Page 63 of Trip Me Up

“Lobelia. Like the flower.”

She scrunched her nose.

“I don’t suppose you’ve readTreacheryyet?” I’d seen her readingSecrets,but she always closed the book quickly, like she was embarrassed. I was the one who should’ve been embarrassed. Her debut novel was worlds above my little adventure tale. A juvenile effort next to her work of literature.

“I wanted to finishSecretsfirst.” She trailed her delicate fingers through Bilbo’s fur. “I love it so far, but I have a confession, too. I, ah, I’m not a fast reader. I have dyslexia. It’ll take me literally forever to finish a thick book like that. I might not make it toTreachery.”She bit her lip.

Now some of her answers during the Q and A made sense. How she was never able to name more than a few authors who’d inspired her. How she didn’t appear to have a current knowledge of popular fiction. How she’d turned green before each public reading.

“That must have been a lot to overcome. And yet you managed to get all the way through grad school.”

She looked up from the dog, her smile twisted and bitter. “It’s not something I’ve ‘overcome.’ It’s something I deal with every day. Something that’ll be with me for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” I’d wanted to express my admiration, and then I’d gone and fucked it up.

“I know.” She leaned forward, laid a hand over mine. “Most people say that. Remember, I grew up with lots of advantages. Private schools. Tutors. It was easier for me than it was for some.”

“I bet you still worked your ass off. The way you’ve done to get better at the book talks.”

She bit her soft, pillowy lip. “I tried. It was never enough for my mother, though. And when she finally accepted I wasn’t going to get over it, she figured she’d train me up to be a good wife to a smart man.”

My blood heated. “Meaning he’d be the brains of your relationship?”

“Yeah.” She traced a pattern on Bilbo’s fur. He twitched in his sleep. “I wasn’t very good at that, either.”

I took a big swallow of beer, hoping it’d cool me off. It didn’t. “But you were good at writing.”

She paused. “Not really. I was good at computers, though. Somehow the code didn’t swim for me the way words in books did. My brother Jackson discovered that, and he encouraged me. He was kind of a replacement dad to me after.”

After she’d lost her dad. Maybe I had one of the world’s shittiest dads, but at least I still had one. I wish I’d known that about Jackson before I’d been so surly with him at dinner the other night. Though I still didn’t like the way he’d talked to her about her book. “But he didn’t support your writing.”

“He has his reasons. And they’re pretty good ones.” She picked at the label on her bottle.

I put my hand over hers. “Your book is amazing. Think about all the people you touched with it. The way Tolkien touched your heart.” She’d said she wasn’t a big reader, but the proof she liked books snored at her side.

“That was really my dad. He loved Tolkien and L’Engle. Or he loved reading them to me. When I got old enough, we’d take turns reading, and he was so patient with me. My mother would’ve given up. But not my dad. He didn’t give up on anything.”

She was silent for a minute.

“Did you want to talk about it? About him?”

“No. Not now, anyway. Maybe another time.”

I understood not wanting to talk about growing up without a father. But then I had an idea. “I could read to you. If you want.”

“Really? Seriously? You’d do that?” Her eyes widened. “Because I love listening to you read. At the events. I always want you to keep going.”

I chuckled. “That’s the point. And now, just for you, I’ll keep going.”

She jumped up and dug through her computer bag until she produced the book. The edges of the paperback were a little curled and worn, but the spine was still stiff.

“Come on.” She tilted her head toward the bed.

Oh, fuck. I hadn’t thought about that. I circled the bed on the other side, toed off my shoes, and sat gingerly on top of the covers. I stretched out my legs on the bed and leaned back against the headboard. She tucked her legs under the covers, fluffed a couple of pillows, and leaned back beside me.

A bookmark from the store in Chicago marked the middle of a scene in Chapter Three. “Should I start here?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

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