Barrett

 

I sit back and watch her flit about the kitchen. That’s really the only way to describe her. Everything she does she seems to do without care. A dash of this, jumping over to cut that. Then dancing over to the fridge for a splash of something. It’s mesmerizing. I should probably offer to help, but then I couldn’t sit back and study her, so selfishly I stay put. Randy pretends to go to his chair in the living room and watch TV, but I can tell he isn’t watching anything but me as I watch her. The man seriously needs to get a love life.

The first bite is an explosion of flavor and spices. I’d never admit it, but her cooking for me is the most intimate personal thing anyone has ever done for me. The girls I’ve been with for sure don’t cook, and would never think to make a meal for me. Dress up…or down for me, yes. But cook? Never. That’s the thing about Presley, I don’t think there is a fake bone in her body. She isn’t trying to butter me up to get something, I think she genuinely cares about me and is trying to help any way she can. And I hate it. I don’t want her to care for me. I for sure don’t want to care for her. Everyone I care about seems to be doomed. Randy would say that’s just my Eeyore attitude, but if I’m Eeyore, that fool is Tigger all the freaking way.

Presley nudges my arm and I look over.

“Tomorrow day off me.”

“Okay,” I add lamely. What is she wanting me to do, ask her out? Not going to happen. She looks over at Randy, almost looking nervous, and he smiles and nods once. My ‘something shady is happening’ buzzer instantly goes off, but I wait and see where she is going with this.

“Think me maybe want out house you. Want go drive me?”

“You want take me on drive?” I question suspiciously. She still looks nervous, which doesn’t make sense unless maybe she thinks I’m going to reject her, which I’m moments away from doing until Randy jumps in to add his two cents as usual.

“Let’s cut to the chase, kid. You’ve been moping around here ever since our conversation the other day, and you need to get out. I think a long drive would do you some good. Plus, the company could be worse,” the old cat adds, sending a wink at Presley, which earns him a scowl from me. I don’t like him bringing up our talk, especially in mixed company, so I say nothing and take another bite of my taco. Damn, this girl really can cook.

“So you just want to take a drive?”

“Never mind. Stupid idea.” She gets up, taking our plates, and heads straight to the kitchen. It’s my uncle’s turn to scowl at me, which I guess I’ve earned.

“What wrong you?” he signs angrily at me.

“What?”

“Stop attitude. P nice and you A S S.” I’m not sure if it’s him angry signing ass or the fact that he’s right, but I smile. “P trying,” he adds when I don’t respond. I look over to make sure she can’t see us. Her back is to us while she’s washing dishes, which sends guilt shooting straight to my stomach. He’s right, what is wrong with me? Sure, I’ve pretty much hit bottom, but that doesn’t give me a pass to treat people badly. This girl has done nothing but help me since I’ve met her, and now she’s here serving me and cleaning my dishes while I give her attitude.

Barrett: Not good for her. She need know this. Better now than later. I send the text to him. He pulls out his phone to read it. He sends a quick look in her direction, but when he sees she’s singing to herself as she washes the pans, he quickly sends one back. I say quickly because it takes me forever to text right now, but really, he is almost as slow as I am.

Randy: You don’t know what is good for her because you don’t know her yet. Maybe take that chip off your shoulder and let her in long enough to know. You could use a friend right now, B. Let her be that for you…

Randy: And maybe you could be one back for her. You aren’t the only one with problems, you know. Maybe find out what hers are. Friendship only works when it goes both ways, and right now it seems to me like she’s doing the lion’s share.

This pisses me off and I fire back as fast as my splinted fingers will let me.

Barrett: I never asked for her friendship.

Randy: Yet you got it anyway.

With that last parting jab, he stands up and walks into the kitchen. He says something to Presley I can’t catch, but earns him a huge smile that hits me right in the gut. Then he leans down, kissing the top of her head, and goes straight to his room without sparing me a glance. I’ll never know what he said to her because she dries her hands off and grabs her bag, sparing a quick glance my way, and she’s out the front door. What the? Seriously? I drop my head to the table, wondering just what I’m supposed to do now. I know I won’t sleep tonight. I was hoping she’d stay over again. I only seem to sleep well with her here. Then it hits me. Randy was right. God, I hate when he’s right. She’s been there for me more than she should, and because I’m a thoughtless jerk, I’ve let her. But what have I ever done for her?

I head straight to my room and slam the door. I hate all these feelings and I especially hate not being able to drive. Speed has always been the only thing that has allowed me to free my inner demons, of which I have plenty. When I’m behind the wheel of a car and feel the powerful vibrations, nothing else matters. Not my crappy home life, nor my lack of hearing, nothing. Ever since I got into it with Randy, I can’t stop thinking about his words. Am I like my father? Am I going to end up like him, a selfish bitter, hateful man? As much as I don’t want to admit it even to myself, I’m walking down that path of self-destruction. I refuse to follow in his wake.

I’ve always replaced fear with anger. It’s easier to be angry than afraid. Anger you can control, and it seems like there is less weakness in anger. But fear consumes you, it takes over and cripples. I’ve been made to feel crippled my whole life, and I refuse to be powerless, so I’ve let the anger fester and take over my life. If my father has taught me anything, it’s that anger only makes you a sad, lonely, and bitter old man. I don’t want to become a shadow of my old self. I can’t help but think for maybe the millionth time since Codi was taken from me that God took the wrong brother. He had so much to offer to the world, and I never had anything but him. Molding him, caring for him, helping make sure he achieves it all, that was my part. Now that he’s gone, what do I have to offer the world?

I let my mind wander over to Presley. I’ve never met such a kind and giving person in my life. I think back to the last conversation with my brother and can’t help but smile. Now I know why he liked her so much, because if there was another person out there that matched her goodness, it was Codi. Maybe this is God’s way of giving me a little bit of my brother back. If I were to be truly honest with myself, which, let’s face it, I hate to do, I think the reason why I don’t want to let her in is because I’m afraid of what will happen when it doesn’t work out. We have too much stacked against us for it to work, and if I’m barely a shell of a man now, what happens when she walks away and I’m nothing?

I’m still in high school, and even though she’s only two years older, that can be an issue. Especially with her being in college. I mean what college girl wants to admit to having a boyfriend still in high school? And there’s that unspoken elephant that always seems to be in the room. I can’t hear. I’ve had so many girls tell me they don’t care, that my deafness doesn’t matter. But it matters. I’m proud to be a deaf man. I don’t see it as a disability, I see it as my community. I have so many deaf friends who have become family, and this is my culture, it’s who I am. So when hearing girls tell me it doesn’t matter to them, it cuts me. Being deaf matters, I matter.

Can a hearing girl get that? Granted, Presley is unlike any hearing girl I’ve ever met. She’s never asked me why I lost my hearing or any offensive personal questions that hearing people feel is their right to know. I wouldn’t go up and ask a redhead why they have unusual colored hair. Red-haired people only make up two percent of the population. Deaf people make up ten percent, which is much higher. Yet people find it fascinating and they think it’s perfectly acceptable to ask why we are deaf? What happened, as if it’s some gruesome detailed story that is their right to know. We are made that way, just like anyone else. Whether it be from birth or later on from sickness, why is it anyone’s right to know? Yet it never fails, someone always wants to know, and it always makes me feel like a lesser person. Is it unfair of me to put that on Presley? Maybe. Am I judging her for being hearing like people do me for being deaf? Absolutely. And therein lies the problem. She will never truly understand me like a deaf girl would.