Page 7 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"I don't mean for you," Ash adds, patting my hand right over the scar on my knuckles I wish I could keep hidden. "I love that it works for you."

Only Ash and my closest friends know about my dyslexia. My parents don't even know. Arlo—my dad—was too busy getting drunk and calling me stupid to ever stop and wonder why I couldn't read till fourth grade, when Mrs. Beaty had the sense to get me tested. Mom was too busy trying to keep the peace and pretend Arlo wasn't a raging alcoholic.

Meanwhile, Ash figured it out the moment she noticed me using an accessibility feature on my phone.

All she said was, "Oh, do you have dyslexia? Cool. I have ADHD. Our brains are going to be best friends." Then she high-fived me, and that was the moment I started to fall.

Her hand is still on mine across the table. Her casual affection is like Harry Potter having to write "I will not tell lies" in that quill that cuts into his skin. Unlike Harry, though, I crave every scrawl, no matter how much it hurts. I'm a goner for this girl. If I started to fall the day she high-fived me all those months ago, I would've sunk all the way through the center of the earth and crossed the core to pop up in … where would that be? I imagine the globe I have on my desk at home. It would have to be somewhere in the middle of the Indian Ocean, well off the coast of Australia …

Wherever it is, my heart is floating there, twelve thousand miles from my body. That's how far gone I am.

"What were we talking about?" Ash says. I wonder if she knew I was in my head or if she was in hers. "Oh, right. Tradition!" She says it like she's playing Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof in a school play.

I sniff a laugh and take a bite of my shrimp and grits. A local kid who works for me sometimes comes over to our table. He's barely twenty, wearing a flannel, T-shirt and jeans (my usual wardrobe), and he's wringing his hat between his hands.

"You okay, Matt?" I ask. Matt isn't one for a lot of eye contact.

I know the feeling. I had to learn to look people in the eye, but it doesn't have anything to do with dyslexia.

"I'm fine, sir. I'm wondering if you could use any help with the fruit stands."

"I thought you were working construction out in Hampton?"

"My car died and I'm savin' up to fix it. But the foreman …" he shoots a look at Ash, and red creeps over his cheeks. Whether it's from embarrassment or because Ash is so dang pretty, I don't know. I reckon both.

"Had to drop you from the job because he needs reliable workers," I say, sick for him. Matt's family is dirt poor, and they haven’t had the benefit of being friends with the Carville family like I have. Without Tag Carville, my best friend's grandfather and the founder of Sugar Maple Farms, I'd have been lucky to be in Matt's position.

Matt's a good kid. He helped with the fruit stands all last summer and even ran one by himself a couple of times. He's not book smart, but he knows how to work, and he's respectful enough that any Southern Memaw would approve.

"I'll take any of the stands. Myrtle Beach, anything you got?—"

"I wouldn't do that to you," I say with a smile. No one likes the Myrtle Beach fruit stand because it's more like Atlantic City than Charleston. But I have one stand with a flaky kid on it that would do better with Matt's steadiness. "We're fully staffed for now, but I'll keep you on standby. You know how it is. Troy'll end up at Patty's too late, and that 5 a.m. wake up call won't sound too good. When that happens, I'll need someone who knows better."

I expect a chuckle, but instead Matt clutches his hat and nods soberly. "That's me."

"I'll find something, Matt. Just hold tight."

"Yes sir."

When Matt leaves, Ash tips her head to the side and studies me. "Do you run all the fruit stands?"

I shrug. "I coordinate them." And then some.

"Okay," Ash says, nodding like she doesn't believe me. "And Patty's … is this some kind of secret burlesque club?"

"It's the bar outside of town."

"You mean Donegal's?"

"That's the one. Some of the locals call it Patty's. The owner hates it."

"Okay,” Ash says. “So the owner is Patty?"

"Patty's brother bought in as co-owner, but yeah. It's Patty's place."

"Is she hot?"

I grin at the thought. "I'll introduce you sometime.”

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