I pray I’m not too late.
Barrett
I’m in line at Starbucks when I cave and check my phone. I almost went straight home after dropping Catarina off, but I know how my Kitty Cat likes her morning brew. Besides, I like surprising her.
One glance at the screen and my mind spins. The coffee shop chatter recedes into the distance, and what’s left is a faint ringing in my ears.
I have a lot of missed calls. I have a lot of new texts.
Several from people I haven’t talked to in years.
Words like “Dude” and “I had no idea” and one “My brother has dyslexia” decorate my screen.
I scroll through my call log next. I have a voicemail—I never have voicemail. Anyone who calls me either hangs up and texts me or texts me, period. I shakily lift the phone to my ear and listen to the short message from Tom Lawson at ESPN.
“Barrett, man. Tom at ESPN. I read the article in the Columbus Dispatch this morning and you have to give me a quote. Let’s get you on the air ASAP. We’ll pay for the exclusive. I’m thinking we wrangle Santiago into a split screen. The sympathy on the dyslexia thing is through the roof. Side note, that journalist you’re working with is hotter than hell. Call me.”
By the time I finish listening to the voicemail, my blood is boiling, my spine a pillar of stone.
“May I help you?” the barista asks, blanching as she concludes that the last fucking thing I need right now is coffee. I burst out of Starbucks, vision red with rage, and climb into my car.
Without turning over the engine, I open the website and find our column. I scan through my half and then through Catarina’s, my hands shaking.
What.
The.
Ever-loving.
Fuck.
My phone rings before I have a chance to fully digest what I read. The screen reads “Kitty Cat.”
My blood boils. I ignore the call. If I answer nothing but yelling will exit my mouth. Better yet, I shut off the phone.
I blink blindly at the windshield and take a shallow breath that barely fills my lungs.
The world knows I have dyslexia. A secret I kept from everyone, save Catarina. A secret I never chose to share with anyone—not even Beth. I let her believe I was tired of socializing whenever I needed an excuse to finish studying or writing a paper.
And Catarina, the woman I am developing deep feelings for, sold me out.
“Fuck!” I slam a palm on the steering wheel before gripping it with both fists. I stare at my white knuckles for the count of three, and then close my eyes and force myself to calm down.
When I’m confident I can drive without mowing down a pedestrian, I back out of the parking spot.
Chapter 29
Catarina
I tried calling him and then I tried texting him and then I repeated that process for most of the afternoon. What I didn’t do was stick around the office. I took a cab home to retrieve my car, and then drove to his apartment. The security desk swore to me (after I palmed the guy twenty bucks) that Barrett wasn’t home.
Then I drove around town like a lunatic looking for his car.
Now I’m home, pacing and doing a fine job of wearing a rut in my patterned rug between the television and couch. I’ve nearly gnawed my fingernails to the quicks.
Either he read the article and has decided he hates me, or a less likely scenario: he doesn’t know. We planned on seeing each other tonight, so I pray that when he does check his phone, he reads my texts first.
My heart emits a dull ache. I received several calls from ESPN today asking for a response from me or Barrett. I’m 99.9 percent sure they called Barrett first.
If that’s how he finds out... I shake my head, unable to stay here and worry and pace the floors any longer. I’m trying his house again.
I step out of the elevator of my apartment building, head down as I dig through my purse for my phone. A few text messages sit on my screen but not one of them is from Barrett. I know it’s futile, but I can’t help trying his phone again as I step into the summer heat.
That’s when I spot him climbing out of his convertible. I’m relieved to be looking right at him. I can explain in person. When he pins with me a glare, I stop advancing toward him, my skin prickling in spite of the humid air. He doesn’t look happy to see me.
In fact, he looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him—including when he threw away his on-air career as a field reporter. I rush to him, but he speaks first.
“Don’t come any closer.”
“You know.”
“When Dax’s wife, Becca, referred to me as a charity case, I knew she was kidding. Apparently, you didn’t.”
“Barrett, listen to me.” My voice shakes.
“Wasn’t it enough for you to tame the ‘Bad Boy of the NFL?’ Or did you use my dyslexia as an excuse to help explain why you’d date an asshole from the wrong side of town?”
“That’s not what I think, and you know it! I told you how I felt yesterday. I showed you this morning.”
Some of the rage bleeds from his face, hurt replacing it. “Did you mean any of it? Or was this for the article?”
“Fox.” My nose tingles as tears press the backs of my eyes. “None of it was for the article.”
His laugh is bitter and completely devoid of humor. “Come on, Catarina. You know as well as I do that the dates were all for show. Why else take me to a country club, or put me in a tux and parade me in front of the governor, if not to humiliate me?”
“Barrett. This is ridiculous.” I’m starting to get angry along with really, really afraid that he isn’t going to hear me out.
“It’s worse than that. It’s a betrayal.”
My anger steps into first place. “You’re damn right this is a betrayal. How can you believe I faked anything with you? I resisted you as long as I could. You were the one chasing me!”
“You’re right. I chased you around like a desperate puppy. You kept me on a very short leash. You found my soft underbelly. And then you exposed me.”
“I turned my life upside down for you!” I’m vaguely aware of a few passersby watching our argument. Hot wind blows against my face, and only then do I notice the dampness on my cheeks.
“Was it hard for you to fake your feelings for me, Catarina? Or was it part of the job?”
“Fuck you, Fox!” The world swims out of focus.
“We did that already,” he replies coolly.
I lean forward, practically standing on his shoes. “It was Mia, you stubborn asshole. She was the one who outed you in the column. I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t know what she wrote until I read it this morning!”
“Mia?” His eyebrows lower in confusion as some of the rage seeps from his expression. “How?”
“That was a question I would’ve answered before you accused me of faking everything we did together. Before you pointed out that I’m a heartless workaholic who’s too good to fall in love with a dyslexic football player!”
I now understand what dating him must have been like for Beth. Having experienced that gentle part of him only to have him rip it away is agonizing. He didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt or the courtesy of explaining myself, even after what we’ve been through together. It’s not only insulting. It’s heartbreaking.