Drive(74)

I threw my head back and laughed.

“I went through it, phonics, vocabulary workshops, all of it. I took out my frustration on the ball. And my parents, namely my mother, made me read every single day. They had a fresh paper in most rooms of the house for me every morning, in the back seat of their car before every practice. I preferred shorter reads than books I couldn’t get involved in and had to leave idle.”

I was stunned . . . and impressed.

“Can’t put a book down?”

“Hell no. I read them cover to cover in one day. No other way to do it. Addicted to the high of reading and dyslexic. Ain’t that a bitch?” He chuckled. “But when I was young, I got truly captured by the stories when she read to me. They spoke to me in tidal waves, the imagery, I couldn’t get enough.”

“So, it worked. I mean, obviously it worked,” I said, shaking my head.

“No cure. But all that extra help paid off tenfold. And at Speak, I have twice the workload of any other editor in chief. I have to listen to the submitted articles audibly while I read through, but it’s worth it for me. And then, when I finish with critiques, I have someone check my work. Turns out I’m the most dispensable employee at my own paper.”

“Jesus, Nate.”

“Worth it, Stella,” he said, pushing off any underlying pity he saw in my eyes as a nuisance, in addition to the admiration.

In his Tahoe, I sat in my seat, staring at Nate with fresh but exhausted eyes.

“You’re staring again.”

“I was just thinking about a book I want to loan you.”

“Do you now?” he said, intrigued.

“Yep,” I yawned. “It’s my favorite. You know some speculate John Lennon was dyslexic. A lot of brilliant people are.”

“You flatter me,” he said dryly.

“The compliment was genuine. And you did spring for dinner.”

“Would have done it months ago, if you’d given me ten damn minutes.”

“I was on a mission. I wanted this job.”

“I know, and I’ll stop giving you shit about it. I know what it meant to you. How compelled you are to tell those stories. It’s one of the things we have in common. Just don’t ever ask me to watch a movie with you.”

“Har, har,” I said as our smiles stretched wide.

When we pulled up to my apartment, I looked for and found Lexi’s car gone. She was most likely at Ben’s place. They’d been spending all their time together, the invitations for me to join them coming few and far between. As much as I hated to admit it, it was too hard being around them, and the rest of the Sergeants, less the Sergeant I still dreamed about.

“Where did you go?” Nate whispered across the cabin of his SUV.

“Nowhere. Come on, my roommate isn’t home.”

“Lexi?” he asked, hopping out of his truck.

“Yeah, I don’t see her much. We’ve been best friends since junior high. I was following some douche between classes, tripped, fell, and ended up with my little pleated skirt with the big white bow around my waist. She was there to pick me up off the floor.” And history was repeating itself.

The rumble of Nate’s laugh echoed at my back. I hesitated as he stood behind me at the door. It was too late to un-invite him, and I didn’t want to overthink it. Aside from the hand full of lingering stares between us, the night had been easy. I loved easy. Once the door was open, he rushed past me.

“Which one is yours?”

“What?” I asked with my hand still on the light switch. “Where are you going?”

Realization dawned, and my face flamed when he found my room and made a beeline for my closet. “Oh, well, these are just magical.”

I paused at my bedroom door as he held my solid white roller skates in his hands.

“You are an ass,” I said, walking toward the small bookcase I had next to my bed. I plucked Fight Club from the shelf and walked his way.

“Where’s the dress, Stella?” he said, sifting through my racks of T-shirts.

“I don’t have one.” I had three.

“Put these on and I’ll give you a raise.”

“Really?”

“No,” he said with a chuckle as he re-shelved my skates. “What’s this? A real record player? Is this closet a time warp?”

“It was my father’s,” I said as he clicked it on and gently put the needle to the record—Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. My parents had come down the past weekend with the last of my things from my room, including my father’s old turntable—my prized possession, which sat on a solid oak stand in my large closet next to my other prized possession, my collection of Converse.

“These are your favorite,” he stated, grabbing my ruby red, canvas high tops with black laces and “Drive” lyrics written all over them.

“How could you tell?”

“Least worn. The rest are worn.”

“I’ve had them since high school.”

“So, that’s when the little habit started?”

I bit my lips to hide my smile. A true reporter to the bone, Nate left no stone unturned as he carefully picked through my life, pictures, and cards. I slapped his hand when he grabbed my high school journal and he gave me a panty-melting smile. “Anything good in here?”