Catarina

It’s Monday morning and I’m lingering in the passenger seat of Barrett’s car like a besotted teenager who can’t leave her boyfriend behind.

The weekend was singular, the crown jewel belonging to last night. We went to bed and made love—slow and unhurried. I slept like the dead and woke this morning refreshed. I slept in, too, which is why a mediocre coffee from the break room is in my future rather than a delicious Pike Place from Starbucks. No time.

“I’d better go,” I say, not a cell in my body wanting to obey.

“Okay, honey. Get in there.” He kisses me and I close my eyes and savor his taste. Rarely have I received kisses goodbye while being dropped off at work. I’m not sure North ever dropped me off at work. On the odd occasion he stayed at my place, he probably kissed me before he left, but I don’t remember feeling like this. Like I didn’t want it to end. Like I couldn’t bear the idea of sitting at my desk for eight hours because of how much I’d miss him.

God, I’m so screwed.

“One more thing.” Barrett opens the center console and pulls out my cellphone. “It’s charged, but the ringer’s off.”

I reach for it eagerly and he tsks me, shaking his head. He opens my purse and drops the phone inside. “Don’t unearth it until you’re at your desk. Not the office. Not the elevator. Your desk is officially ‘at work.’ ”

“That’s asking a lot.”

“You can do it. Just think about this instead.” He kisses me again, this time with tongue. I practically climb out of my seat and into his trying to access more of his incredible mouth. I don’t care who walks by on the street and sees us. I don’t care that this started out as a dreaded assignment. We’ve morphed into something more. Something…big.

He palms my jaw and drops another kiss on my temple. “Go.”

“Okay.” I unbuckle my seat belt. “See you…later?”

Tonight, I hope.

“You’d better see me later.”

Well, that made me smile. “I’ll call you.”

“Deal.”

I step out of the car and into the building. My newfound freedom tempts me to reach into my bag and check the myriad messages, emails, and phone calls I’ve had to miss.

I don’t.

Instead I float through the lobby, glide up the elevator, and practically skip to my desk.

“Good morning,” I chime as I breeze by Nanci’s desk.

“Hey, Catarina. Amazing column.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you—”

“Not yet. I’ve been electronically barren for over twenty-four hours, so give me a moment to get settled.”

“Oh. Okay.” Nanci’s expression looks…something. Like she’s nervous or bothered. Or maybe she didn’t like me putting her on my timetable. Well, too bad. Barrett was right. Most things can wait. I had my first stress-free day on Sunday in as long as I can remember. I can see how that can become addicting.

I thought I’d go crazy during my screen fast, but it was actually relaxing. Now that I’m at my desk logging into my laptop I’m not looking forward to the melee of information.

While my email inbox fills with…Wow…A lot more emails than usual—I turn my phone’s ringer on and check my texts. There are…several. Most of them from friends saying “Great article!” One from my mom that reads “He’s so brave. Amazing column, dear.” I chuckle when I read it. Does she mean he’s brave for attending the governor’s mansion party? Or is his bravery being commended for dating me?

I set my phone aside, still smiling as I scan the emails, deciding where to start. My smile falls as I read the subject on several of them and they all have a similar theme.

Dyslexia.

Email after email reflects similar sentiments:

“I had no idea Barrett suffered from dyslexia…”

“I’m dyslexic, too, and understand how harrowing this is…”

“I’m beyond moved that he overcame great odds…”

One nastygram accuses Barrett of doing anything for publicity. I delete it with an angry tap of a key.

“There are phone messages, too,” Nanci interrupts as I’m poring over the many, many letters from readers. She hands over a stack of Post-its scrawled with notes and phone numbers. I don’t bother reading. I have a good idea what they’re about.

“Where do I start?” I mutter. “I had no idea Barrett shared about his dyslexia in the column. It’s brave and amazing and…” Not like him at all.

“It’s in your half of the column.” Nanci frowns and offers a confused half smile. “I thought you two planned it that way.”

My face falls, my heart sinking to my toes. I shake my head, my cheeks going cold as the blood rushes from my face.

She walks back to her desk as I numbly open the Chat’s home page.

I skim Barrett’s half of the column and it’s everything I remember it being the first time I read it. Funny, charming, and blunt—just like him. Then I skim my half of the article and stop breathing.

I read every column I write at least ten times. I read and reread. Edit and read again. I know every word in it, and can usually recite parts from memory.

But the words that stop me cold are words I didn’t write.

What Barrett Fox doesn’t want anyone to know is that he works harder than I do on every column. He sweats over every word thanks to a lifetime of fighting dyslexia. As a hardworking college student who had to keep his grades up to play football, I can only imagine how taxing this must have been for him. He’s an amazing specimen physically, and knowing he’s been fighting this mentally has added an entirely new, fascinating layer to our relationship.

My hand covering my mouth, I stare in disbelief at the screen. From that paragraph it transitions back to my original column, wrapping with my summary of the elegant evening at the governor’s mansion where we all but leave in a horse-drawn carriage.

My mind races, spinning for an explanation, but there’s only one.

Mia. A woman who treasures readership numbers and advertising dollars at the expense of her employees.

I march to her office and bang on the door until she opens it.

“Good God, Catarina. Yes, yes. Won’t you please come in?” She yanks her glasses off her nose and frowns, but I don’t give her the chance to intimidate me. I lay into her.

“What the hell did you do, Mia?”

“Excuse me?”

“No, no. You don’t have the luxury of acting offended. Tell me why the mention of Barrett’s dyslexia appears in our column under my name when I didn’t write about it!”

She exhales, her lips pursing. “Because it’s a damn good story and you should have put it in there.”

I blink. “How did you—”

“That day that you were talking in his cubicle. I overheard. I was walking out and I may have slipped behind a wall to eavesdrop. It was a seriously juicy bit of information. I thought for sure I’d read about it in one of your columns. You never pass up a scoop.”

“I do when it hurts someone I care about!” I practically shout. “That’s his private business.”

“Catarina. You are a journalist. Information isn’t privileged when it’s shared in a newsroom for the love of God. Have you seen the response? He’s a hero!”

“You sold him out.”

“I did him a favor. He’ll probably be asked to be the face of a local charity. Maybe he’ll even get his job as field reporter back. That’s why he took on this assignment in the first place. It’s not my fault you were swept up in the fairy tale and didn’t pay attention to your job.”

“I pride myself in my work, Mia. I have integrity. Don’t you?”

“I have a paper to run, sweetheart, and that means when we have dwindling readership I make a brilliant plan to increase it. And if it starts to flag at the end of a segment’s run, then I do what it takes to revive it.”

I shake my head, hardly able to believe this woman used to be my mentor.

“What you did to revive this column is reprehensible.” I turn and walk out of her office, ignoring her when she calls my name. My mind is on getting ahold of Barrett before he reads the article.

I pray I’m not too late.

Barrett

I’m in line at Starbucks when I cave and check my phone. I almost went straight home after dropping Catarina off but I know how my Kitty Cat likes her morning brew. Besides, I like surprising her.

One glance at the screen and my mind spins. The coffee shop chatter recedes into the distance, and what’s left is a faint ringing in my ears.

I have a lot of missed calls.

I have a lot of new texts.

Several from people I haven’t talked to in years.

Words like “Dude” and “I had no idea” and one “My brother has dyslexia” decorate my screen.

I scroll through my call log next. I have a voicemail—I never have voicemail. Anyone who calls me either hangs up and texts me or texts me, period. I shakily lift the phone to my ear and listen to the short message from Tom Lawson at ESPN.

“Barrett, man. Tom at ESPN. I read the article in the Columbus Dispatch this morning and you have to give me a quote. Let’s get you on the air a-sap. We’ll pay for the exclusive. I’m thinking we wrangle that female ref into a split screen. The sympathy on the dyslexia thing is through the roof. Sidenote, that girl of yours is hotter than hell. Call me.”

By the time I finish listening to the voicemail, my blood is boiling, my spine rigid.

“May I help you?” the barista asks, blanching as she comes to the conclusion that the last fucking thing I need right now is coffee. I burst out of Starbucks, vision red with rage, and climb into my car.

Without turning over the engine, I open the website and find our column, scanning through my half and then through Catarina’s.

What.

The.

Ever-loving.

Fuck.

My phone rings before I have a chance to digest what I read. The screen reads “Kitty Cat.”

I ignore the call knowing if I answer nothing but yelling will exit my mouth. Better yet, I shut off the phone.

I blink blindly at the windshield for a few shallow breaths and consider what I’ve just learned.

The world knows I have dyslexia. A secret I kept from everyone, save Catarina. A secret I never chose to share with anyone—not even Beth. I let her think I was disinterested in socializing whenever I needed an excuse to finish studying or writing a paper.

And Catarina, the woman I am developing deep feelings for, sold me out.

“Fuck!” I slam a palm on the steering wheel and then close my eyes and force myself to calm down before backing out of my parking spot.