“Me too,” she agreed quickly.
There was nothing for me to be embarrassed about, I told myself for about the millionth time since I was four. I had come a long way. There was nothing shameful about having a learning disability. Nothing at all. It had taken me a lot of work to get as good as I had at reading… but it still took me too long; that was just the only part that frustrated me. I didn’t love reading because it took me too long. I didn’t love number sequences either. I learned by listening and by doing. I wasn’t stupid.
And I sure as hell didn’t like Ivan of all people making a joke about it.
I didn’t like it so much that I didn’t look at him again after that. Not for the next twenty minutes, when I barely answered with only one word if I could get away with it. I let Ivan direct the conversation and answer almost everything. She stayed away from more questions about my ex and kept it easy.
At one point, Ivan hit his leg against mine twice, but I didn’t hit him back. I didn’t feel like it.
When the time was over and my phone beeped, telling me the hour we had set aside for the interview was over, Ivan got up, hitting his elbow against mine so I could do the same. And I did. But I didn’t glance at him as I did it. And I hated that too.
“It was nice meeting you,” Ivan said, shaking her hand.
I just nodded and took her hand too. “Thank you,” I muttered, sounding like an asshole, but I didn’t even care.
I never expected Karina to ever tell anyone I had trouble with… things. Once, my mom had even suggested that I tell everyone I had a learning disability, but I had told her no. No because I didn’t want anyone to pity me. I’d gotten that enough when I was younger and they had figured out why I had such a hard time learning my alphabet, then reading and writing. I had never let my own family baby me over it. My mom used to say I would rather stay up all night than ask anyone for help.
Ivan shuffled out of the bench, and I followed right after him, except when he stopped at the side of the table, I went completely around him and headed toward the door and out. My hand instantly went to my wrist, and I gave my bracelet a spin. There is nothing to be mad at. He didn’t call you dumb. He didn’t say you couldn’t read.
He was just messing with you. The same way you were messing with him, and he didn’t complain or cry about it. Don’t be dumb. Don’t be all sensitive and shit. You’ve heard worse.
And I had.
So why was I so damn mad, and maybe the tiniest bit… hurt?
“Meat—Jasmine,” Ivan’s familiar voice called out from somewhere behind me.
I didn’t stop because I was on a schedule, not because I was running away from him. “I’ve got to get to work,” I replied over my shoulder, not slowing down.
“Hold up a second.”
Raising my right hand, taking in the big red R on it; I winced and waved it anyway. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” I said before turning down the hall leading to the changing room. I darted inside because I really had to get to work, not because I was avoiding whatever the hell was going to come out of Ivan’s mouth.
God, I was such a weak shit.
Why hadn’t I just talked to him?
Luckily, there was only one other person in the changing room right then, and she and I just glanced at each other, but that was it. Opening my locker, I grabbed my bag and pulled out my clothes for work, deodorant, makeup, and baby wipes. But it was the blinking green light on my cell phone screen that made me pause. I grabbed my phone and unlocked it to find that I had two texts waiting for me.
One was from my dad.
Sent you a msg last week. I’m coming in September. Hope I get to see you.
That weird feeling I’d gotten back in the break room went through my upper body again, but I shoved it all away. I typed in OK and hit send, feeling just a little guilty I hadn’t sent anything longer. But then I scrolled up and saw that my last message from him had been four months ago, and suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad.
Then I checked my next message, and saw it was from my mom.
Good luck with your interview. Don’t fidget, make faces, or roll your eyes if there’s a camera. Don’t cuss either.
That brought a little smile to my face that replaced the ache, and I typed back, To late…
Not even thirty seconds later, as I was fishing for my socks and work shoes, my phone vibrated with another message from my mom.
Mom: I don’t know you.
Chapter 8
“Not that I care, but are you mad at me?”
I had just finished doing a loop around the ice to warm-up following my hour-long stretching session when Ivan skated up beside me, asking his dumbass question.
I didn’t even bother glancing at him when I answered. “No.”
“No, you’re not mad?” he asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the outline of the white zip-up pullover he had on and the navy blue sweatpants tucked into his black skates. Why did he always have to dress like he gave a shit? Ugh. I was in my usual outfit of faded leggings and faded long-sleeved T-shirt with a couple of holes in it. The good thing about not being tall was that I hadn’t grown out of clothes in more than a decade.
“No,” I repeated myself.
He didn’t say anything for a second as he kept up next to me as I went around to do another loop, gaining a little more speed than I had on the first lazy one. “Anymore?”
Why the hell was he hounding me? He hadn’t seen my face the day before, and I didn’t think I had acted like something was wrong.
Had I?
Then I remembered his “not that I care” comment and rolled my eyes at that. “No, I was never mad at you to begin with.”
“I didn’t do anything for you to get mad at.”
“Okay,” I answered shortly.
There was a pause. “You weren’t mad?”
Had I been mad? No. Had he joked about something I was sensitive about? Yes. It would tell him that he’d caught on to one of the few things I was hung up over, but telling him that might just make him pick on me more.
Because that’s what we did, and the only person I could blame was myself. And him. We had built this boat our… working relationship—or whatever the hell else it could be called—was based on.
“Nope,” I said. With my eyes still focused forward, I threw his words back at him, “I’d have to care what you think to get mad.”
He looked down at me over his shoulder, not responding as we finished another loop around the ice rink, having it completely to ourselves so early. Yesterday afternoon, we had gone straight to business for our afternoon practice. Had I ignored him more than usual? No. I just treated him like I needed to: like we only had a limited time to get our shit together and I needed to make the best out of it.
“This is only for a year,” he reminded me suddenly, like I had forgotten.
I didn’t even bother rolling my eyes. “I heard you the first time y’all brought it up, numbnuts.”
“I’m only making sure you don’t forget,” he added in that aggravating tone.
“How could I when you remind me every other day?” I snapped before I could stop myself. I needed to stop. I’d known what I was getting myself into.
That had him glancing at me. “Someone’s touchy.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re bothering me by telling me something I know and haven’t forgotten. I’m not being touchy.”
“You’re being touchy.”
“You’re being touchy.”
“All I’m doing is making sure you aren’t setting yourself up for disappointment later on,” he said, his tone off and strange and rough, and that made me stop skating so I could really get a good look at him.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I frowned, watching as he stopped a moment after I did and turned to face me. I wished he wasn’t so much taller than me. It was annoying how he literally had to tip his chin down to look at me.
“You heard me,” he said in a tone that made my palm itch.
“What the hell would I have to be disappointed over?” Chances were my eyes were either already bugging out or well on their way to.