Chapter Nineteen
Lisa
It’s Sarah who finds me in the bathroom crying.
I love my sisters more than anything, but for some reason I’m relieved it’s her instead of them.
She sits down beside me on the red plush chaise that looks both luxurious and absurd in a room where women go to pee.
“What happened?” she asks.
Without waiting for an answer, Sarah slides a hand into her little black handbag and pulls out a small silver flask. She offers it to me without comment, and I give a choked little laugh-sob.
“That’s why,” I say out loud as I screw off the top and knock back a mouthful of gin so strong it may as well be turpentine. I wipe my hand over the back of my mouth and hand the flask back.
“Why what?” she asks.
“Why I’m glad it’s you,” I say. “Missy would have handed me a cross-stitched lace hankie and a Belvedere martini, and Cassie would have tried to make me laugh with dirt jokes. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate it, but sometimes a girl just needs to drink straight gin in a bathroom while wearing a four-thousand-dollar rented dress.”
Sarah laughs and takes her own small sip from the flask before tucking it back in her purse. “I wasn’t sure they’d have anything at the bar that costs less than my monthly car payment.”
“Good guess. A woman who plans ahead.” I shake my head, chastising myself for not doing exactly that. Not with gin, but with Dax. How the hell did I think this was going to end?
“For the record, I’m not working tonight,” Sarah says. “In case you’re worried about me drinking and looking after Junie.”
I glance at her, startled. “Is that what everyone thinks of me? That I’m such a judgmental bitch?”
It’s Sarah’s turn to look startled. “What? No! That’s not what I meant at all. I was just—”
“Sorry. I was just venting.”
I take a deep breath and scrub a tissue across my cheeks, leaving dark smears of mascara on it. I can only imagine what I look like.
You care so damn much what everyone thinks of you…
I wince at the memory of his words, and Sarah gives me a sympathetic smile. “I take it you and Dax had a fight?”
I nod, wishing for another nip from the flask. “Yeah. He said we’re too different. That we come from different walks of life.”
“That’s true enough,” she says. “But don’t they always say opposites attract?”
“Attract trouble, maybe,” I mutter. “That’s about it.”
She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head. “Nah, there’s more than that between you. I saw it the other day on the field trip. The way he looked at you like you invented pepperoni pizza and ESPN. The way he hung on every word you said. That’s more than sex, my friend.”
I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t understand why he blew up like he did. One minute we were joking around with his ex-girlfriend about some stupid thing he pointed to in the program, and the next minute he’s stalking out of the room like I kicked his dog.”
The reminder of Dax’s dog story sends a flash flood of guilt coursing through me.
So does Sarah’s creased brow. “Did you use that word, by any chance?” she asks. “Stupid?”
I stare at her. “I have no idea. Why?”
“Well,” she says slowly, choosing her words with care. “It’s just that adults with disabilities can be really sensitive about that. About judgement words or phrases that make them feel dumb.”
My brain starts to spin, and I’m pretty certain it has nothing to do with the gin. “Disabilities? What are you talking about?”
Sarah frowns. “I’m sorry, I just assumed—I thought you knew?”
“Sarah, what on earth are you talking about?”
She bites her lip, hesitating. “The paperwork I gave you guys before the field trip,” she says. “The way Dax asked you to fill his out for him.”
“Right, he said he had to take an important call…”
“Sure, maybe. But later when you left the room, I asked him to read the waiver form out loud for some of the other volunteers. It was clear right away he was dyslexic, so I stopped and moved on to something else.”
“Dax is dyslexic?”
How on earth did I not know?
Sarah’s studying me like she’s wondering the same thing, but she’s too polite to say it. “I’m pretty sure, yes,” she says. “I assumed it was something you’d talked about.”
I shake my head, dumbfounded. “I had no idea.”
“I guess that doesn’t surprise me, now that I think about it.”
“What do you mean?”
Sara shrugs and fiddles with the zipper on her purse. “I did a lot of coursework on adult dyslexia when I was working on my special ed degree. Unfamiliar fonts—like the ones on those forms for the field trip—those can be especially challenging for adults who have a tough time with reading.”
Or the fonts in the program.
I clear my throat. “Apparently, he didn’t want me to know.”
My head is reeling, and I can’t wrap my brain around this. We were as intimate as two people can be. He told me about his childhood dog and the story about the laughing boys at the zoo, but he didn’t see fit to share something this important?
“Don’t feel bad,” Sarah says, resting a hand on my arm. “It’s really common for adults with learning disabilities to keep it to themselves. They don’t want to look stupid.”
Stupid.
You’re so fucking smart. Why is that such a turn-on?
Dax’s words from our time in the Oregon Adventure exhibit rearrange themselves in my memory, like puzzle pieces clicking together. Did I make him feel dumb? Like he couldn’t be himself with me?
“Don’t blame yourself,” Sarah says, reading my mind. “With dyslexic men in particular, there’s a lot of shame involved. With someone they care about, they’re afraid of looking weak or unworthy in a new relationship.”
I shake my head, stung by the words almost as much as the fact that I didn’t know. “We’re not in a relationship,” I murmur. “Not anymore. He made that pretty damn clear.”
Sympathy clouds her eyes, and she slips an arm around me. “You’re sure?”
I nod. “He said we’re both ready to be done with this.” I swallow hard, hating the tightness in my throat. “And I said okay.”
Sarah gives me a squeeze. With the other hand, she reaches into her bag and pulls out the flask. “Here. Keep it. You need it more than I do.”
“Thanks.” I take a hearty swallow, feeling sadness and shame burn down my throat with the gin. I wonder if I should find Dax and apologize.
No. He chose not to let you in. He made it clear he’s done.
“It was only meant to be temporary anyway,” I murmur, lifting the flask to my lips again. “Maybe it’s best just to let things go.”
Sarah says nothing at first, but there’s pity in her eyes as she nods. “Sometimes it’s fine to be single while you figure out who you are and what you want.”
“Cheers to that,” I say with no cheer at all. I pass the flask back, knowing how badly we both want to believe that.
Wishing like hell I did.
Wishing, more than anything, that I hadn’t fallen hard for Dax.