Read to who?Wait, Solomon’s mother didn’t just have a side clothing business, she—she was the head of a global fashion house.Fayson.Elijah Anruchi’s statement pulsed through her head.“He is thesonin Fayson.”Fayson designs dresses forinternationalfigures. Fayson designed Adanne’s wedding dress.She was going to be sick.
“Don’t be afraid,” Solomon’s mother coaxed, but that didn’t help untangle her jumbled thoughts.
“Yes, you can do it.” But that wasn’t enough to still her beating heart.
“Why me?”
“You have hosted and spoken at so many events before. This won’t be different,” Solomon responded with misplaced reassurance.
She thought that question had only been in her thoughts. Solomon’s voice used to feel like a balm.Oh,God,why now?She swallowed. Solomon looked at her encouragingly, almost pleadingly. And Robert Bluestone was there, sitting right behind her. Was this the moment Solomon said he would provide?
She stood up before she could convince herself otherwise. He did as well, heading to the DJ booth to inform him no doubt of what would probably be her demise.
Kenya,it’ll be fine. It’s just reading offcards. Youcanread.Snickers and giggles filtered into her memory, almost distracting her from where she was.
She stepped to the ornate podium that had been set up. But instead of seeing amused eyes, she looked upon somber and expectant faces. All these people were practically strangers. Her gaze traveled the crowd and lingered on the table next to hers.Remember what you really came to do.But it had gotten mixed up with a lie, and now that lie of a relationship had become truth. Until now.
And the truth was that it wasn’t just Robert Bluestone and other strangers at that table. She could see from this vantage point that one of the groomsmen was more familiar than she’d realized when he was dancing down the aisle with the bridal party. If she removed the traditional wear and the cap, she could see him for who he was. One of the reps of the Bellon Group at that fateful Monday meeting.
She felt bile rise in her throat again. Did he remember her? His eyes narrowed in question, but his face remained neutral, distracted by the night, she hoped, and not by the memory of her retching into a trash can.
She released a breath, willing her body to ease its tremors and her heart to settle. She reached for the mic. Solomon returned to the table. He offered a smile, but all she could give was the ghost of one.He isn’twho I thought he was. And I am not enoughfor who he is.
She needed to focus on what was tangible. She lifted the cards, squinting at the letters.
“He-hello.” The DJ slowly turned down the music, and as the silence replaced the festive playlist, she instantly regretted where she was. Hundreds of eyes turned toward her as forks and glasses were set down. She felt the weight of their scrutiny.
“Hey, y’all.” She willed her event-planning voice and demeanor to take over. “I’m Kenya and I-I hope you’re having a great time. Is everyone having a great time?” A few murmurs sounded out. She looked back at the cards, words written to offer blessings and well-wishes to the bride and groom from the guests who’d taken the time to write them. Handwriting of various shapes and styles.
“To the brid and gram—uh, I mean groom. Bride and groom. We wish you best, um, blessings on your new line ... oh, sorry,life.”
She quickly flipped through the cards to find another short one.
“Dear happy coo-play. Cuh-play ... oh, couple.” She blinked rapidly. “Or-our praise is with you. We pray—oh, it isprayers... we pray that—”
The words swam like scattered fish, lifting and swirling around in patterns she couldn’t capture. Printed words were one thing, but it was impossible to decipher the attendees’ individual handwriting. Every tool, every cue, every code she acquired to help her read with dyslexia didn’t keep the words from pouring away like a spilled drink, spreading out thin and unreachable.
“Ah-ah!What is this? Can she not read?” The words came from too close to be ignored. The voice matched the tone of the woman who had made her the dress she now looked like a fool in.
Whatever composure she tried to maintain crumbled at the whisper that was too loud to count as one.
She’d been found out. Just like Solomon had. But where his elevated status had been unveiled, her inadequacy had been brought to light.
Her lifelong ruse as a functioning person diminished under the fiery glare of people she’d tried so hard to impress. Because of Solomon. Kenya gulped, her insides trembling in time to the paper in her hand. She looked out over the crowd.
She couldn’t decide what was worse, the looks of embarrassment, the laughter, or the expressions of pity. She glanced at Solomon, and his face cut her deepest because his expression was a mixture of all of it. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t even dothatright now.
“Excuse me,” she said into the microphone. The look on his face ... she didn’t want to see that pity directed toward her from anyone, especially him. He didn’t need to be with someone like her, and this humiliating moment confirmed it. She set the card down with slow fingers, swallowed again, and pivoted on boring flats.
She moved through the large room as quickly as her feet would take her. Maybe they would think she was going to the bathroom and would be back soon, but at that moment, it didn’t matter because she wouldn’t be back. Everything that she thought to be true was not anymore.
She had gotten used to Solomon and how she felt around him. But they really couldn’t be. Her dyslexia wouldn’t let her be someone who could measure up to who he really was. How could she even compete with any women in that room? She’d forever be a laughingstock to them. To his family.
She rushed out the doors and into the lobby. Maybe this would be like the movies and he would come after her. Maybe she wasmaking too much out of this moment, being her usual dramatic self.
Her steps slowed until she stood before a row of mirrors lining the main hall. The wallpaper provided a beautiful accent with its textured clean lines behind the rounded glass. She looked in the mirror and saw the truth for herself. The confident smile that usually came so easily to her lips couldn’t lift above the weight of embarrassment.
Kenya’s eyes locked onto the mirror. But instead of a woman in her thirties trying too hard in her Fayson custom gown, staring back at her was a nine-year-old trying so hard not to cry as she stood in front of her classmates. Wondering how long she would have to stand there, pretending she could read the words in that book Mrs. Rashid, her teacher, passed around each week during story time. Mrs. Rashid said that it would be okay for her to read slowly.
