“Don’t what?”
“I’m not looking for an apology. And I sure as shit don’t want—or need—your pity.” I nod, understanding taking shape. “I’m only telling you because we’re working together and there might be occasions when I need a little extra time.”
I open my mouth to tell him it’s fine, then clamp it shut. He doesn’t need my approval any more than he needs my pity. Everyone reads and learns at a different pace. It doesn’t require acceptance; it just is.
And so what? Parker’s brain processes information differently. It doesn’t change who he is. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s smart and funny and great at football. It’s one aspect of him, not his entire identity. Anyone who feels differently can fuck right off.
“That must’ve been hard on you growing up,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“It was. Not only because I needed extra time with assignments, but because the accommodations made me a target.”
My chest tightens at the word target. “What do you mean?”
“When I started school, before my parents realized my brain works differently, I got teased for being slow and struggling with things that came easily to my classmates, like reading.” There’s a hard edge to his voice when he continues. “By first grade I was falling behind and by second I’d been called stupid so many times I actually believed it.”
Anger, red-hot and molten, fills my chest. “Kids can be vicious.”
He nods in agreement. “It was so damn frustrating not being able to put the letters and sounds together like my classmates. I tried to hide it, but…” He snorts derisively. “Let’s just say there was no hiding it when my second-grade teacher, Mr. Jonas, required us to take turns reading aloud.”
I want to tell him I’m sorry again, because I hate the idea of Parker being shamed and taunted by callous children, but the apologies are for my discomfort, my frustration at the awful treatment he received, and this isn’t about me.
“That’s when I was finally diagnosed and got the help I needed to be successful in school. I learned how my brain processed information and they put me on an Individualized Education Plan. My parents were great, but they didn’t have any experience with dyslexia, so they scoured the web for tips and tricks. My mom tried everything from putting covered overlays in my books, which didn’t do shit, to following the counselor’s advice and signing me up for a sport to build confidence.” Parker wipes his palms on his thighs, and it’s clear that for all his blustering and swagger, he’s still insecure about his dyslexia. The realization is like a splinter to the heart, a dull ache relentlessly working its way into the muscle. “Football was a natural fit, and I started making friends, but it didn’t stop all the teasing.” His eyes shutter, and for an instant, he loses himself in memory. “Tyler Fitzpatrick asked if my initials stood for Dumb Jock Parker and it stuck.”
Mierda. No wonder he was so quick to assume I’d written him off as a brainless football player back in August. My stomach fills with acid. It may have been unintentional, but it’s clear my careless words scraped at old wounds. Wounds no child should have to carry.
I frown. “Didn’t your school have anti-bullying policies? Counselors? Zero-tolerance?”
“Yeah, but that stuff only helps so much.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “The fact is, some people are born assholes and others are raised by assholes. No amount of anti-bullying rhetoric will change that fact.”
“I suppose not.” Social media is proof enough.
“That prick made my life hell until eighth grade, when I shot up six inches and decided I wasn’t going to take his shit anymore.”
“Good for you.” I’m not usually a violent person, but in this case… “I hope you kicked his ableist ass.”
“Nah.” The right side of his mouth hitches up in a crooked grin. “Just the threat had him pissing his pants.”
“So typical bully then.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll bet that pendejo peaked in high school.”
“Probably.” He shrugs. “But I won’t people like him—or their opinions—hold me back. I’ve got the tools to be successful now, and I’ve worked my ass off to maintain a 3.3 GPA.”
“What tools?” I ask, curious, because like Parker’s parents, I know little about dyslexia.
“When I’m alone, or somewhere I can use my earbuds, I use text-to-speech software. It helps to have the words spoken aloud while I read them. It’s better for retention and makes it easier to process the information.”
“Wait. You use text-to-speech for your schoolwork, but you aren’t into audiobooks?”
His crooked smile becomes a full-on smirk. “TTS has come a long way, but listening to textbooks is nothing like listening to your pornalicious smut.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You say smut like it’s a bad thing.”
He throws his hands up. “No judgment here. I like my women empowered.”
Now it’s my turn to smirk. “If that’s true, then you know they aren’t your women,” I say, making air quotes around the last two words. “You can’t actually possess another person.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Shorty.” He levels those gorgeous eyes at me and heat pools between my legs.
Okay, fine. Maybe he can possess parts of me.
