Start Me Up (Man of the Month 4)

In other words, Nolan had spent his Saturday evening mostly alone and kicking himself for not telling the only woman he'd ever actually wanted a relationship with that he was sorry. That he'd been wrong. And that he not only should have told her about the benefit, but he should have told her the entire story about his childhood, his dyslexia, and the way he now coped as an adult.

Instead, he'd turned pissy and marched out.

Way to man up, asshole.

He rolled over in bed, craving the oblivion of sleep, but that wasn't happening. Instead he tossed and turned until he finally got up, thinking that maybe a Scotch and one of the news channels would lull him to sleep.

He'd just tossed back his first drink and was pouring the second when his doorbell chimed, which wasn't a usual occurrence since he lived in a security building, and no one other than residents could get to his door without the access code for the elevator.

He pulled a ratty robe over his boxers and Mornings With Wood T-shirt, then headed barefoot toward the door. It was already after midnight, and he frowned, hoping there wasn't trouble in the building. Maybe one of his neighbors had locked themselves out and needed to borrow his phone.

But when he looked through the door, it wasn't a neighbor. It was Shelby. And the relief that washed over him almost swept him away.

He unlocked the door, then yanked it open. "I'm sorry," he said as she spoke the exact same words at the exact same time.

They looked at each other, then laughed.

"How did you get up here?" he asked, after he'd hustled her inside. They usually stayed at her place since his was a studio and was furnished with garage sale rejects and IKEA pieces. He kept meaning to hire a decorator, but somehow never got around to it.

"I watched you punch in the access code the last time you brought me up. I have a good memory for numbers," she added with a wink.

Silence settled in then, and they stood awkwardly for a moment. At least it felt awkward, because he wanted to tell her everything, but didn't know where to begin.

"Listen," she said, letting him off the hook, "I appreciate your apology, really. But I'm the one who needs to do a mea culpa."

"No," he said firmly. "You were right. It's just that I've never talked to anyone about it except my sister. Not even my parents."

"And you don't have to talk to me."

"Yeah, I do."

She tilted her head, studying him, her serious expression contrasted by her casual summer clothes. "Why?"

"Because I want you to know me. Hell, Shelby, you're probably the first woman I've ever wanted to know me, and that includes the woman I used to be married to."

"Oh." She said nothing else, but from the sparkle in her fascinating eyes, he could tell she was pleased.

"You wanna take a walk?"

If the non sequitur bothered her, she didn't show it. "Sure."

He disappeared into the bathroom long enough to throw on some khaki shorts over his

boxers. Then they headed down to street level and started meandering toward the river in silence. When they reached Cesar Chavez, the street that ran parallel to the river, they crossed at the light, then followed the hike & bike trail under the Congress Avenue bridge and toward the grounds behind the Four Seasons hotel.

It wasn't until he drew her to a stop at a small bench by the water's edge that he started talking. But as soon as he did, the words spilled out. He told her about his struggles in school--and how even though he knew he wasn't reading "right," that he didn't ask for help because of his father. "Not Huey. He's my stepfather, and he's great. But my dad's got his own views of perfection, and a son with a dyslexia diagnosis wasn't going to hack it."

"You lived with him?"

"Half and half. And I could have told my mom the truth, but back then, my dad's attitude colored what I thought of myself. There was another kid in our neighborhood who had trouble reading, and every time my dad talked about it, he complained that the kid was stupid or lazy."

"That's horrible."

"You're not wrong. But I was young and didn't know any better. So instead of asking for help--or getting myself in a position where a teacher might realize I needed help--I started learning to cope. I became the class clown. I developed a fucking awesome memory. I learned to fight my way through a word, then a sentence, then a book if I had enough time--so multiple choice tests worked okay for me. Essays, not so much."

"And nobody noticed."

"In elementary and middle school? Not even. In high school, they started. But I dove into extracurriculars--especially speech and drama--and anyone who noticed the dip in my grades wrote it down to me being overextended."