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)
And that’s that. She doesn’t ask how to fix me. She doesn’t say she’s sorry. She doesn’t give me a look like I’m too different from her. I scratch my jaw, feeling a little unburdened but also still uncomfortable. So I bite off the rest of the truth. “Actually, I hate reading,” I say, and wow, that’s freeing. “I don’t want you to buy me a book. I can read. I learned how. I just think it’s…well, let’s just say I feel about reading the way you feel about improv.”
“It’s Satan’s work?” she asks with a wry smile.
“It really fucking is to me.”
She nods thoughtfully, clearly taking the time to absorb that comparison, then she winces. “Did the notes I left bother you?”
I shake my head. “Nah, your handwriting is like Comic Sans MS. It’s awesome.”
She laughs, bright and happy. “I always knew that was the best font.”
“It is. That’s just facts.” Then, I tell her something else that I’ve held back. “I like your notes.”
“You do?” She sounds delighted.
“They’re a window into you,” I add.
“You sure you didn’t hate reading them? I can leave you voicemail messages in the future.”
I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. “Voicemail is fine, but I don’t want you to stop leaving notes because you think I don’t like it. I definitely didn’t hate reading them.” But that’s only a slice of the truth. I decide to take it a step further and give her all of it. “Actually, they’re kind of my favorite thing to read.”
Her smile blooms like a sunflower as she takes another drink of her coffee. When she sets it down, she says, “Be careful what you wish for then.”
I lean back in the chair, cross my arms. “Have at it, Jay. Let’s see those five things you should know about me start to pile up.”
“Oh, it’s on, Bryant. It is on.” She pauses, her eyes curious again, then she asks, “Can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why is public speaking easier?”
That’s a good question. One I’ve thought about a lot. “I prefer speaking to writing—a whole helluva lot—so I made the effort to be good at it. And my dad hired like a million tutors, and got me all sorts of assistive technology, like text-to-speech and even this pen that scans documents and reads it to you. He got me everything.”
“And that helped?”
At the time, it was so much work. Exhausting work learning new ways to, well, learn. But I’m grateful for how over-involved he was. He gave me the tools I needed. He had the right toolbox. “It did. I like the text-to-speech more than the pen. But yeah, I learned how to work with my dyslexia.” Then I pause. “But it’s not something I tell a lot of people. Like the team and stuff. It doesn’t affect my ability to do my job.”
“That makes a lot of sense.”
But that’s not all there is to it. There are other reasons. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I also don’t want people to see me differently,” I say, serving up that raw truth. “Or to think I can’t do something or handle something because of a learning disability. Like, what if Everly thinks I can’t prep for a media interview for some reason, or Coach thinks I’d have trouble reviewing plays? I can do those things.” Then I give an easy shrug. “But honestly, I don’t have the kind of job where reading is really a big issue, so I guess I’m lucky.”
“I get that. And we don’t owe every part of ourselves to the world. You don’t have to share it with anyone you don’t want to share it with.”
She’s quiet for a beat, and I can see the cogs turning in her mind. It’s coming. I know it’s coming. Anna tried this tactic with me, and I need to cut it off at the knees or it’ll piss me off. “You’re not going to tell me to listen to audiobooks, are you?” I ask it defensively. I feel it defensively.
Laughing, she shakes her head. “No. I’m not. I don’t think you told me this so I could give you book recs. You told me because you wanted to share.”
“I did. I want you to know me,” I say, as my chest floods with a new emotion—something warm, something soft. Josie understands me and that’s rare. It’s not magic though. It’s not fate. It’s not even chemistry. It’s effort—she takes the time to listen, and puts in the work to understand. But I like to think I understand her a little more each day too. “You’re going to research the fuck out of this, aren’t you?” I ask, teasing her.
She gives me a look like I’ve nailed it. “You know me so well.”
Because she’s let me in, and that’s rare too. I want to treat it like the gift that it is.