Born in the Valley. Tara Quinn Taylor

there.

      According to the note he’d left on his mirror last night, she’d mentioned that she planned to move the reading corner to the other side of the room today.

      He could help.

      He could talk to her.

      “Hi,” he said, trying to force his voice to respond to the commands he was giving it—trying to sound the way he had when he’d spoken to her during high school.

      She’d wanted him then.

      Facing a ceiling-high shelf, her arms full of the books she was pulling down, Bonnie turned to look at him over one shoulder.

      “Hi, Shane.” Her easy grin settled so much of the uncertainty that was constantly there inside him.

      He wanted to grin back, but was afraid his mouth would get that crooked hitch that came and went for no reason he could figure out. He didn’t want her to see that stupid look. Not ever.

      “I can help,” he said, keeping his words to a minimum, as he always did around her. He hated the way his speech slowed and slurred. He’d never get used to that.

      “You don’t have to,” she said. “You’ve been working all day.”

      “So have you.”

      She’d let him stay. She always did. And she always talked to him. Bonnie was the only person in his hometown who still treated him like a man.

      She didn’t smother him with the pity that stripped him of what little pride he had left.

      He removed some books from the shelves, taking care to keep his movements slow so he could control them. Bumbling around in front of Bonnie was humiliating.

      “It’s not quitting time for you yet, is it? You’ve still got your own work to do,” she said, her brows knitting together as she watched him.

      “I got it done.” So that he’d have this time with her. He’d come in early, rearranged the order of a couple of jobs to be more efficient. He’d figured that out on his own and was really proud of himself that it had worked.