“What are you having?” She smiles at me.

I open the other menu in front of her and point to the word at the top. “What do you see when you look at that?”

She scrunches up her nose. “I see someone who thinks he can teach me to read.” She closes the menu. “Believe me, better people than you have tried.”

“Who tried?” I ask.

She takes a sip of her root beer through a straw, her lips pursing around it. “A better question would be who didn’t try. I have been poked and prodded and put through special ed and been to therapists who thought they could unlock my brain. No one could.”

She doesn’t look upset by this. She just looks resigned to it. I open the menu back up, just because I’m curious. I point to the word at the top of the page again. “What does that say?” I ask.

She looks down at it and closes it. “I know words,” she says. She looks like she really wants to explain it to me, and I really want to hear it. “I can spell words. And I know what they mean. It’s just the way they lay on the page that’s hard for me.” She shrugs. “I don’t expect you to understand.” She’s looking everywhere but at me now, and I wish I hadn’t pushed it.

“So, you know the words, and how to spell them in your head?” That baffles me.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” She laughs, but there’s no smile on her face. “Dyslexia’s a bitch.”

The waitress reappears with a basket full of bread and places it in the center of the table. Kit reaches for a piece and I wonder if she ate today.

“Did you decide what you want?” the waitress asks. I point to the chicken parmigiana. She nods and looks at me funny. She’s catching on that something isn’t right. But apparently, she still finds me intriguing.

“What’s good?” Kit asks her. She did this same thing at the diner. It must be how she copes.

“The chicken parmigiana is amazing,” she says, smiling down at me. Kit’s not impressed. “But the alfredo is my favorite.”

I raise my brows at her in encouragement. She laughs. “Ok, but if I don’t like it, I’m taking your chicken,” she warns. I nod. “I’ll take the alfredo,” she says to the waitress.

Kit lifts a piece of bread to her lips and takes a bite. A crumb sticks to her lip and I want to reach over and catch it, and bring it to my lips. But I don’t dare. I have her at dinner with me. If I push her too hard, she’s going to run away.

“Did you eat today?” I blurt out.

Her face flushes and she nods. She’s lying. I’m sure of it.

I push the bread basket toward her and say, “Eat.” She takes another piece.

She chews silently for a minute and then she looks at me. Her face is soft when she says, “What you did for that woman in the shop, with the tattoos…” I nod when she stops. She’s referring to the nipple tats. “That was amazing and beautiful. Where did you learn to do that?”

I shrug. I don’t remember learning it. I just knew I could draw it. And if I can draw it, I can run a tat of it. “I think she was pleased.”

“Are you kidding?” She slaps the table. “She was ecstatic. And they really were beautiful. Like art. Can I see your tattoos?” she asks hesitantly.

I’m wearing my coat, so I have to shrug out of it to show her. I want to show her my art. I drew most of them, and my brothers put them on me. But I take my coat off and lay my hands face down on the table. She leans over, looking closely. I have full sleeves, which means I have tats from my neck all the way to my wrists.

She touches the lips on my forearm with a light finger. The hair on my arms stands up, but I pretend I don’t notice. “Why did you get this one?” she asks.

I smile. “That one goes with this one.” I point to my other arm. “It’s something my mother used to say.”

Her forehead crinkles as she looks at the cross on my other arm.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I explain. “In my case, I have a lot of distance between my lips and God’s ears. That’s why they’re on different arms.”

“Do you see your mother often?” she asks. She’s still eating bread, and that’s good. I want to keep talking to her so she’ll keep eating. I know she hasn’t eaten today.

I shake my head. “She died a few years ago.”

“Oh.” Her mouth stops moving, and she swallows hard. “I’m so sorry.”

I shrug. It was a freak accident.

“And your dad?” she asks.

“He left after Mom died,” I explain. This part is always difficult. “There were just too many of us, I think.” I laugh. But it’s not funny.

“So, it’s just you and your brothers?” she asks.

I nod. “Paul took responsibility for everyone when our dad left. He had to so we wouldn’t all be split up.”

“Wow.” That’s all she says. Just wow. She looks baffled.

“We make do,” I explain. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me. “How about you? Where’s your family?” I wait, like a kid in a candy store.

But she shakes her head. “No,” she says.

“That’s not fair,” I say.

She holds up a finger, just like I do to her all the time. “I know it’s not fair,” she says. “But it’s better if you don’t know.”