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Chapter Forty-One
Jake…Dee…I picked up a couple of ribeyes and sausage…Send
I liked referring to him like his dad had whenever I could sneak it in. For the last few weeks, since we beat the Tornadoes in Albuquerque, Dwayne had been acting squirrely. I came upon him and Coach Mark at the team’s family gathering the day after the big parade in Sacramento and overheard Dwayne saying, “Thanks for helping with this. I feel like I’m getting a second chance. Scared as hell but ready.” I kept walking past them because it sounded conspiratorial, some big secret that I wasn’t in on. I kept telling myself, you are so damn lucky to live this life, so be happy about everything. Not to let little things get under my skin, even though I felt like my friend was keeping something from me, or the fact that my girlfriend had to fly back to L.A. the day after we won and couldn’t participate in the parade or any of the Sacramento festivities.
The media outlets had been unrelenting with questions about her absence. I knew she’d see the interviews, so I spoke about her career and how proud I was of her for pursuing her dreams. I laid it on thick, but damn if a part of me wasn’t looking around at my teammates’ wives and girlfriends, wishing that she was with me. If I’m being honest, I had to bury that niggling voice that kept shouting, she should be with you, be by your side.
Dwayne made it clear he wanted it to be just us tonight. We needed to celebrate us. We had been there for each other, even if there’d been a few rough patches where he wanted to slug me because I got up in his shit. We were joined in a way I had never imagined feeling with another guy, truly a brother. I guess I never really thought about the fact that I’d lost a brother before I was born. Dwayne had scooted around my question this morning. “What’s up with you?” I asked, and he responded, “I’m going to tell you tonight. It’s good, and you’re going to be happy. I’ll need some of that Skyler cheerleader shit to see this through.” I swirled a few scenarios in my head but couldn’t settle on what might be happening with him.
I also had something big to confess, which had consumed my being since Thanksgiving. Fuck, it hit me hard; I have to ask Matt. I’d almost forgotten that as I started planning how I was going to roll this out.
Dwayne: Enough with the Dee shit! Almost there…need a gallon of whiskey…Send
I chuckled, catching his text while preparing the marinade for the steaks before slicing avocados and tomatoes and tossing them with some kale I had macerated. I didn’t hide my eye roll when Melissa explained that you had to massage this particular lettuce just to make it edible. Once you did that and chopped it into tiny bits, combining it with avocadoes, tomatoes, and freshly grated parmesan, then coated it with a creamy dressing, this green shit that was supposed to be good for you tasted awesome. Dwayne didn’t like to eat a lot of stuff with meat, so I threw this together to act like we were giving a nod to health when we consumed the ribeye and sausage, as well as my famous garlic bread. It wasn’t special, but I became known for it with the team. I mashed elephant garlic and fresh herbs into olive oil and let it infuse before smothering it on sliced sourdough bread. Then came the key: throwing that bread on the grill for a few seconds. You’d think I deserved a Michelin star for the way the guys horked it down, groaning that it was the best thing they’d ever eaten.
I grabbed two high balls from the cabinet, plopped a large ice cube in each before letting the amber liquid spill over the cube, and filled the glass. I needed this, too; my nerves thrummed just thinking about the box in my pocket.
The door flew open, and there was only one dude who would enter my house like a bull. There was no knock, nothing. He just barged into my living room, his hand out not for me to shake but ready for me to put a drink in it.
I greeted him with, “Honey, I’m glad you're home; how was work?” in a fake high-pitched voice.
He grabbed the glass, shaking his head, his black eyes wild; he tipped the glass back, literally dumping the whiskey down his throat. He grunted, then barked, “Keep them coming.”
“Jesus, what the hell? You look like you just got sideswiped or pulled over or…”
“Or like a guy who finally decided to confront…” His eyes dropped to the floor, and he lowered his chin.
“Dwayne,” I whispered, taking his glass and pouring more of the orangish liquid into it. “Hey bro, Dwayne?”
He looked at me, somberness shifting his usually animated features. “I finally decided to face my dyslexia head-on. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would overly mother me about it. I just needed to do this on my own, fix what teachers and everyone ignored because I could play ball.”
I knew exactly what he was talking about; it had crossed my mind a few times, but I never called him on it. It’s our unsaid code. We don’t confront shit like that unless we know the other wants to open it up. “Okay, proud of you,” I said, trying not to show the emotion pushing against my eyes. I smiled and added, “Really, I mean that…you should be proud of yourself.”
“So you know,” he asked, his tone matter of fact.
“I suspected a few times, but…”
“Yeah, sucks being a grown-ass man who can’t read. Believe me, I tried on my own, but my brain just jumps to the wrong words.”
“Dyslexia, it’s more common than most people realize…” I added.
He sipped his whiskey before dropping into one of the leather chairs next to my couch. “Yeah, like more than ten percent of the population.”
“So you’re getting professional help?” I asked, not an ounce of concern in my voice. I kept my tone flat, like we were talking about a new restaurant or something that didn’t really matter in life. Dwayne gets buggy when I get emotional about anything to do with him.
“Coach Mark set me up with an evaluation at a center that specializes in adults with dyslexia. They have a program designed to ‘unteach’ me all the bad habits I learned so I could fake like I knew how to read. I guess lots of people with dyslexia learn to pretend early, which actually hurts them later on.”
“I never thought about that,” I said, lifting my glass. “It's a big step, and it's good for you.”
“There’s a twist,” he mumbled. “And it’s fucking crazy.”
I sat forward, responding to the earnestness in his voice. “What?”
“The director of the center, the teacher,” he said oddly, over-emphasizing teacher, like there was some hidden meaning, which was weird.
“Who, who, the teacher who oversees the testing,” he resumed with a shocked, jutted cadence.
My ass perched on the edge of the chair, matching the way his torso bent forward as if he were going to tell me he got someone pregnant or something life-changing.
