I’ve caught her off-guard, but it’s taken me way too long to gather up the courage I need. I can’t stop now.
"Oh, well, sure, if you have a question about an assignment. I don’t have a ton of time though," she says, nodding to where her purple duffle sits by the door.
My hands go into my pockets. "I know. I won't stay long. I just...I have something that belongs to you."
Her eyes are large behind her glasses, and she’s curious as she looks at the wrinkled paper I’ve fished out of the pocket of my jeans.
"Oh, is that your timed write from Contemporary Lit? Thanks for dropping it off. I should have some time tonight to look it over, so I’ll have some feedback?—"
"No," I interrupt, still holding this stupid piece of paper I should have thrown away a hundred times. But if Josie was being honest last night—and let’s face it, Josie’s no liar—then she wants to know what the issue is with my in-class writing assignments. This letter will definitely answer that question. "It's not my test, but it explains everything. Just, trust me, okay.When you, uh, read this, a lot of things will make sense...about my grades, and...well, just everything."
I’m rambling now, because this is the equivalent of standing naked on a bench by the fountain in the center of campus. But if I had a choice, I’d definitely choose public nudity.
Josie looks a little flustered. That makes two of us. "Ok...have a seat. I have a few minutes. Do you want something to drink? There's water, and there might be some cranberry juice in the fridge."
I’m not thirsty, but I need to keep my hands busy.
"Thanks, I'll get it. You, um, you read, ok?"
"Okay," she agrees, taking the battered paper from my hand. I watch for a second as she smooths it out and begins to read. That’s when I turn away and take two steps into the little kitchen area. It’s really just a counter with a sink, small stove top, and minifridge. Grabbing a glass from a shelf, I fill half of it with water and take a few gulps before setting it down and looking at Josie. I can’t help it: her reaction matters.
"Van—" she says, packing a million emotions into my name. There’s surprise, and sadness, too. Maybe a little anger. And because it’s Josie, there’s more compassion than I deserve. But the one thing there isn’t is pity. And that’s what has me crossing her tiny little single dorm room and sitting next to her on the bed.
"Read the whole thing. Please. I need you to read it all, Jos." I'm looking her in the eye, holding her gaze. It's easier to hide, to smile, to joke. To laugh it off or move on to another subject so easily that no one notices I've dodged their questions. But I’m done hiding, at least from Josie. I need her to know just how bad my learning disability is. I need her to know that I came back for her. And I need her to know why I walked away again. Sometimes I get this awful feeling that she thinks it's becauseshe wasn't good enough, or that I moved on to shinier, flashier things. But that’s not what happened.
She finishes reading it, folds it up carefully, like it’s precious, and hands it to me. I don't take it. "That's yours," I say. "I wrote it three years ago. It was right after Christmas break. Like I said in the letter, I saw Mel out at Kappa. She yelled at me. Really laid into me. And I'd had a couple beers, so I volleyed right back. Told her my version of the truth—that you kept spending all your time away from me. That I was convinced you didn't want to be with me, that I wasn't good enough, or that you had some guy back home. Swear to God, Jos, I thought she was gonna backhand me when I said that. She told me I was a fucking asshole for being jealous of a baby...I definitely dropped my beer when she said that. She filled me in. Not a lot, just enough to fill in the gaps. She said it was your story to tell and that I should, and I quote ‘fucking talk to Josie’. She, uh, she says that to me a lot, actually," I tell her, running my hands through my hair before threading it back through the hair tie. "Anyway, that was my plan. To talk to you. Because, as you can tell, I'm a lot better at talking than I am at writing."
"Van—" There’s my name again on her pretty, glossy lips. She tries to stop me, puts her hand on my arm, and there's a gentleness that tries to make its way from her body to mine. But I'm not ready to let it in.
Taking a breath, I psych myself up. I look her in the eye as I state the obvious. "I can barely read. You probably know that by now.”
She tries to stop me again, but I keep going. "I need to get this out, okay? I told you I was diagnosed with dyslexia, but there’s a lot more to it. Nobody here knows, except Pete, and now you. Technically speaking, I'm ‘functionally illiterate’. I read about as well as a fifth grader. It’s enough to get by. I can read signs and labels at the grocery store and I can fill out forms, that kind ofthing. But soon, the words start to swim. The letters just move. They don't stay still. And they don't make sense. I present well. That's what my teachers used to say about me. I guess some part of my brain works because I can understand words. I know what they mean. I can have conversations all day long and maybe I'm not the fastest at it, but I can listen to audiobooks—or listen to you when you read–you're better than any audiobook I've ever heard and that's a compliment I truly mean."
A ghost of a smile appears on her lips and that helps me get the rest of the words out.
"It's just, when the words are written, they make no sense. And writing is just as bad. It's like I have all these words in my head, but the pathway from my brain to my hand? It doesn't work right. And that's crazy, because when it comes to hockey, it works pretty fucking well. Is that what reading and writing are for you? They just sort of happen? It's just the way you're wired? Because on the ice, it all makes sense. My brain reads it and my body does it. But in a classroom? God, no. Elementary school sucked. I just kept getting put in the pigeon reading group. Pigeons are lousy readers I guess. Middle school was more of the same. By then, though, I figured out that if I made my handwriting messy enough, it was harder for the teachers to see all the mistakes and misspellings. And I worked with a friend whenever I could. Group work is a fucking gift for a kid like me. I bet you hate it, though."
"Group projects were the worst. I had to talk to all these people I didn't know and I got stuck doing all the work," she admits honestly.
An image of Josie pops into my mind. I can easily picture her being the girl who does all the work—or at least fixes everyone else’s—so her own grade doesn’t tank. "Yeah, I can definitely see that. And I'm not gonna lie. There were times when people added my name to the project when I didn't even know what itwas about. I never liked school, but I got by. I figured college would be more of the same. First semester wasn't so bad. I had a bunch of easy classes and so did my teammates. I got the jock schedule. Second semester...well, that sucked for a lot of reasons. That's when Pete stepped in. I'm not the worst at math and science, and he's gonna teach that stuff, so it worked out. I got Kevin for the rest of my classes, and muddled through. Thank God for speech-to-text and GrammarPro, or I’d have flunked out years ago. It was never easy, but it was never as bad as this semester. All those books? Those essays? Writing in class while someone literally holds a stopwatch? It's fucking torture. So my grades went from scraping by to scraping the bottom."
"And that's where I came in?" She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by purple pillows. The sun is setting and it casts a glow on her dark brown hair, making the strands look fiery.
I want to reach for her, but that’s not why I’m here. "Yeah, that's where you came in. I was pissed, to say the least. Especially when I saw fucking Kyle?—"
"What is your issue with Kyle Sanders? I mean, he's not my favorite person in the world, but he's not the worst, either."
I tap the letter. "Remember how I said Mel told me I should talk to you? That's what I was going to do. I left the party and went back to my dorm, but I couldn't sleep. There were so many thoughts—so many words—in my head. I had to get them out. I needed you to know how sorry I was. How bad I felt. What a fucking dumbass I’d been—a selfish idiot."
Her hand flexes, like maybe she wants to reach for me, too, but instead she takes her glasses off, fiddling with them. "You didn't know, Van."
"If I had, I never would have said those things, Jos. I never would have left." I stop myself before I say too much, before I tell her that I'd have rocked her baby sister to sleep or worn her brother out playing tag or driven the twins to soccer practice or made dinner while she helped them with their homework. She never asked for any of that. Never told me the whole story. I'm sure she's got her reasons, but it's clear that I fell harder, that I wanted more. "Anyway, I got up and wrote it all down. It's the first and last time I've ever been inspired to write," I say, huffing out a laugh. She doesn't even smile.
I keep going because I’ve got to finish this. "I remembered that you used to go to the library as soon as you got back on Sunday afternoons. So that's where I went, holding this letter like it was the key to…I don’t know? Understanding? Forgiveness? Fixing what I’d stupidly broken?" I pull my hair out of its ponytail again, just to smooth it out and twist it back up. I'm stalling, because I hate this part of the story. I hated it then, and I hate it now. "I got to the fountain, and that's when I saw you."
She blinks up at me. "I don't remember?—"
I shake my head. "You never saw me. Kyle got there first. He spotted you and held his arms out. You gave him a hug. He's part of your group, that scholarship group. I only know because Pete's in it, too. Wild that my best friend and my...my ex-girlfriend are two of the smartest people on campus, right?"
