Page 19 of Someone to Have
“Have you asked him or his mom?” I open the dishwasher and place the plates inside, unsure of how sensitive this topic might be and not wanting to pry.
“My sister’s in rehab,” he says quietly. “At an inpatient facility near Denver. Alcohol, mostly. But things got more serious—seriously bad—with her last deadbeat boyfriend. We visit on Sundays. I don’t know...I guess I can talk to her then.”
I grab two glasses from the cabinet, fill them with water, and return to the table, setting one in front of him.
He stares at the glass like it’s a magic eight ball he’s hoping will reveal whatever answer he needs. “She needs to focus on recovery. I don’t want to give her one more reason to feel like she failed as a mom.” He glances up at me. “Which she hasn’t. She loves Rhett.”
“I believe you.” I slip back into my seat. “What makes you think he has trouble reading?”
“Let’s just say I recognize some of the coping mechanisms.”
“From personal experience?”
He nods. “You’d be surprised how motivated certain teachers are to let kids slip through the cracks if it means they won’t have to deal with a troublemaker the following year.”
“But there are tests,” I insist. “Education plans that should be put into place to get kids the core interventions and accommodations they need.”
“In theory,” he agrees with a shrug. “Maybe I’m just projectingmy own history onto Rhett. But he needs help. That much is clear.” He pushes back from the table. “I want you to tutor him.”
I try to hide my shock even as he turns away from me and walks over to the family room. Something in his tone tells me asking for help doesn’t come easy.
“I don’t think I’m the right person to tutor Rhett if he’s facing the challenges you think,” I say.
“You’re a tutor,” he says. “More importantly, you love books. Most importantly, I trust you.”
Cue the goosebumps. My skin prickles with an awareness that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. I shouldn't care about him trusting me, but it’s like he sees something in me I don't even see in myself.
“I just don't think–”
“You're the right person.” He says it like it's a fact, and that conviction wraps around my heart and makes me want to be the person he thinks I am.
He leans down, and my heart leaps into my throat for an entirely different reason when I realize he’s picked up the script from my sofa.
“That’s private.”
He reads aloud the words handwritten across the front cover: “Be brave. Be strong. Don’t pee your pants. This is your chance. He’s going to notice you. Believe.”
“Put it down.” I reach for his hand, but he body blocks me and lifts it above his head. I’m tall, but Eric is at least six-four.
“That’s private property, and you have no right,” I protest, grabbing for the script.
“Be brave. Be strong. Don’t pee your pants,” he repeats, grinning. “Who’s the ‘he’ in this?”
“You don’t even know that’s my writing.”
“Who’s the ‘he’?” he asks again.
“You have terrible boundaries.” I jump up, only I lose mybalance, slam my shin into the corner of the coffee table and fall back onto the sofa, clutching my leg close.
“Why are you going to pee your pants?” He appears unfazed by my newest injury.
“I’m auditioning at the community theater,” I mutter, pretending to focus on the spot on my shin that’s throbbing even more than my injured cheek. But not quite as much as the embarrassment pounding through me.
“You have a fear of public speaking?” he asks, looking surprised.
I give a tiny nod.
“Then why try out for a play?” he asks.
