20. Van

20

Van

J osie deserves the truth, even if giving it to her hurts like hell. I've been dreading this moment since tutoring started, but I can't avoid it any longer. Lying to her last night was physically painful, so I've gotta come clean.

And that's why I'm walking into her dorm on a Wednesday afternoon. What's that called, when you feel like you've done something before? Deja vu? Whatever it is, I've got it right now. Three years ago, I did the same thing: showed up at her door unannounced, wanting to spend some time together.

Thankfully, I'm not the impatient, needy little shit I was freshman year.

I'm just gonna say what I came to say, give her the letter that's been sitting in my sock drawer for way too long, and leave so she can drive back to Silver Creek and take care of her brothers and sisters, same as she does every Wednesday.

I knock on the door and a few seconds later, Josie calls, "It's open."

She's sitting at her desk, reading a book and taking notes. I'm guessing she's expecting a friend, because she doesn't even look up when I step inside. She just grabs a stack of books beside her and hands them over. "Here you go. Start with the red one. It's the oldest brother's story. It's great, but book two, the green one? It's my favorite."

"Not the purple one?" I ask, taking the books and setting them down on her nightstand. Her room is small—it's a dorm room, after all, but it's neat and cozy, like it's half bedroom, half library. Yeah, that makes sense.

Josie looks up at me and blinks. "Van. Oh my gosh. I thought you were Ellie. She lives across the hall and wanted to borrow some books. The movies are coming out and she—Nevermind. What do you need?"

I rock back on my heels, because that's a loaded question, so I go with the simplest answer. "I thought we could talk."

I've caught her off-guard, but it's taken me way too long to gather up the courage I need. I can't stop now.

"Oh, well, sure, if you have a question about an assignment. I don't have a ton of time though," she says, nodding to where her purple duffle sits by the door.

My hands go into my pockets. "I know. I won't stay long. I just...I have something that belongs to you."

Her eyes are large behind her glasses, and she's curious as she looks at the wrinkled paper I've fished out of the pocket of my jeans.

"Oh, is that your timed write from Contemporary Lit? Thanks for dropping it off. I should have some time tonight to look it over, so I'll have some feedback?—"

"No," I interrupt, still holding this stupid piece of paper I should have thrown away a hundred times. But if Josie was being honest last night—and let's face it, Josie's no liar—then she wants to know what the issue is with my in-class writing assignments. This letter will definitely answer that question. "It's not my test, but it explains everything. Just, trust me, okay. When you, uh, read this, a lot of things will make sense...about my grades, and...well, just everything."

I'm rambling now, because this is the equivalent of standing naked on a bench by the fountain in the center of campus. But if I had a choice, I'd definitely choose public nudity.

Josie looks a little flustered. That makes two of us. "Ok...have a seat. I have a few minutes. Do you want something to drink? There's water, and there might be some cranberry juice in the fridge."

I'm not thirsty, but I need to keep my hands busy.

"Thanks, I'll get it. You, um, you read, ok?"

"Okay," she agrees, taking the battered paper from my hand. I watch for a second as she smooths it out and begins to read. That's when I turn away and take two steps into the little kitchen area. It's really just a counter with a sink, small stove top, and minifridge. Grabbing a glass from a shelf, I fill half of it with water and take a few gulps before setting it down and looking at Josie. I can't help it: her reaction matters.

"Van—" she says, packing a million emotions into my name. There's surprise, and sadness, too. Maybe a little anger. And because it's Josie, there's more compassion than I deserve. But the one thing there isn't is pity. And that's what has me crossing her tiny little single dorm room and sitting next to her on the bed.

"Read the whole thing. Please. I need you to read it all, Jos." I'm looking her in the eye, holding her gaze. It's easier to hide, to smile, to joke. To laugh it off or move on to another subject so easily that no one notices I've dodged their questions. But I'm done hiding, at least from Josie. I need her to know just how bad my learning disability is. I need her to know that I came back for her. And I need her to know why I walked away again. Sometimes I get this awful feeling that she thinks it's because she wasn't good enough, or that I moved on to shinier, flashier things. But that's not what happened.

She finishes reading it, folds it up carefully, like it's precious, and hands it to me. I don't take it. "That's yours," I say. "I wrote it three years ago. It was right after Christmas break. Like I said in the letter, I saw Mel out at Kappa. She yelled at me. Really laid into me. And I'd had a couple beers, so I volleyed right back. Told her my version of the truth—that you kept spending all your time away from me. That I was convinced you didn't want to be with me, that I wasn't good enough, or that you had some guy back home. Swear to God, Jos, I thought she was gonna backhand me when I said that. She told me I was a fucking asshole for being jealous of a baby...I definitely dropped my beer when she said that. She filled me in. Not a lot, just enough to fill in the gaps. She said it was your story to tell and that I should, and I quote ‘fucking talk to Josie'. She, uh, she says that to me a lot, actually," I tell her, running my hands through my hair before threading it back through the hair tie. "Anyway, that was my plan. To talk to you. Because, as you can tell, I'm a lot better at talking than I am at writing."

"Van—" There's my name again on her pretty, glossy lips. She tries to stop me, puts her hand on my arm, and there's a gentleness that tries to make its way from her body to mine. But I'm not ready to let it in.

Taking a breath, I psych myself up. I look her in the eye as I state the obvious. "I can barely read. You probably know that by now."

She tries to stop me again, but I keep going. "I need to get this out, okay? I told you I was diagnosed with dyslexia, but there's a lot more to it. Nobody here knows, except Pete, and now you. Technically speaking, I'm ‘functionally illiterate'. I read about as well as a fifth grader. It's enough to get by. I can read signs and labels at the grocery store and I can fill out forms, that kind of thing. But soon, the words start to swim. The letters just move. They don't stay still. And they don't make sense. I present well. That's what my teachers used to say about me. I guess some part of my brain works because I can understand words. I know what they mean. I can have conversations all day long and maybe I'm not the fastest at it, but I can listen to audiobooks—or listen to you when you read–you're better than any audiobook I've ever heard and that's a compliment I truly mean."

A ghost of a smile appears on her lips and that helps me get the rest of the words out.

"It's just, when the words are written, they make no sense. And writing is just as bad. It's like I have all these words in my head, but the pathway from my brain to my hand? It doesn't work right. And that's crazy, because when it comes to hockey, it works pretty fucking well. Is that what reading and writing are for you? They just sort of happen? It's just the way you're wired? Because on the ice, it all makes sense. My brain reads it and my body does it. But in a classroom? God, no. Elementary school sucked. I just kept getting put in the pigeon reading group. Pigeons are lousy readers I guess. Middle school was more of the same. By then, though, I figured out that if I made my handwriting messy enough, it was harder for the teachers to see all the mistakes and misspellings. And I worked with a friend whenever I could. Group work is a fucking gift for a kid like me. I bet you hate it, though."

"Group projects were the worst. I had to talk to all these people I didn't know and I got stuck doing all the work," she admits honestly.

An image of Josie pops into my mind. I can easily picture her being the girl who does all the work—or at least fixes everyone else's—so her own grade doesn't tank. "Yeah, I can definitely see that. And I'm not gonna lie. There were times when people added my name to the project when I didn't even know what it was about. I never liked school, but I got by. I figured college would be more of the same. First semester wasn't so bad. I had a bunch of easy classes and so did my teammates. I got the jock schedule. Second semester...well, that sucked for a lot of reasons. That's when Pete stepped in. I'm not the worst at math and science, and he's gonna teach that stuff, so it worked out. I got Kevin for the rest of my classes, and muddled through. Thank God for speech-to-text and GrammarPro, or I'd have flunked out years ago. It was never easy, but it was never as bad as this semester. All those books? Those essays? Writing in class while someone literally holds a stopwatch? It's fucking torture. So my grades went from scraping by to scraping the bottom."

"And that's where I came in?" She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by purple pillows. The sun is setting and it casts a glow on her dark brown hair, making the strands look fiery.

I want to reach for her, but that's not why I'm here. "Yeah, that's where you came in. I was pissed, to say the least. Especially when I saw fucking Kyle?—"

"What is your issue with Kyle Sanders? I mean, he's not my favorite person in the world, but he's not the worst, either."

I tap the letter. "Remember how I said Mel told me I should talk to you? That's what I was going to do. I left the party and went back to my dorm, but I couldn't sleep. There were so many thoughts—so many words—in my head. I had to get them out. I needed you to know how sorry I was. How bad I felt. What a fucking dumbass I'd been—a selfish idiot."

Her hand flexes, like maybe she wants to reach for me, too, but instead she takes her glasses off, fiddling with them. "You didn't know, Van."

"If I had, I never would have said those things, Jos. I never would have left." I stop myself before I say too much, before I tell her that I'd have rocked her baby sister to sleep or worn her brother out playing tag or driven the twins to soccer practice or made dinner while she helped them with their homework. She never asked for any of that. Never told me the whole story. I'm sure she's got her reasons, but it's clear that I fell harder, that I wanted more. "Anyway, I got up and wrote it all down. It's the first and last time I've ever been inspired to write," I say, huffing out a laugh. She doesn't even smile.

I keep going because I've got to finish this. "I remembered that you used to go to the library as soon as you got back on Sunday afternoons. So that's where I went, holding this letter like it was the key to…I don't know? Understanding? Forgiveness? Fixing what I'd stupidly broken?" I pull my hair out of its ponytail again, just to smooth it out and twist it back up. I'm stalling, because I hate this part of the story. I hated it then, and I hate it now. "I got to the fountain, and that's when I saw you."

She blinks up at me. "I don't remember?—"

I shake my head. "You never saw me. Kyle got there first. He spotted you and held his arms out. You gave him a hug. He's part of your group, that scholarship group. I only know because Pete's in it, too. Wild that my best friend and my...my ex-girlfriend are two of the smartest people on campus, right?"

"Van—"

She's getting pissy with me, the same way my mom does, the same way Pete does. I appreciate it, but facts are facts. "It's true, Jos. You're brilliant. Smarter than fucking Kyle. And even if I can't stand the guy, I can admit he's a brainiac. You two fit together. You made sense. I looked down at the letter in my hand and almost laughed out loud."

Unshed tears shine in her eyes and I'm a little surprised they haven't spilled over yet. "It's perfect."

"Perfect? Josie, it's unreadable."

She's not backing down. "I understood every word."

"Look at it again. It sounds like a first grader wrote it. And everything's probably spelled wrong. I'm pretty sure the whole damn thing is one sentence because I never know when to stop. And I told you I ‘feel bad' because I can't spell apologize . Are there more o's or a's? And is it a g or a j? I don't fucking know. And dictionaries don't work for people who can barely read. And I didn't want you to know. I didn't want your pity. I figured you moved on and Kyle was better for you. So I walked away."

She sets her glasses on the nightstand. They're different from the ones she had freshman year. These are still purple, though. Her eyes are wide with long lashes. They're the color of coffee when it's being poured into a cup—warm brown with a halo of light. Josie wipes at her tears with the hem of her shirt and I force myself to look away. Even that flash of skin is enough to make me remember. Enough to tempt me.

Her eyes meet mine. "Then why are you here now? Why give me this letter now?"

Her words feel heavy, like there's more to them, like they mean what I want them to mean. But I don't know that. I like to think I'm a risk taker, but some things are too precious to take a chance on. "It comes down to this, Jos," I say, itching to touch her, but holding myself back. "It's not just that I need your help. I do, but there's more to it. I trust you. I'm embarrassed, yeah. Ashamed. Fucking terrified. I lied to you last night when I said I forgot my timed write. I hated it, and I've never hated dodging the truth before. Telling you all this? It's hard as fuck. I'm sweating like I've just skated three shifts in a row. But it's better than lying to you."

She gets off the bed and for a terrible, wonderful minute, I think she's going to hug me. If she does, I don't think I'll ever let go. But she doesn't. She grabs her phone off the desk and turns toward me. "I'm going to see if Mrs. Fulton, the sitter, can watch the kids tonight. Or if Zane can ask Tyler's mom to?—"

I'm shaking my head before she finishes her sentence. "No, Jos, it's cool. I know you have to go. I want you to. I just wanted to give you that letter, to tell you all the things you didn't know."

Josie looks like I've blindsided her, and I pretty much have. She follows me to the door. "I'm glad you came over tonight, but can we keep talking? I feel like maybe there's more to say."

"We can talk later," I say, because my nerves are shot and I can't take any more hits tonight. "I'm practicing with Norris tonight anyway, for real this time," I say, leaning against the door frame. "You really didn't buy my bullshit, did you?"

She shakes her head. "I'm raising a teenager, remember? And when I'm done with him, there'll be three more."

"Can't get anything past you, Jos. Hell, I never could. But look, no bullshit from me from here on out. I promise." She smiles at me, her eyes still watery, and I force myself to turn and walk out the door before I do something stupid and beg Josie to ask Mrs. what's-her-name to babysit. I need to meet Norris, yeah, but it's more than that. I gave her such a hard time all those years ago and I don't want her to feel like she has to choose between her life and me. If I had my way, those two things would be the same. That might never happen, but until I know for sure, I'll wait patiently. Maybe not patiently, but I'll wait.