Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“I’m all good,” I say, and just so she doesn’t try to buy me something, because she would—the fruit is the evidence—I add, “I prefer to read digitally.”
That’s a lie, but it’s one that must make perfect sense to a reader like her since she says, “Oh, sure. I get that.”
But as we head to the counter, I picture her sneak attacking me with a gift later, in the form of an e-book delivered to an e-reader I don’t have. I’d be a jerk if I let her do that. For now though, I try to ignore this guilty feeling though as I buy her the book, then nod toward the café. “Want a cup for surviving item number two? Or is it too late for you?”
“It’s way past my bedtime, but I will still take that victory cup, thank you very much,” she says, lifting her chin, proud and rightfully so.
After we order and sit with our coffees, I say, “You should know I wrote your eulogy during the yard of the month bit.”
“You did?”
“You demanded it,” I say, then take a drink.
She sweeps out an arm. “I want to hear it.”
After the other night when I unbuttoned my shirt for her in the kitchen, and after this evening when we flirted on stage, I don’t hold back. I lean back in the chair, then, like I’m speaking before a crowd, I say, “She died flirting with a sexy stranger.”
“Not a bad way to go.”
“Fucking the sexy stranger would be better,” I say, before I can think the better of it.
She blinks, her lips parting, and I love that look. Love her response even more when she says, “Yes, it would be a preferable way to go.”
For a moment, the air between us is charged, sparking with possibilities. Her blue eyes darken, flames flickering in them.
But the flame gutters out because of those damn roomie rules. Because we’re not going there. Because flirting during improv is one thing. Doing it in real life is another. Best to steer this ship elsewhere. “What changed for you? On stage? You seemed pretty good at improv in the end,” I continue. “I’m curious.”
“I thought about my aunt. She once said—when I was heading into a debate class in high school—that it was okay to be afraid. That memory sort of boomeranged back to me tonight. Like a reminder that it’s okay to sit with discomfort.”
I chew on that, thinking of how I’m sitting with the discomfort over her wanting to buy me a book. “Good advice. I probably feel that more than I’d admit.”
“Discomfort or fear?”
“Both, if I’m being honest.”
“What are you afraid of?”
I turn the cup, sitting with my discomfort over what I’m not telling her about myself. I can at least start with answering her honestly. “Not being able to play hockey. Not being able to play it well. Life without hockey. I want a life besides it, but I also want a long life with it.”
“It’s a paradox,” she says, nodding thoughtfully. “But that also makes sense why you’re so disciplined about it—so you can play for a long time.” She pauses, tilts her head. “You’re not afraid of public speaking at all though. Is it because of media training and stuff?”
I picture her list. The item we worked on tonight. The item wasn’t go to improv. It was overcome a fear. She overcame one this evening. I ought to do the same. I dig down and face that fear head-on—sharing parts of myself. “No. I chose to be good at it from an early age. Because I hated it at first.”
Questions flicker across her blue irises.
This isn’t my fondest memory, but I share it anyway. “In second grade, when a teacher called on me to read something out loud to the class, I hated every second of it so much. I felt really stupid, because I could barely…read.”
Her eyes widen, but she says nothing—just waits patiently for me to go on.
“Later, when I finally could, and we had to read out loud in class, I would count the number of kids in front of me so that I could take a guess at what I’d have to read. I’d spend the whole time reading that over and over so I wouldn’t mix up the words. When it was my turn, I wasn’t truly reading it—I’d have memorized it. But eventually, I had to get over my hatred of speaking in front of people, so I worked on it. Since speaking in public is easier for me than writing or reading is.”
I don’t offer this intel to most people. Not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s no one’s business. But Josie’s shared herself with me. She’s earned this knowledge. So I finish with: “I have dyslexia.”
Her brow knits, then her eyes flicker with…interest. That’s not what I’d expected to see in them. I’d figured sympathy would cross her gaze. Instead, I see genuine care, and curiosity. “I had no idea. But thanks for telling me,” she says.