Page 60 of False God

“If you wanted a French braid, you should have agreed to date a Frenchman.”

“I didn’tagreeto date you. I lost a bet.”

“A bet you’dagreedto.”

I can’t come up with a quick counterpoint, and Charlie chuckles under his breath.

“You couldn’t just saythank you, could you?”

“Thank you,” I say primly.

“You’re welcome. Figured it was fair since you put so much bloody effort into your appearance to impress me.”

“I’mnottrying to impress you.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

I scowl, but it’s only to hide my smile.

We’re back to bickering. But it also feels like something has shifted between us, and I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

14

“What do you recommend?” I ask, squinting at the menu and then taking a generous gulp of the wine the waitress advised ordering.

Charlie stuck with just water, keeping the grand total of times I’ve seen him drink alcohol at zero.

“What do you mean?” Charlie replies.

I tap the paper menu. “To eat. What do you recommend eating here?”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“Well, what do British … people usually eat?”

The corners of Charlie’s eyes crinkle. “Food,” he deadpans.

I roll my eyes.

I could tell him.

The thought surprises me because it’s always been a last resort. My group of friends all found out about my dyslexia in elementary school, when it was impossible to hide. I haven’ttoldmany people about it. I know it’s not my fault, know I should think of it as a challenge, but not a weakness.

I allow myself to feel inferior anyway. Let doubts creep in about my own intelligence whenever reading or writing is involved.

I’ve found ways to cope with it at work and in most aspects of my daily life. But trusting others with that vulnerability has never gotten easier, so I reserve it for situations when I have to.

Cal is the only guy I’ve dated who knew about my reading disability, and I wasn’t the one who told him. He figured it out because of the teacher’s aide who started following me around school when we were seven.

I set my menu down and sip more wine. Glance around.

I’m impressed by Charlie’s choice of restaurant. It’s not austere or overly formal, but cozy and welcoming. A former bank vault, he told me when we arrived, thick brick walls the only evidence of that former use. Candles cast a soft yellow glow over the open space.

“Why haven’t you been here before?” I ask.

He hasn’t teased or challenged me once since we arrived, and it has me at a loss for what to say to him.

“I’ve been meaning to come,” he replies. “But it’s not that close to Newcastle.”

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