Page 112 of It's Always Us

He stares at me, his eyes moving over my face, and it’s possible I see his throat bob.

His hand slides behind my neck, and he presses a quick, soft kiss on my lips as the music begins playing and the stage lights up. Things move quickly as the host welcomes us, and players are ushered on and off to accept awards.

During commercial breaks, people shuffle seats, and then they’re back to announcing winners. Mark sits beside me stiffly, his knee bouncing slightly, and I’m not sure what’s going on.

His hands rest on his thighs, and I slide mine underneath his. His cold, clammy fingers wrap around mine as the lights dim again.

I lean into him. “Hey, what’s up? You’re starting to freak me out.”

His dark eyes meet mine while the music plays. All teasing and charm are replaced with quiet seriousness. “I love you.”

I blink, trying to understand what’s happening with him.

The host returns to the stage, welcoming a former player who gives a back story about the Man of the Year Award. Then a video starts, and Mark’s face fills the screen as he talks about the organization he created to help promote awareness, aid, and educate those diagnosed with . . . learning disabilities.

My head whips in his direction, but his eyes stay trained on the stage.

My brain kicks into a jog, and my heart quickly joins the race as my eyes coast to those around us, all learning what it’s like for those who have difficulties reading, writing, or processing sounds.

The video continues, showing Mark in schools with kids, handing out books, and talking with teachers and faculty about the long-term impact of undiagnosed learning disorders.

My sweat-slicked hands grip the armrests to keep from bolting to the nearest exit. It’s always been one thing to share my inability with people that I trust. It’s something else entirely to feel outed to an entire room of the rich, famous, and completely capable.

I close my eyes as my ears fill with fog, drowning out Mark’s voice. He speaks about early intervention and his organization’s assistance to give kids the best chance at success without facing the shame and embarrassment of not being able to keep up.

What? He has an organization that helps kids . . . like me.

I inhale slowly as my stomach rises in my throat, every pore on my body oozing a cool sweat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome this year’s Man of the Year, Mark Sandberg.”

My eyes pop open, and I can’t breathe. Mark leans over and grabs my face. “I love you. I’vealwaysloved you.” His words are only a whisper but sure and true. His eyes crease with tears as he kisses me.

The imprint of his lips remains as fire consumes my throat, and I hold my breath to keep my own tears from spilling over.

Then, he’s gone, leaving me with . . . what? I don’t even know.

People stand, shielding me while I try to figure out what in the hell I’m feeling. I’m not exactly sure what happens because I CAN’T SEE, but the next thing I know, he’s standing in the middle of the stage.

My pulse pounds in my ears along with applause, and I try to blink my eyes clear, but maybe it’s better if I don’t. Then I can’t see the all the people surrounding me.

My tears recede enough I can make him out, shaking hands and man-hugging a huge blurry form.

I try to inhale and let it out slowly as I watch him step up to the mic, wanting to run and hide but also . . . stay.

As the room quiets, I sink further into my seat, trying to get something to settle enough to take in what he’s been doing for kids who face the same challenges I do. All this time he’s been working to ensure they don’t have to struggle and be left with nothing but the shame I still feel.

My chest seizes again as that shame wars with my love for him and what he’s worked to do. My mind stops.The app.This is how he knew about the app that I now use every day. I seriously want to punch and maybe yell at him and . . . kiss him and never stop.

He clears his throat and my breath catches, waiting to hear his voice.

He stands tall and strong as his eyes roam. “I’m a fortunate man. More fortunate than most, but I didn’t start that way. As a kid, school for me was a reprieve from the world I belonged to. I . . . ” He rubs his jaw, and I shift in my seat, sweat pooling under my armpits as I wait to hear his words. “I can’t say that I was necessarily good at it, but just being there was better than being at home.”

“It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized all I’d been taking for granted. I had nothing. I lived in a group home for years after being hauled away from a trailer park that was more like hell on earth. My dad left me with internal bruises, a dislocated shoulder, and a cut that required twenty stitches. Those were the wounds they could see.”

He pulls his shoulders back, adjusting his stance. I can’t take my eyes off him. A rare sight of complete vulnerability, and I sit a little straighter, unwilling to miss it. He’s laying down the mask, and I won’t cower this time, no matter how badly I might want to. I’m finally able to be here for him, like I’ve longed to be.

I swallow the massive lump in my throat, remembering the stories he shared. Everything that he’s done, all that he’s survived, and I’ve . . . missed it. Tears I’m no longer able to contain stream down my face.

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