I slow the car and turn into the tiny parking lot, my gut sinking. There aren’t many parking options at the oyster bar, it’s the lot or the street. And being downtown on the same night as a Cardinals home game, there’s no way in hell I’m parking on the street. Some drunk fucker plowing his car into the side of my baby is the last thing I need. I’ll risk a door ding in the parking lot.
Killing the engine, I hop out and stride over to Harper’s side. I offer my hand and she slides her palm against mine, standing. My eyes roam over her body, drinking her in like a bottle of the finest tequila. Despite being short, she has long, shapely legs. Her tight black jeans accentuate each curve, especially her ass. Damn. I shake off the image of running my palm over her backside and blow out a breath, slipping my hand into my pocket—a nonchalant attempt at adjusting my pants around my hard-on. Concentrate on safer territory, Thor.
My eyes zero in on her chest, not safer territory on most occasions, but tonight, Harper is wearing a leopard-print scarf, effectively hiding any skin. God bless you, Harper. The scarf is cute and will help keep my head in the “get to know you” game instead of the “let’s fuck” game, where I’m so used to spending my time. Getting to know someone is a foreign concept to me.
Harper flips her long hair over her shoulder, exposing the ivory skin of her neck, and I wonder what it will feel like on my lips. Shit. My attempt at pure thoughts didn’t last long. I’m going to have to settle for getting to know her and wanting to take her to bed, because in all honesty, I want to do both.
Hand in hand, we walk down the sidewalk. Dixieland jazz blasts from inside the restaurant, pouring out onto street, and I hope we can get a seat away from the stage, my ears are still ringing from having the radio up so loud in the car, not that I have any regrets. I would have turned it up louder if it had been possible, anything to keep her smiling.
I glance at Harper and squeeze her hand. She turns her head in my direction and gives me an easy, crooked smile. God I love her smile, it speaks louder than any words.
* * *
I shove my empty plate away, and fall against the back of my chair, stuffed. I need a cigarette, but I’ll wait. No way am I leaving Harper sitting alone while I go outside for a smoke; that would be a jackass move.
Harper picks up the pen sitting beside her plate and writes on the napkin, having given up texting in place of writing. She mentioned earlier that she prefers writing to texting; it’s more personal. I agree. Texting is cold, no intimacy. There’s something sexy about Harper’s loopy, half-cursive, half-printed words on the white napkin.
Would you like my last oyster? I’m full. She lays the pen down and slides the napkin toward me, pointing to her plate.
I snatch the pen and napkin from her and scribble my comment beneath her question, No thank you. I flip the napkin around so she can read my answer.
She makes her hand flat, touching the tips of her fingers to her head and pulling it away while lowering her index, middle, and ring fingers. “Why? Don’t like them?” I read her lips.
“I’m allergic to shellfish,” I say, wondering what her voice sounds like. She hasn’t spoken all evening. I want to ask her why she doesn’t speak, but for some reason, that question seems too personal for a first date.
Harper’s eyes go wide, a look of horror on her face. She pulls her plate closer to her body—any closer and her scarf will be swimming in cocktail sauce. I laugh and touch her arm, “It’s fine. I can be around oysters, just can’t eat them.”
Exaggerating her relief, she wipes imaginary sweat from her forehead and exhales, her shoulders deflating. Grinning, she pushes her plate to the side and picks up the pen, writing, Are you allergic to anything else? Please say you’re not allergic to peanuts!
I opt for writing my answer this time. Gives me the opportunity to touch her. With the pen in her hand, I deliberately brush my fingers over hers, lingering longer than necessary, sliding my fingertips over her slender knuckles. Clutching the pen, I swivel the napkin around and lean over, pressing the tip to the paper. This close, I can feel her breath on my hand. My eyes flick upward, landing on her parted lips. Her tongue slips between them, licking, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to lean in a little farther and pull her tongue against my mouth.
Harper looks at me, raising her eyebrows, waiting for my answer. I shake off my lusty urges and focus on the paper. Only shellfish. And why shouldn’t I be allergic to peanuts? I raise an eyebrow, smirking.
She motions for the pen and I drop it into her waiting palm. Oh, good! Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are my favorite food! It would be tragic if I didn’t get to share them with you. What’s your favorite?
I lift my head and stare into her sea glass–green eyes. Her words cut deep, touching a place no one has ever been—a place I keep sealed off. In all these years, no woman has ever told me her favorite food. Favorite positions, yes. But not food. That would be too domestic, too personal. Although, I never cared enough to ask. When it comes to my past liaisons, there was never much talking, period. It’s easier to fuck, then to let someone get to know me. Just as the old adage says, “Like father, like son.” The risk of becoming my father is too great. With a one-night stand, no one gets hurt. There are no expectations other than a good time. So, what am I doing letting Harper get close to me? I pick up my beer and drain it. Harper is a cool chick, why would I lead her into a relationship knowing how it will inevitably end—my parents aren’t stellar relationship role models, and I’m a fucking moron for getting involved with this woman.
Tossing back the last swallow of her cranberry martini, Harper sets the glass on the table and taps her index finger on the napkin, next to her question, just as our waiter appears at the table.
“Can I get you two anything else?” he asks, shifting his gaze from Harper to me, and back again.
Harper shakes her head and smiles.
“No dessert?” I offer, trying my damnedest to get my head focused on positive thoughts.
She shakes her head again and signs, “Too much. I’m full.” I’m glad she mouths the words, or I’d be lost. Although, I like watching her sign, her movements are so fluid; it’s mesmerizing.
“All right then, I’ll get your check.” The waiter shuffles the menus he’s holding and turns to leave.
Harper smiles and picks up with our conversation, splaying the fingers of her right hand outward, a slight bend in her middle finger, tapping it on her chin. She points to the napkin. Lowering my gaze, I reread what she’d written last: What’s your favorite? I set the ballpoint to the paper and scribble down the first thing that pops into my head, Chicken and dumplings. When I was a kid, I used to ask my mom for chicken and dumplings every year on my birthday. I turned seven the last time she’d made them. I hate talking about this shit. I’ve got to change the subject.
Harper pulls the pen from my grip and slides the napkin toward her. What’s your family like? Any brothers or sisters? Laying the pen on the napkin, she pushes them back to me.
Fucked up. I think it, I don’t write it. For the first time tonight, I notice how loud the restaurant has gotten. Wall-to-wall people. Everyone vying for airtime, trying to make their words louder than the band rocking on stage. If Harper and I had been talking, we would be shouting. It amazes me how quiet our conversation has been, like we’re the only two people in the room. But with that one question, the world comes crashing back in—reality, louder than feedback on a live mic, and just as painful.
What is there to say about my parents? Everything started off normal, then one day my dad gambled away his life savings, started drinking, and used my mom and me as punching bags? She doesn’t want to hear that shit. No siblings. My parents are separated. Mom’s great. Dad’s an ass. What about yours? Short and simple. I toss the question back to her, hoping she has it better in the parent department.
“Sorry,” she signs, just as her phone flashes. Picking it up, she glances at the screen and rolls her eyes. It’s subtle, but I catch the hint of annoyance. I wonder who pissed her off. Setting the phone facedown, she turns her attention back to me, along with a smile.
All evening, I’ve studied her smiles: big ones, small ones, and those in between. I may not be able to hear her voice, or speak her language, but I know when she squints her eyes, and fine lines appear at the outer corners, accompanied by a full-on, toothy grin, she’s bubbling over with excitement, or happiness. Or when she’s embarrassed, her smile is faint and she rolls her eyes before averting them, looking downward as she tucks her head into her left shoulder, trying to hide. I’m a quick study when it comes to Harper King. And, when she signs “Sorry,” her features soften and fall. All telltale lines of joy disappear from her face, and I know she really is sorry. Not a passive “sorry,” the kind you’d give an acquaintance, but a heartfelt, meaningful sentiment saved for someone you care about. But, in between all of her smiles, there’s the look I saw when she read her text message.
Pen still in hand, I yank the napkin back and add another sentence. Everything all right? It’s cool if you need to text someone back.
She takes the pen from my grasp, her fingers sending sparks of electricity through my body when she touches me. I watch as her hand gracefully forms each letter, curling it into the next. When she’s finished, she turns the napkin around and pushes it toward me.
I don’t have any brothers or sisters, either. My parents and I have a complicated relationship. They live back east, in New Hampshire. I live here. Less drama. My mom’s texting, but she can wait.
After reading her words, I look up. She presses her lips together and shrugs. Like me, she just scratched the surface, not giving away too much, but just enough. It seems we’ve found kindred spirits in each other when it comes to our families. I make a fist and repeat her motion, signing, “Sorry.”
Harper’s thin-lipped smile grows, the creases at the corner of her eyes fan out, and she nods in approval, pointing to my hand before giving me a thumbs-up.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I get the words out faster when I speak, steering our conversation away from all the family talk. I do not want to talk about my fucking dad.
Harper pulls her eyebrows up and nods, giving me the go-ahead.
“Have you always been deaf?” I hope she doesn’t think I’m a dick for asking.
Bending her head over the napkin, she writes fast. I was almost three when I lost my hearing. Meningitis. I was really sick. My parents said I almost died. I was so little when it happened, I don’t remember being able to hear. Just vague memories of being so sick. I was in a lot of pain.
Shit. How am I supposed to respond to that? I take up the pen, buying myself an extra second to come up with a response that doesn’t make me sound like the world’s biggest prick. I’m sorry. I scrawl, for lack of a better reply.
Harper waves away my comment, and the expression on her face doesn’t scream “offended.” No reason to be sorry. Being deaf is all I know. It’s my normal. Can’t miss something that I don’t remember having, right? She shrugs.
She is right. There really is no such thing as normal—only the sum of an individual’s perspective and experience. I rub my cheek, scratching the stubble on my chin, soaking in my philosophical revelation. I should be writing this shit down, there’s a song in there somewhere.
Harper holds up her index finger and quickly jots something else down. Now it’s my turn to ask something personal—she lifts her head, wagging her eyebrows—where did the name “Thorin” come from? It’s so different.
Her hand is wrapped around the pen and I pluck it free, like it was stuck in an inkwell. My grandpa—Mom’s dad—was a huge Tolkien fan. He passed away before I was born, but my mom honored his love of Middle-earth and named me after Thorin Oakenshield, the king of the dwarves. It could have been worse. You could be on a date with Bilbo or Frodo. I look at her, cringing. Everyone calls me Thor, though.
Harper laughs silently, shoulders shaking. Brushing her index finger twice on the tip of her nose, I read, “Funny!” on her lips. With her right hand, she tucks her thumb between her index and middle fingers, deftly moving them into four different positions, while mouthing my name.
I’ve been entranced by her signing all night, but damn if that wasn’t the sexiest. My name on her lips…and in her hands. My dick twitches as dirty thoughts invade my head…other parts of me are eager to meet her mouth and hands.
“Mind if we get out of here?” I say, “There’s some place I’d like to show you.” I know it’s late, but I want more time with her, alone. It’s a bad, fucking idea to go down this path, I don’t even come close enough to being good enough for her, but selfishly, I can’t let go.
Harper nods and picks up the pen again. I’d like that. What’s the place? She turns the napkin.
Somewhere I go when I need quiet, I write. Smiling, I rub a nervous hand over my chin. Town and Country Pools: it’s abandoned, secluded, and been my hideout for years. The one place I can go to disappear from the world for a while.
Once I settle the bill, Harper lays the napkin from her lap, on the table, and shoulders her purse. I come around the table and slip my arm around her waist. We make our way through the heavy crowd.
As I put my palm to the door, ready to push it open, I remember the napkin with our conversation. Tapping Harper on the shoulder, I hold up one finger and say, “Forgot something. Be right back.” Before I know if she understood, I turn and jog back to our table, dodging servers and customers, hoping the table hasn’t been bussed.
It’s still a mess, the napkin with our conversation lying next to Harper’s plate. Picking it up, I fold it into a small square and slide it into my pocket. I can’t explain it, but the thought of our first real conversation ending up in a landfill doesn’t sit right with me.
I pat my pocket and make my way back to Harper, ready to share with her the one place I’ve never shared with anyone.