I was pondering the idea of becoming a circus clown when I felt a shadow looming over my figure from behind, blocking the sun. I whipped my head, a scowl ready on my face.
“Well?” I asked. “Is it official? Are the Guinness people coming? Am I the dumbest bitch on earth?”
He ignored my words. “Get in the car.”
But when we got in the car, he remained persistently silent, and I lost my nerve to ask him what the woman had told him. If he wanted to wait to talk about it privately, it couldn’t be good, right?
Listen, she said you have the intelligence of a dry erase marker, I imagined him saying in his signature, IDGAF tone.
When we got back into Dallas, I finally opened my mouth. I wanted to ask what the lady’d said, but what came out was, “I’m still hungry.”
Close enough.
“Where do vegetarians eat in Texas?” he asked blandly. “This is not your natural habitat.”
“There’s a joint down the street.” I pointed at a quaint café that looked like it had been ripped from Covent Garden, London. It had outdoor dining, bracketed by a beautiful green fence. With large display windows and dark green stucco that matched the color of Ransom’s eyes. A green, ivy-ridden fence served as a barrier between the diners and the street.
“Very exposed,” Ransom grumbled, dissatisfied. Still, he slipped into a parking space, unbuckling.
At the café, we were given a table right by the fence. Ransom picked up the menu and scowled. “Farm to table? Does that mean they have fried chicken?”
A teasing smile touched my lips. “No. It means they grow their vegetables and spices organically.”
He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m going to sue you for emotional and physical abuse after all of this is over.”
I smiled, mainly because I knew he was trying to make me feel better. “Why don’t you let me choose something for you?”
“Because you’ll screw it up?” he volleyed back.
“Try me.”
“Famous last words. Well, floor’s all yours.”
I ordered Baba Ghanoush with pita bread and Spanakopita for him, and zucchini cakes for myself. “And also a Greek rosé table wine,” I asked the waitress, watching Ransom closely to see if he’d shut me down. A muscle didn’t move in his face, and his Aviators covered his eyes, so I had no indication he was giving me a death glare, either.
“Are you not going to ask me what Barbara said?” he inquired.
“I’m guessing Barbara is the Lady in Red.”
“Smart girl.”
“I’ve a feeling you’re about to deliver some news that would contradict your last statement.”
I figured he’d given Barbara a fistful of cash to speed up the process of my diagnosis. Those things usually took months to get the results back.
Our waitress approached our table again, smiling nervously. She knew who we were. She presented the wine, poured us a small amount of it, and allowed us to have a taste. I swirled, sniffed, and nodded. She poured us both generous portions before leaving.
“Thanks for letting me drink.” I raised my glass, chugging down half of its contents.
“My reasons are purely selfish. Perhaps you’re more bearable while intoxicated.”
“A guy can dream.” I placed my glass down. “So what’ve you got for me? How dumb am I?”
“Not at all,” he said, taking a sip of his wine, then scowling at it like it punched him in the crotch. I had a feeling he was more of a hard liquor man. “You passed the hearing and vision tests with flying colors. Reading and writing tests were where you struggled. Then during the psychology exam you exhibited—and this is a quote—‘a higher-than-average EQ and IQ.’”
“Do you have that in English?”
“Emotional intelligence and usability slash analytical abilities. You scored high on both.”
“I don’t understand.” The smile stretching across my face dropped. “That…that can’t be. You can’t be smart and struggle to read at twenty-one.”
“Yes, you can.” He leaned across the table, flicking his sunglasses off. His eyes glittered with intensity. “You have a learning disability that’s treatable. It’s completely disconnected from your intelligence. You have a different distribution of metabolic activation than a non-dyslexic person, but that says nothing about your potential or your abilities. Dyslexic people often have advantages. For instance, you have a magnificent knack for connecting a series of mental sequencing into a coherent story. Now repeat after me—I’m not stupid.”
This had to be a sadistic joke. I let out a snort. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t be a coward,” he shot back. “Say it.”
“No.” I sat back, folding my arms over my chest. “That’s embarrassing. And unnecessary.”
“I’m. Not. Stupid,” he repeated it louder now, drawing curious looks from people at other tables. It was unlike him to call attention to us. I looked around, my stomach cramping with anxiety. “Grow some balls, Princess.”
“I reject the chauvinistic notion balls equal guts. Women are just as—”
“Spare me.” He raised his palm in the air. “And just spit it out so we can get on with our lives.”
“I…” I took a deep breath. “I mean, I’m not…”
“Stupid,” he finished for me. “Correct. Now give me the entire sentence.”
“Wait a minute.” I frowned. “I thought you said yourself that I’m stupid.”
He shook his head. “I said unbearable. Not the same thing.”
“I’m not…I don’t…” Tears pricked the back of my eyes.
“Goddammit, Hallie.” He stood up suddenly. I did the same, out of pure instinct, my legs moving on their own accord. I had this odd, dangerous feeling that the world around us had stopped on its axis, drawing a collective breath as it watched us. We were stuck in a bubble.
And bubbles, I knew, were destined to burst.
Sunset licked the sky in brilliant blues and fierce oranges. For one, desperate, pathetic moment, something foreign came over me. Dark and addictive.
I felt cherished. Maybe even understood.
We were standing in front of one another, panting. The only buffer between us was a wonky table. My fingers tingled to reach across and touch him.
“Say you’re not stupid.” His eyes burned, consuming my soul in the process. His hands were braced over the table. “Say it to me, Hallie.”
“I’m…not…” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Stupid. I’m not stupid.”
“Louder.”
“I’m not stupid!”
“Can’t hear you.”
“I’m not stupid!”
Each time I said it, another drawer in my heart unlocked. I felt a little lighter, a little better about who I was. I wanted to call my parents and say, see? See?
Of course, they already knew. They’d kept the truth away from me, from the world, because it embarrassed them. And the sheer discomfort it caused them was more important than my self-esteem. My self-worth.