Page 22 of Writing On The Wall

Colton shrugs. “I suggested that last week, baby. Just say the word.”

“I’m not ruling it out at this point. Ugh…okay. Let’s focus.” She pops her eyes open, determination in her posture. “Vee,” she hands me a pen and legal pad. “Can you take notes?”

I slowly slide the pad closer, my heart rate climbing as my palms begin sweating. Ember is one of the only people who know I struggled with dyslexia as a child. But I’ve only briefly mentioned the challenges I face with mentally processing numbers and letters. It’s so much more than that, but it’s my own fault for leaving my best friend unaware of the depths of my battle.

I fiddle with the pen in my hand. “Can I type them on my phone?” I’m praying nobody thinks twice about my sudden paper aversion. Numbers aren’t my thing, but handwriting is another huge trigger. I can do it. It’s just that my terrible spelling gives me extreme anxiety, because I know it’ll end up looking like a note written by a five-year-old. At least I can blame the spelling errors onautocorrect when I use my phone.

There’s a reason I chose to teach second grade. So much of their learning at that age is hands-on, and the methods I get to use to teach them are easier for the kids and for me. Plus, there’s a teacher’s aide in the room, so I can often get away with delegating tasks that seem too tricky for me.

The silence around the table stretches for a fraction too long. This is exactly what I dread most—sensing someone’s confusion with my coping mechanisms and the tension that creates. Everyone is about to wonder why I’m being this weird about something so trivial, and these incidents usually lead to me overexplaining some lame reason as to why I’d rather not do the thing that should be so simple to do in the first place.

I’m about to pull a Michael Scott and start a sentence without knowing where it’s going when Ethan jumps in, sliding the notepad out from under my palm. Then I’m overwhelmed by my senses for a moment, and the only thing my mind can process is the rough graze of his calloused hand over mine.

“I’ll take notes,” he offers, his eyes flickering to mine before he clicks the pen and waits forinstructions.

“Oh…okay.” Ember frowns at him for a second before she begins rattling off ideas and a very long to-do list consisting mostly of parental management/babysitting.

I bite my lip, trying to decipher the enigma of a man across from me. It’s the second time today he’s gone out of his way to help me like this. I can’t figure out his angle, and it’s nearly impossible to keep up with all his mood swings and the emotional whiplash they’re giving me.

Thankfully, the evening continues without any more hiccups. I’m also grateful when Colton insists on paying for dinner since I’m still broke, not to mention the thought of figuring out a split bill is enough to make me barf. I have no problems using an app on my phone to calculate tips. But unless someone is willing to tally my order for me, I’m a mess.

Then, just when we’re all walking out of the restaurant and I think I might escape peacefully, I hear Ethan assuring Ember that he’ll see me to my car.

I scoff internally. What does that even mean? Does he actually think I’m at risk of getting lost or forgetting where I parked?

I ignore Ethan’s hulking frame as he stomps behind me. But as soon as I unlock my car, he lunges over me to open the door and inspect the contents. I still haven’t gotten around to unloading the rest of my belongings. It’s been a busy day. I also discovered the water heater in my new house is a bust, so I had to live through the trauma of a cold shower this afternoon.

“Are you still living in your car?”

I step closer, squaring my shoulders, and the man is so freaking tall that it’s like trying to peer over the top of the Eiffel Tower. Even with my wedges, I barely reach his chest.

“Listen here, King,” I snarl at the giant. “You don’t need to take notes for me, or concern yourself with my shoesor the state of my car. Ember and Colton aren’t here, so we can stoppretending we actually get along.” I plop down into my hoarder-mobile and grip the door handle. “Leave. Me. Alone,” I say, ready to yank the door shut with dramatic effect. but Ethan puts a hand on the top, hindering me.

I’m fighting back a sob—the need to be alone is clawing at me. The vulnerability I’m feeling from whatever Ethan is beginning to figure out, whatever he saw that made him jump to my rescue at dinner—it’s too much. I can’t take all this exposure.

Then again, maybe it’s not the need to be alone that has me retreating, but the opposite. Ethan’s small acts of chivalry are shining a sudden, unwelcomed spotlight on my desire to be close to someone. I swallow hard, because if I’m being honest right now, I want nothing more than a hug. I want to have someone in my life that I can trust to pull me close and remind me that they’ll always have my back.

But that’s a fairytale. People let you down.

All of these thoughts spiral through my mind as Ethan steps closer, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly before he smiles.

“I don’t think I can do that, Marsh. Who’s gonna stop you from injuring yourself in those ridiculous shoes?”

And then he steps back with so much smugness as he shuts my door. I force myself not to glance back at him as I drive away, even though I desperately want to see him one more time.

CHAPTER TWELVE

IVY

The beeping of my alarm pulls me out of sleep. My air mattress squeaks as I roll off and stretch. I’m so glad Carl is bringing my furniture this afternoon. This thing wasn’t made for long term use. I pick up the fuzzy cardigan that’s puddled next to my makeshift bed and pull it on.

My toes squish into the stained, sun-weathered carpets. These will definitely need to go. I make a note on my phone to find a Youtube video on DIY carpet removal. Hopefully there’s salvageable wood beneath.

I pad into the kitchen, noting the faded floral print that borders the trim. Nearly everything in this room looks the same as it did to my seven-year-old eyes, just a tad more faded. There’s a bittersweet nostalgia in the twirl of the vines on the wallpaper and the light spilling through the window above the sink.

This house was my childhood refuge, the only place I could be myself without any pressure to perform. Not to mention, I got much more attention here than in my own home. My parents were usually more focused on their missionary work orbusy dealing with Ross, and he was usually getting up to mischief with friends and uninterested in spending time with his quirky Gran. Meanwhile, I lavished having her all to myself.

Throughout all of the years I walked around with my stomach in knots, the only time I remember feeling it unclench is when I walked through these doors. None of the things I had to prove to my parents mattered here.

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