Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, the events of last night on a continuous loop in my head. I touch my lips—still a little sore—and a smile creeps to my mouth. I don’t know what came over me; I’ve never reacted like that on a first date. I don’t know this Harper, but damn, if she gets to have more make-out sessions with Thorin Kline, I welcome her with open arms.
Squeezing my abs, I pull myself up, stretching my hands over my head, yawning. Seconds later, I’m greeted with little wet licks on my cheek. Bobby. I pull his warm body close and bury my face in this furry neck, snuggling him.
Stroking his head, I glance at my bedside clock, the display reads 6:57 a.m. And why am I up this early? Bobby swipes his tongue over my nose, nuzzling my face.
Oh, right. Someone needs to go outside. Bobby doesn’t seem to care that I just got home five hours ago. For a second, I contemplate rolling over, throwing the covers on my head, and going back to sleep (and with any luck, dream of Thor), but I’ve got to study, and I don’t want Bobby leaving me any “gifts” in my bedroom. Besides, I can’t let one amazing date get in the way of something I’ve worked for years to achieve. The end is almost in sight, I can’t lose focus now.
But there won’t be any focus without coffee.
I pat my leg and Bobby leaps off the bed, landing at my feet. Opening the door, we shuffle down the hall to the staircase. The living room is dark, except for the light spilling from the kitchen doorway—Chloe must be up. I hop off the last step and head to the back door before I sneak into the kitchen.
Unlatching the sliding door, I yank it open, and Bobby runs outside. I turn toward the kitchen, and walk in to see it’s been transformed into a baker’s wonderland. Mixing bowls, pans, a standing mixer, and a variety of different size spoons cover the countertops. On the other side of the kitchen, Chloe’s camera is perched on a tripod. Sweet Nothings filming day.
What is the date? Looking across the room, my eyes land on the giant dry-erase calendar hanging on the wall. Chloe always films on the second Saturday of the month, and sure enough, there’s a cupcake magnet sitting in the square. I need to make my coffee and get out of her way, the last thing I want is to be roped into being on the show. I’ve been on my fair share of Sweet Nothings webisodes, but I don’t have time today. Nothing is going to keep me from reviewing case studies of neonatal treatment plans. I had my wild and crazy last night, now it’s time to get back to reality.
I empty a mug of water into the reservoir tank of the coffeemaker and slide my cup under the spout. I toss a coffee pod into the machine and press the button. The Keurig trembles to life under my palms and the scents of coffee and vanilla beans swirl around the kitchen. The smell alone is enough to jolt my tired eyes open a little wider, anticipating that first sip of caffeine nirvana.
Chloe rounds the corner and stops short when she sees me. She’s wearing a short, black chemise with gold embellishments adorning the plunging neckline, and see-through lace that outlines the delicate curves of her breasts, showing just a hint of skin. As usual, her hair and makeup are flawless.
Hands fisted, I shimmy and run them from my shoulders to my waist, wagging my eyebrows, “Sexy. What are you baking today?”
Chloe glances downward, rubbing a hand over the shiny, black satin clinging to her frame and brings her eyes back to mine. “Not sure I like this.” With a halfhearted smile and one-shoulder shrug, she isn’t oozing her usual, bubbly self-confidence.
“Why not? You look amazing. It’s sensual and tasteful all at the same time. Perfect combo.”
Joining me at the counter, Chloe opens the cabinet and pulls down a mug for herself. “I’ll take your word for it, but if my comments are terrible, I’m blaming you.” She smirks, pulling my coffee cup from the machine and gently thrusting it in my hands.
“Okay. I accept full responsibility.” Whatevs. I don’t think Chloe’s ever gotten a negative comment. Shaking my head, I press the edge of the mug to my lips. The heavenly liquid washes over my tongue, and my eyes slip closed, allowing my taste buds to have their moment. I know it’s not logical, chemically speaking, for caffeine to diffuse into the bloodstream the second it hits my tongue, but that’s exactly what happens. Coffee, the perfect blend of chemical bonds and magical serum.
Chloe bumps her shoulder into mine and I’m forced to open my eyes. How dare she interrupt my thoughtful mediation on the mystical properties of the glorious Arabica bean? Wrinkling my nose in annoyance, I sign, “What?” and take another sip of my coffee.
“I’m making smoky bourbon chocolate cupcakes with bacon bark this morning. Something new. Getting all the practice I can before Cupcake Wars. I could use an assistant.” This time, she wags her eyebrows.
I shake my head vigorously. “No, thank you. I am studying today and nothing is going to keep me from that.” Images of my body pressed against Thorin’s pop into my head. I’d like to think I’m strong enough to say I’d even turn down the opportunity to do that again, but that would be a bald-faced lie. Bacon cupcakes earn an easy no…Thorin, not so much.
Chloe hugs her coffee mug to her chest and bats her pretty cinnamon-colored eyes.
In front of her face, I pinch my index and middle fingers to my thumb, quick and to the point, then turn on my heels to make a quick escape before her sad puppy-dog face has me changing my mind.
A hand comes down on my shoulder before I’m even two steps away. Dammit, I was so close. I cringe, keeping my thoughts to myself. I turn around slowly, preparing for the onslaught of “pleading best friend” eyes.
“Hey, not so fast. How did last night go?” She raises her eyebrows, expectantly.
A smile creeps to my face until I can’t hold it back any longer. “He’s really great.”
Chloe beams and tugs my arm, dragging me over to the table. Pulling out a chair for me, and one for her, she sits, eyeing me, then the empty chair. “Don’t you have a show to film?”
Her lip quirks up and she shakes her head, waving away my question. “I’m giving my bacon bark more time to chill. Start talking girl.”
Two words I never thought I’d see in the same sentence, “bacon” and “bark.” That doesn’t even sound appetizing, but I’ll give Chloe the benefit of the doubt, her creations, as odd as they are, end up being quite tasty. “There isn’t much to say, we had dinner, then he took me to the place where he writes his music.”
“Really?” Chloe slides to the end of her chair, ready to catch every morsel of information I toss her way. “That’s cool. You two hit it off then?”
I nod. “We did. He’s not the arrogant, cocky musician I thought he’d be. He’s thoughtful, and cool, super sweet, and—” I stop signing midsentence, but the words carry on in my head…You were right about him, Chloe. He’s someone I could see myself falling for. But with graduation so close and Thorin’s band thinking about signing a recording contract, our lives are headed in vastly different directions. I can see the disapproving looks on Mom and Dad’s faces, telling me now is not the time to be jumping into a relationship, especially when there’s no way you’ll ever be able to overcome the language barrier. And the fact that he never went to college, is in a band, and has some seriously badass tattoos, that’s three strikes against him and he’s never even gotten a chance to bat.
But last night was amazing. Thorin and I communicated better in one evening than I have with either of my parents over the course of the past twenty years.
Chloe waves her hands, bringing my attention back to her. “And?” She draws the sign out, exaggerating the motion.
“And patient.” I add. He was patient, all right.
“Aww!” I read her lips, as she pulls me into a hug. She pats my back three times and let’s go, her hands flying in precise, animated movements, “That’s great, Harper! I so happy for you!”
I can’t help the schoolgirl grin spreading over my face. “I’m not going to lie, last night was pretty friggin’ fantastic! Thorin’s the first guy I’ve gone out with in four years that sincerely wanted to get to know me. Never once did I get the impression that he was put off by my deafness. I didn’t think there were hearing guys like him.”
“Second date?” Chloe asks.
I shrug. We hadn’t made any plans for a second date. Maybe my impression of our date was more Disney, where Thor’s was more Brothers Grimm. Maybe I wouldn’t hear from him. That would suck, because it’s been a long damn time since I’ve had fun with a guy.
“He’ll text. I’ve got a good feeling about him.” She winks at me.
“I hope you’re right. Although, if he doesn’t text, there are no rules that say I can’t.” I rest my lips on the side of the mug and sip my coffee.
Chloe taps her index finger on the tip of her nose and points at me. “Damn right. Can’t let him get away without a fight.” A dreamy gaze washes over her face. “Those tight jeans he wore during the concert would be enough to make me fight. And what of his ass?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Divine.” I grin, holding in a giggle. I had seen his ass in those tight jeans…and felt other parts through those jeans. A pulse of concentrated heat runs down my spine and lands between my legs. I cross them and try to squeeze away the dull ache the memory conjures. All of Thor’s good-guy qualities aside, it’s been four years since I’ve had sex, and while my vibrator, Prince O, has never let me down, it felt damn good rubbing up against the bulge in his jeans last night. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more. “If I don’t hear from him in a day or two, he’ll be hearing from me.”
“That a girl.” Chloe pats my leg and stands, taking her coffee with her. At the sink, she pours an almost full cup into the drain.
I shake my head and join her, rinsing out my empty cup. “You are a disgrace to coffee drinkers everywhere.”
“Unlike some people”—she eyes me coolly—“I don’t need to mainline caffeine. A sip or two gets the job done just fine.”
“You are so weird.” I throw my arm around her shoulder, crushing her to my side. “But I love your brand of weird. Have fun with”—I gesture around our kitchen-turned-baking-studio—“all of this.”
Turning, I head toward the living room, giving Chloe space to do her thing. Taking one step, I feel a tap on my shoulder again. Socks on linoleum make spinning around an easy task.
“I almost forgot, your mom called me last night,” Chloe signs.
Damn you, Mother, I curse her inwardly. I should have known ignoring her texts would backfire on me. “I’m sorry she bothered you.”
“It’s fine. No wild and crazy Friday night for this chick.” She pouts. “Anyway, she wanted me to remind you that your dad’s party is at the end of the month. She went ahead and booked you a flight.” At this, Chloe presses her lips together, an air of apology softening her features. “She wants you to text her so she can pass along your flight details.”
Over the years, Chloe has witnessed firsthand my mother’s attempts to micromanage my life. As a child, my mother would always speak for me. I didn’t mind when I was in elementary school; I didn’t know any better. But once I got into middle school and high school, it drove me crazy. Mom, Dad, and I would be out to dinner and the waiter would ask for our orders, I’d have my menu open, ready to point to my selection. But Mom always beat me to the punch, telling the server what I wanted, and snatching the menu from my hands. The poor deaf girl, can’t even order her own meal. Ugh! Mortifying!
Years later, nothing’s changed. Poor deaf girl can’t book her own flight home.
“Thanks. I’ll text her.” Filling Chloe in on the details of my date had me giddy and hopeful, now all I want to do is bang my head against the wall.
I turn to go, for real this time. The spring in my step (courtesy of Thorin Kline) is gone, replaced with a zombie shuffle…Thanks, Mom.
* * *
I minimize the Kindle app on my computer screen, rub my tired eyes, and pat Bobby’s head. Three hours of reading and I’m only halfway through the third neonatal patient case study. Taking a break from pain management treatments, I flip to the airline homepage and try to figure out how I’m going to make a trip back east work. Mom scheduled my flight for six thirty in the morning. Without even consulting me, making sure that flight worked into my schedule, she just booked it and left me to deal with the logistics. Anger simmers in my veins.
If I remain on the six-thirty flight, Chloe will have to drop me off at the airport close to five, which I hate asking her to do; it’s too early. Then there’s the issue of missing an entire day of my hospital rotation—that’s out of the question. Things are hard enough for me at the hospital without my interpreter; I don’t need an absence to set me further behind.
Checking the other available flights, I know the two-thirty departure would work out best for everyone. Missing a half day of my rotation is easier to work around; it would be easier to prepare for.
Launching the airline’s app on my phone, I get to work switching my flight. A smug grin consumes my face as I get my ticket bumped to the later time, despite the hefty service fee attached—I’ll just pick up some extra shifts at the Y to cover the added expense. Mom and Dad may have bought the ticket, but I’ll pay the extra to prove a point. It’s not just that this new flight makes more sense with my schedule; I revel in the even sweeter victory—showing my mom that I am capable of working an app to book my own flight. Being able to hear isn’t a prerequisite for that.
My phone flashes and an incoming text drops down at the top of my screen. It’s from Thor. Hey, Red. You busy?
Holy shit, he texted! Me: Just studying.
Thor: Ready for your first guitar lesson?
Was he serious last night? Trading ASL lessons for guitar lessons? My heart thumps against my rib cage, images of Thorin and I curled up on my bed, trading signs and music. My Saturday night just took a turn for the better. Practice makes perfect! ;-) I hit send and my teasing response is gone.
Thor: Got rehearsal all afternoon. 6 good for you?
Yep. I smile at our conversation, scrolling through parts of last night’s, too.
Thor: See you soon.
Well, there goes studying for the rest of the day, I’m too keyed up now. I glance at the clock, quarter to eleven. Five hours and fifteen minutes.
My phone flashes again and I snatch it up, my heart kicking out an extra beat. Did Thor change his plans? Maybe he can make it over earlier?
Mom: Why did I just get an email saying your flight has been changed?
Oh, shit. Not Thor.
Mom, the other flight didn’t work with my rotation at the hospital. I need the later flight.
I hit send, and immediately, the little speech bubble with the ellipsis appears in the lower left corner. Mom’s always been quick to fire back a text message, but ask her to use ASL and it’s like the apocalypse has come. I give her credit though, when I was little and told her I hated the oral method and preferred ASL, she didn’t balk at finding me a school that accommodated my preferred learning style.
Mom: You should have discussed this with me last night. Then nothing would have had to be changed. Why didn’t you return my messages?
This is a loaded question. She’s baiting me, wanting to know what I was doing. Biting the inside of my cheek, I run through a list of lies, ones that have put her off before. But really, I don’t want to lie this time. I want to tell my mom how great Thor is. But do I have a choice? She’s already having a fit over my rescheduled flight; she’d go into cardiac arrest if I told her I was on a date with the lead guitarist in a band.
Mom: Shouldn’t you have been in last night, studying and getting enough rest for your clinicals? Is this about a boy?
Oh my God, Mom. I am not twelve. No, this isn’t about a boy. I cringe at the thought. Thor is a man. A beautiful, hard-all-over man.
Me: I’ve been studying compulsively since classes began. Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve come too far to let anyone derail me now.
Mom: Glad to hear it. Stay focused, Harper. You’re going to need every advantage you can get.
Wow. Leave it to my mother to get in her passive-aggressive digs. It’s not like I’ve accomplished any of my academic success on my own merit. No, that’s crazy talk. Everyone knows a deaf girl can’t do anything on her own. Or so my mother thinks.
I always give 110%, I type back, lifting my butt up off the mattress to yank the blanket from underneath me. Covering my legs, I watch the ellipsis flash in the left corner of the screen.
Mom: I’m proud of you, Harper. So is Daddy. Don’t forget that. We’ll see you for the party.
Me: Yeah. I know. You just have a funny way of showing it. At least that’s one advantage I have by choosing not to speak, text messages can’t convey a tone. My cynicism and disappointment are easily hidden.
I check the time again, five hours to go, and thanks to my mother, I’m exhausted.
Rolling over onto my side, I pull my covers up to my chin and close my eyes, drawing Bobby close. If she texts back, I won’t know. Just another of the many talents in my arsenal—closing my eyes is the most effective way of protecting myself from her veiled insults.