuckle my seat belt. “See you later?” Tonight, I hope.
“You’d better see me later.”
Well, that made me smile. “I’ll call you.”
“Deal.”
I step out of the car and into the building. My newfound freedom tempts me to reach into my bag and check the myriad messages, emails, and phone calls I’ve had to have missed.
I don’t. Instead I float through the lobby, glide up the elevator, and practically skip to my desk.
“Good morning,” I chime as I breeze by Nanci’s desk.
“Hey, Catarina. Amazing column.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you read any feedback yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve been electronically barren for over twenty-four hours, so give me a moment to settle in.”
“Oh. Okay.” Her expression is a mystery. I can’t tell if she’s nervous or bothered. Or maybe she didn’t like me putting her on my timetable. Well, too bad. Barrett was right. Most things can wait. I had my first stress-free day on Sunday in as long as I can remember.
I thought I’d go crazy during my screen fast, but it was actually relaxing. Now that I’m at my desk, and logging into my laptop, I’m not looking forward to plugging back in.
While my email inbox fills with—Wow—a lot more emails than usual, I turn on my phone’s ringer and check my texts. There are several.
Most of them are from friends and are some version of “Great article!” One is from my mom that reads “He’s so brave. Amazing column, dear.” I chuckle when I read it. Does she mean he’s brave for attending the governor’s party? Or is his bravery being commended because he’s dating me?
I set my phone aside, smiling as I scan the emails. My smile falls as I read the subject on several of them—they have an eerily similar theme.
Dyslexia.
Email after email reflects sentiments like:
“I had no idea Barrett suffered from dyslexia...”
“I’m dyslexic, too, and understand how harrowing this is...”
“I’m beyond moved that he overcame such great odds...”
One nastygram accuses Barrett of doing anything for publicity—even pretending to be dyslexic. I delete it with an angry tap of a key.
“There are phone messages, too,” Nanci interrupts gently as I’m poring over the many, many letters from readers. She hands over a stack of Post-its scrawled with notes and phone numbers. I don’t bother reading them. I have a good guess what they’re about.
“Where do I start?” I mutter. “I had no idea Barrett shared about his dyslexia in the column. It’s brave and amazing and...” Not like him at all.
“It’s in your half of the column.” Nanci frowns. “I thought you two planned it that way.”
My heart sinks to my toes. My cheeks grow cold as the blood rushes from my face.
Nanci walks back to her desk, and I numbly open the Chat’s home page. I skim Barrett’s half of the column. It’s everything I remember it being the first time I read it. Funny, charming, and blunt—like him. Then I skim my half of the article and stop breathing.
I read every column I write at least ten times. I read and reread. Edit and then read it again. I know every word in it and can usually recite parts from memory. The words that stop me cold are words I didn’t write.
What Barrett Fox doesn’t want anyone to know is that he works harder than I do on this column. He sweats over every word thanks to a lifetime of fighting dyslexia. As a hardworking college student who had to keep his grades up to play football, I can only imagine how taxing this must have been for him. He’s an amazing specimen physically, and knowing he’s been fighting this mentally has added an entirely new, fascinating layer to our relationship.
