Page 61 of Some Sort of Love (Happy Crazy Love 3)
“OK, darling, don’t get upset. Without seeing you two every day like I used to, I don’t know the situation. Tell me about the IEP.”
I filled her in on things at school, and she appeared genuinely concerned. “He wet himself? On purpose?”
“Yes. Hoping that it would delay going to school, so he could miss the math test.”
“Oh, the poor thing. I hope he doesn’t do that at school. The kids would be so cruel.”
“I worry about that too,” I admitted. “But I can’t control how other people react to him. I’m trying to help by getting him a few more accommodations at school, but it’s an uphill battle. And I hate those meetings.”
“Why?”
“Because the focus is always on what he’s not doing, or what he’s doing wrong. He has a lot of gifts, and he’s so smart. Why can’t they figure out a way to help him learn based on what he does well? Why force a kid to take a test the same way as every other kid when, neurologically, he is not like those kids?”
“What would help?”
“More time. A separate room without any noise or distractions for testing. Allowing him to give verbal answers.”
“I thought you wanted him in a regular classroom.”
“I do. I’m talking about having a safe space at school where he can go if he needs it. Maybe an aide for at least part of the day.”
“I see.” She lifted her shoulders. “That sounds reasonable.”
“You’d think.”
Our sandwiches arrived, and she waited until the server had refilled our drinks and left before saying anything else.
“OK, I can’t take it anymore. Tell me about her.”
For a second, I blanked. But one look at her eager expression, and I realized. Fucking Monica. I picked up one half of my sandwich. “Her name is Jillian Nixon. She’s a pediatrician.”
“Is she related to Dale and Bunny Nixon?”
“No clue. But I don’t think so. She grew up on a cherry farm on Old Mission.”
“Hm. Maybe a different family, then. I think Dale was originally from downstate.” She looked a little disappointed, then flapped a hand before picking up her sandwich. “Oh well. So tell me more. Monica mentioned you met her at a wedding?”
“Yes.” I gave her a sanitized version of our meeting eleven years ago and told her we’d run into each other—sort of literally—at Sebastian’s wedding.
“The lawyer?”
“Yes. His wife is Jillian’s sister.”
“How nice.” She smiled and touched her lips with her napkin. “So you’ve been seeing her about a month?”
“About that.”
“And it’s going well?”
“It is.”
I said nothing further, and she sighed dramatically. “For heaven’s sake, Levi. You’re killing me.”
“How so?”
“Because this is the first woman you’ve talked about in years, and I’m thrilled for you, and you won’t give me more than the vital stats and two-word answers.”
I swallowed a bite. “It’s new.”
