The Good, the Bad, and the Gwen | ✔️

18 - Falling in Like

"Seafood Okra Gumbo.

Chicken Andouille Gumbo.

Jambalaya.

Shrimp Creole.

Red Beans and Rice.

Crawfish and Pasta ..."

The restaurant bustles around us, conversations and clinking glasses harmonizing together as I scan over the dinner options. All of the main dishes sound so ... southern. And to be perfectly honest, sort of gross. Where are the plain old chicken nuggets?

"Do you always do that?"

Sully's question pulls me away from the entrees. "Do what?"

"Read the menu out loud?"

"Oh." I slap the laminated booklet shut, my lips spreading into a rigid line.

He stares at me expectantly. I stare back. It's as good a time as any to tell him about my learning disability, and after everything Sully's shared, it's not like he doesn't deserve to know.

I clear my throat and look away. "It's sort of a habit." There's an awkward pause as I wrack my brain for an acceptable excuse, but there aren't any. I'm stuck with the truth. "I'm ... dyslexic," I say, my eyes reconnecting with his.

There, I said it. And it wasn't so bad—this Sharing of Secrets. Letting Others In. I'm practically a pro! I bet I can even do it with my eyes closed.

His brows rise. "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable? No, not me. I'm definitely not uncomfortable." I wave it off, like I'm not. Even though I totally am. "It's a part of life. Or, it's a part of my life, anyway. It's just ... I don't usually tell people about it."

"Why not? Are you embarrassed?" A crescent-shaped crease dents the narrow space between his eyes. He's concerned and it makes me melt just a little.

"It's not only that. It's just not easy for me to open up. I'm a very private person." I say, making a face. "I get that from my mom."

Sharing secrets is hard.

"I get this dimple from my mom," he says, poking a finger into his cheek. He's trying to make me smile, and it works. "I used to hate it when I was younger. My friends always made fun of me."

This shocks me. Because WHAT? How could anyone laugh at Sully's face? It's perfection. "How did they make fun of your dimple? It's so cute."

The word escapes my mouth before I can swallow it. And not just escapes, but emphasizes. Like a giant, screaming spotlight on the one confession I should have actually held back. But Sully doesn't flinch. Maybe he didn't catch it, only I'm pretty sure he did. Because he would have to be deaf not to. "They used to call me crater face."

"Crater face?" I repeat slowly. "That's awful. Kids are so mean."

"It felt like that at the time, but now it just seems silly." He laughs and shakes his head. "I used to go home and cry."

The image of a little Sully balling his eyes out tugs at my heart. "It doesn't bother you anymore?"

He glances away then looks back, a grin playing at the corner of his lips. "Nope. Not since fifth-grade."

A story. He's going to tell me a story! I lean closer. "What happened in fifth-grade?"

"Miss Westmeyer happened in fifth-grade." He scratches the back of his neck. "She was our substitute teacher for the last half of the year, after Mrs. Martin left to have her baby. And every boy in school thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world."