Page 55 of Please Send Snow
Without thinking about it, I peel off my rash guard and throw it to her.
She grabs it out of the air and pulls it on in a huff.
“Sorry,” I say, grabbing her wet towels and squeezing them out before throwing them to the floor. “But that was pretty funny.”
“Why did they give me such a skimpy bathing suit?” she wonders out loud. She looks decidedly less unhappy now that she’s covered up.
In my rash guard…
It’s funny how it gives me a surge to see her in my clothes. Especially since that shirt was only mine for about two minutes.
“They probably thought you’d want to strut your stuff,” I suggest mildly.
She rolls her eyes and settles into the water, and after a minute of soaking she starts to look like she’s finally appreciating it.
“This is nice,” she says with her eyes closed.
“Dylan wore you out, huh?” I ask.
“Never,” she says immediately, and I love how shealways has his back. “But I did wear myself out having fun with him.”
“How’s he doing?” I hear myself ask.
I normally wouldn’t ask a question that leaves me this vulnerable. But there’s something about knowing how much she likes him that tells me she won’t judge either of us.
And it’s so private out here with nothing but the pine trees and the Christmas lights. It’s not lost on me that this whole setup could be viewed as pretty romantic, but I’m doing my best not to think about it.
“He’s a happy kid,” she tells me thoughtfully. “He’s been more confident about his writing lately too. It still seems to be a bit of a struggle. But he really doesn’t mind putting in the work.”
“Do you think he might have a learning disability?” I ask.
It’s a subject his teacher has danced around, and one I’m surprised to hear myself bring up.
“Would it matter to you if he did?” she asks.
I turn my gaze to her and she’s looking at me with real curiosity.
“No,” I admit softly. “It wouldn’t matter at all.”
When the school brought up the idea of testing it made me defensive and dismissive. But talking about it with someone who really cares about my son feels like a lifeline.
“I don’t know much about it,” she says. “But my best friend in high school had dyslexia. The way she talked about the stuff she struggled with, it seems like maybe the same kind of things are giving Dylan extra trouble.”
“How did she handle it?” I ask.
“At school I’m not sure what all they did,” Maddie says. “But her mom used to read with her a lot when she was little, and practice writing with her.”
So basically all the stuff Maddie is already doing with Dylan.
“I’m so glad you’re helping him,” I tell her.
She lights up and her eyes meet mine again.
I notice the exact moment when her gaze slides down a little to take in my arms and chest.
She looks away fast, but not before I catch her awed expression.
It’s hard not to smile at the idea that maybe she likes what she sees. I try hard to stay in shape for my health. I’m basically all Dylan has, and I fully intend to live forever, if possible.
