Page 88 of Sweet T
Tucker took the China House takeout menu from him. Slowly, he said, “‘China House restaurant wa–wa...’”
“Was,” Evan said.
Tucker looked at Evan, then continued, “‘w–was established in 2007. And so gr–gr–’”
“Great.”
“‘and so g–great was the longing for r–real Chinese c–cu–’”
“Cuisine. That’s enough, though.” Evan took Tucker's large hand into both of his own. “T, I think you’re dyslexic.”
“No, I’m not. I just can’t read well.”
Evan gave a slight smile. “Honey, that’s what dyslexia is. At least part of it. Has someone ever diagnosed you?”
“No. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Evan pulled him close in a hug. “That’s my point. You can’t help it. It’s a neurological condition. It’s got nothing to do with intelligence. You just see things a little differently. Similarly shaped letters or similar sounding words, I think. I don’t really remember all the symptoms. I’m surprised it never came up when you were in school.”
“I told you my grades were bad. Shelly and P helped me some, though... enough to pass.”
“And your daddy was wrapped up in all things Javy.”
Tucker nodded.
“God, it’s all making sense now. You don’t write things down at work–sales tickets. It drives Ben crazy trying to remember everything you ask for. And that note you left me, the short sentences. Confidence, self-esteem–don’t you see, T? It’s all linked.”
“I’m sorry, Ev.”
“No. Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault. You’re just wired differently.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I wrote a research paper on dyslexia in high school. But maybe there’s new stuff now. Let’s Google it.” Evan picked up his phone and punched in a search. “Says here that there is no proper test for it. That treatment is best early on–well, that sucks–and that the condition is often undiagnosed. Well, that should make you feel better.”
“Not really.”
“Also says treatment involves stimulation of the other senses.”
“Stimulation, huh? That sounds promising.”
Evan bypassed the innuendo. “Tell you what. From now on, every night we’ll read for an hour.”
Tucker groaned, palms and face colliding.
“Let me finish. We’ll find something you like, and I’ll read it aloud to you simultaneously, or we’ll get the audiobook. Either way, you’ll hear it as you're reading it. I think that will help you.”
“Pedro used to read to me in bed. I liked that. But those were kid books.”
“What do you like movie-wise? Mysteries? Thrillers?”
“Not really.”
“How about westerns?”
Tucker’s eye roll would have made Shelly proud.
“What about romance? Wait—what about gay romance?”