Molly's Mr. Wrong

OKAY. MOLLY HAD surprised him. Finn was going to give her points for that, even if she had pissed him off. And she wasn’t exactly the meek girl he’d taken on the mercy date at the behest of his mom ten or so years ago. She’d just freaking called him a chicken.

And dyslexia?

Yeah, right.

Finn’s mouth tightened as he wheeled out of the parking lot. He’d decided to try a few classes to better his life, not to make it worse. The satisfaction he got from finding out he could still do math—that he really liked to do math—was deeply overshadowed by the fact that he sucked at English. That he’d been passed along by his teachers. No...that wasn’t what bothered him most. It was the fact that it had been so clear to Molly that had happened. And meanwhile the thought had never crossed his mind.

When Finn got home, he paced through the house. Normally, in his old life, he would have gone to McElroy’s, but after last night, he didn’t think that strategy was going to work like it used to. The last thing he wanted was to become a bar fixture like Wyatt. Times had changed. Everything around him seemed to have changed.

And his house was ridiculously empty when he walked inside and let the door swing shut behind him.

Son of a bitch. He was losing it. That was what was happening. He needed to get a grip and make some decisions here.

He’d make decisions in the morning.

Finn put on a pot of coffee and headed out the side door of the house and followed the packed dirt path to the shop. He snapped on the lights and then slowly walked around the 1972 Ford three-quarter-ton he’d bought at an auction before heading off overseas, his steps echoing as he paced the concrete in the metal building. There was a skittering sound in one corner of the room and he figured that if there were mice in the corners, then there were mice in his truck. He’d have to do something about that.

He walked over to the arc welder, which he hadn’t touched since coming back, the sheet metal leaning against the wall. The hammers and anvils and forms his father had left when he’d moved south to live in a condo on a golf course—his lifelong dream finally achieved. Finn closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath that wasn’t tainted with grain dust. Just the good smell of grease and oil and metal. He’d done a couple quick walk-throughs after returning home, but he hadn’t actually put his hand to anything. Now the big question was...where to start?

* * *

GEORGINA GOT HOME a little after midnight—kind of late, since she had classes the next morning, but Molly reminded herself that just because she hadn’t gone out and done college stuff until she’d hooked up with Blake, it didn’t mean that Georgina couldn’t. And shouldn’t.

But still...she had an eight o’clock class the next morning.

“So much fun,” Georgina said as she dumped her purse and denim jacket on the chair and settled in next to Molly. “Chips?” She nodded at the half-full bowl, a sure sign that Molly was dealing with some kind of stress. “I thought you were all caught up on your schoolwork.” Her expression hardened before Molly could answer. “Did Blake call?”

“I’m happy to say that hasn’t happened.”

“Then...?”

Molly gave a dismissive shrug. “Sometimes I just like chips.” Too bad this wasn’t one of those times. But at least Blake wasn’t behind this stress—just someone kind of like Blake. Great-looking. Confident. Astounded at the idea that he wasn’t perfect.

“You need to come to this place,” Georgina said as she kicked off her shoes. She stretched out her legs and slumped back into the cushions, closing her eyes.

“Once I get my feet under me job-wise, maybe I will.”

“Promise?” Georgina asked.

“No.”

“Stick-in-the-mud.”

“That’s me.” Molly took another chip and nibbled the edge. She knew better than to keep chips in the house during potential times of stress, but at least she hadn’t gotten out the French onion dip.

Georgina yawned and got back to her feet. “Staying up?”

“For a while.”

Georgina started for the bathroom. “Don’t stay up too late,” she admonished.

Molly didn’t bother to answer. She got to her feet and took the chips into the kitchen, where she dumped the remainder of the bowl into the trash. Finn wasn’t going to push her back into old habits.

CHAPTER SIX (#u2213cc01-aaea-57f2-a73e-df80b9e16e6a)

DYS...LEX...IA.

Finn typed the word into the search engine. He’d held off for three days, working on his truck as soon as he got home and avoiding his computer. But Molly had planted a seed that refused to die and now he figured if nothing else, he could prove her wrong. He clicked the first site that wasn’t trying to sell him something.

Take this quiz.

All right...

Finn took the quiz, which had to do with how well he remembered and organized and spelled. He spelled okay—he’d spelled dyslexia correctly after only one misfire. Obviously he was poor at organizing written work, but that was probably because he’d never paid much attention in English class—which explained a hell of a lot, really. He did have trouble with left and right—hated it when he had to come up with a direction quickly off the top of his head, but that didn’t prove anything. Pronunciation? Well, if he didn’t know a word, he didn’t say it. Slow reader? Not really...hmm...maybe...

He gave a small snort.

Define slow.

After finishing the quiz, he took another. By the time he finished the third, he had to admit that some of the symptoms seemed familiar.

Finn leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head as he studied the screen with his score. Maybe he was talking himself into having the symptoms.

Or maybe he needed to face the fact that he might actually be dyslexic.

But what were the chances of Molly picking up on it, while none of his English teachers had?

Probably pretty good if he was being passed along, as Molly had suggested. He’d had no aspirations for college. He’d made that clear to anyone who listened, so why not give him those inflated grades when the school’s reputation in sports needed to be upheld?

Finn didn’t like that possibility. He’d been happy with his Cs in English that he’d barely worked for, but had never questioned whether or not they had been a gift. Back then his biggest concern had been the next sporting event, the next party, the next anything-that-didn’t-have-to-do-with-school. He’d done his schoolwork, because his parents would have had his hide if he hadn’t, but he never considered the fact that maybe not everyone had the difficulty he had with some classes. School was supposed to be hard—and it was.

But maybe it shouldn’t have been as difficult as it’d been for him.

Finn got to his feet and paced through the house, then went back to the computer and started typing into the search engine box.

Professional dyslexia diagnosis...

Strategies to overcome dyslexia symptoms...

Famous people with dyslexia...

Athletes with dyslexia...

Smart people with dyslexia...

Finally, almost an hour later, he turned his computer off and headed for the kitchen, where he poured a glass of water and then took a couple aspirin for the headache that had started beating against his temples.

If he was dyslexic, then he had to deal with it, and from what he’d gleaned, a formal diagnosis wasn’t going to get him anywhere, because there was no cure or medication or anything. Just strategies to overcome symptoms.