Page 60 of The Boyfriend Goal

“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.

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.”

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