Page 3 of If My Wishes Came True
“I guess you have a point,” he agrees, smiling at me. “Well, hopefully you’ll stay here awhile. My sister’s recommending you to all her friends. She says you’re a fantastic interior decorator.”
“Interiordesigner,” I correct him.
“Basically the same thing, right?” he says as he takes a piece of sourdough from the bread basket.
“No, actually. Interior decorators focus on aesthetics. Designers focus more on the functionality of the space.”
“It’s like you’re speaking a foreign language,” he says while chewing. “I’m a finance guy, so this artsy stuff goes over my head. What kind of degree do you need for this interior decorating—sorry,designingthing?”
“I have a master’s in architecture,” I tell him. “From the University of Michigan.”
Greg looks at me with wide eyes. “Architecture? Wow. And from Michigan? A buddy of mine went there—that’s a highly ranked program.”
“You’re surprised,” I say before I finish what’s left of my second glass of wine. I’m used to this reaction, but it still irritates the heck out of me.
He gives me a sheepish grin. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m just impressed. I mean, we exchanged a few text messages back and forth, but, um, you’re very different in person, that’s all.”
My face turns beet red. Greg and I only texted about when and where to meet, but now I understand what he’s getting at.
“I’m dyslexic,” I explain. “I try to proofread my texts before I send them, but even then, I still misspell words sometimes. Or I’ll let my phone autocorrect, and it picks the wrong word, and?—”
“Shit,” he says. “Jenna, I had no idea.”
“You must have thought I was an idiot,” I go on with a laugh, even though I feel like I got punched in the gut.
“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I feel like an ass.”
AndIfeel like I’m sitting across from my dad. Dean of the most selective private school in Beachwood—the one my little sister, Christy, went to—that I couldn’t get into. For a moment, Greg’s striking gray eyes are full of the same mix of pity and disappointment I see when my father looks at me.
“I can’t imagine it was easy getting through architecture school with dyslexia,” Greg says, his attention back on the bread basket.
I watch him consider his options, squeezing the ciabatta and poking at the focaccia. “It was hard as hell,” I tell him. “But I did it anyway.”
“Good for you,” he says, deciding on a breadstick. “Want one?” He tilts the basket toward me.
Not after you touched every piece of bread in there, I think, feeling slightly queasy. Less than ten minutes ago, he was wiping sweat off his face. “I’m fine, thanks,” I tell him.
“I’m not surprised you don’t eat carbs,” he says as he angles his head to peer at my waistline.
I fantasize about dumping the remaining contents of the bread basket on Greg’s head and leaving. Of course I would never do such a thing. Although I do enjoy the look on his face when the waitress comes back to take our order, and I tell her I want the linguine.
For the rest of our date, I nod, and smile, and ask him questions about his life. I go through the motions, flipping my hair and laughing at his terrible jokes.
But in the back of my mind, scenes from my childhood are replaying—grainy and choppy, like old home movies.
I’m seven years old, standing at the front of my second-grade classroom with shaky hands. Staring at letters on a page and praying that, somehow, this time, they’ll make sense. But they don’t. And when I get mixed up, the whole class starts laughing at me.
They started teasing me that day, and they never stopped—even though my dyslexia was relatively mild, and I worked with a tutor to manage it. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, ’cause you’re dumb as rocks,” my first crush, Gavin Smith, told me.
That’s why we moved from Columbus to Beachwood. And that time, at least, running away actually worked. I started sixth grade as “the new girl.” Within a week, I was known as “the cute girl.” By the end of the month, I was “the most popular girl in school.” And I leaned into it. Why not, right? I’d never stand out for my intelligence, but at least I could use my looks to my advantage.
Greg has certainly proven that he doesn’t care what’s on my mind. He’s been talking about himself nonstop for the past hour, and the only reason I’m smiling is because I’ve nearly made it to the end of this unbearable date. Of course, he thinks I’m grinning because I’m into him. He just walked me to the front door of my building, and now his arms are around my waist.
“Want me to come upstairs?” he whispers in my ear.
His hot breath makes me shudder, and I’m tempted to knee him where I know it’ll hurt. But his sister’s well-connected in Chicago, and I’m not looking to make enemies here.
So I kiss him on the cheek. “Not on the first date,” I say with a tilt of my head. I let him down easy and give him hope, while making a mental list of excuses I can give when he asks to get together again. I could say that my sister broke up with her boyfriend and moved in with me, so I won’t be able to meet up for a while. After a week or two, he’ll lose interest.
