Walking out of the terminal, Lance is waiting for me, just like he does every time I come home, or need a ride anywhere. Sixteen-year-olds, if they’re lucky, get a car. I got Lance. I don’t know if my parents didn’t think I could drive, or they felt I needed a driver because they didn’t want me driving, they’ve never said. But, like every red-blooded sixteen-year-old on the planet, I wanted a car, not Lance. When it came to my well-being, I didn’t have a voice…I mean choice.
My parents had hired him, so I was stuck with him.
But, Lance was cool. He knew how much I hated being chauffeured around. Instead of driving me in the limo, he’d choose one of my dad’s many sedans. When we were far enough away from the house, he would pull over, and let me get behind the wheel. Like in the Princess Diaries, I was Mia Thermopolis to his Joe.
It’s thanks to Lance that I can drive, he taught me how. Yep. My chauffeur taught me how to drive, not my parents. Hell, I didn’t get my license until I was eighteen, when I went away to college. That was an argument and a half. Both of parents were so resistant to the idea and to this day, they’ve never told me why. But I put my foot down. I refused to move halfway across the country and not be able to drive myself around. That wasn’t happening.
And look at me now; I have an impeccable driving record. Not so much as a parking ticket to my name. It’s a proven fact that deaf people are better drivers, fewer distractions to pull our eyes off the road. I love my parents dearly, but sometimes their ignorance blinds them.
Lance flashes me a smile and holds out his hand. On cue, I latch on to his fist and we fall right into our secret handshake, ending with Lance pulling me in for a big hug. Lance always gives the best hugs.
Stepping back, I pull out my phone and type. It’s good to see you, Lance. I’ve missed you. Flipping it around, I hold it up, so he can read my pleasantry.
“Good to see you to, Miss Harper. Glad you’re home.”
“Yeah.” It is good to be home, if only to see Lance and Mrs. R. Like any visit home, I know it will lead to some sort of argument between my parents and me. Even though I’m twenty-six, and have successfully taken care of myself for a long time, they will inevitably do or say something that will make me feel less than, or not as good as their hearing friends’ kids. I do believe that Mom and Dad have my best interest at heart. I mean, they’ve always provided for me, given me all the best tutors and newest tech when it came out. But, emotionally, they detached themselves. Sometimes, a hug would have been more precious, louder even, than the world’s best hearing aid.
And even then, the best hearing aids in the world couldn’t make me hear. I could see the disappointment on their faces. Was it disappointment in the tech, or disappointment in their daughter? I’ve never been able to tell.
Take me to your leader, I add to my message, flipping it around to show him.
Giving me a sidelong glance (Lance is well versed in the continuing saga of Harper vs. Samantha and Charles King), he reaches for my Kate Spade carry-on (I packed light to keep this visit short) and ushers me toward the parking garage.
Lance opens the door to the backseat of the limo and I slip inside, sinking into the deep bucket seat. The small pull-down table between the seats is stocked with my hometown favorites: cider doughnuts and Polar brand seltzer water. It’s been a thorn in my side since I moved to Missouri, haven’t been able to find Polar seltzer anywhere!
Twisting off the cap, I press my lips against the mouth of the bottle and tip it back, savoring the elixir inside. Oh, refreshing raspberry Polar, how I’ve missed you!
Glancing at Lance, I hold up my bottle of Polar in thank you. He smiles and winks, gently closing me inside.
Resting my head on the high back of the plush leather seat, I let my eyes fall closed, yawning. The car purrs to life and we’re moving. Dad’s limousine rides so smoothly, it’s hard not to fall asleep. Early rounds will be the death of me. And it certainly didn’t help that Thor spent the night. Not that I’m complaining about the second part; that was a welcomed change of plans to the otherwise uneventful Netflix romance movie marathon I had on the docket.
I shiver at the memory, recalling in vivid detail, how amazing Thor’s body felt next to mine. It’s not like my experience with men is through the roof—there have only been two, and Thor is one of them. But somehow, when I’m with Thor, everything feels so much…more…amplified.
His fingers seared my skin. The way he kissed me, sometimes like a whisper or a prayer, other times, it was like he was belting one of his songs to the last row of a concert venue. I don’t remember being able to hear, but with Thor, and the way his body hummed with each spoken word, it was like I could hear him…his every thought. Our bodies were tuned into a different frequency, one that only the two of us could hear. I’ve never felt so connected to someone.
Not even David.
Thoughts of David surface. My high school sweetheart and the boy I lost my virginity to. We were together for four years, a long time, at least by high school standards. Oh, who am I kidding? Four years is a freaking long time, longer than some Hollywood marriages last.
A smile creeps to my lips. I haven’t thought about David in a while. He was a great boyfriend. And from what I’ve seen from Facebook posts, he’s happily married and going to be a father.
When David and I graduated, we wrestled with the notion of a long-distance relationship, but in the end, mutually decided it was for the best to call it quits. It killed us both. We were each other’s firsts. But, we needed to spread our wings and see what the world had to offer. He was off to Gallaudet University, where I chose Washington University in St. Louis. His roots were firmly planted in the Deaf world, where I straddled the line between the Deaf community and the hearing world—the defining characteristic that overshadowed our relationship from the very beginning. David came from a Deaf family, I came from a hearing family. We respected each other’s differences, but in the end, we knew our relationship wouldn’t work out. We made better friends than lovers.
I’m happy for David. I will carry him in a special place in my heart forever. But Thor, in a very short time, has touched my heart in a way no man ever has.
Lance makes the sharp turn onto the long drive and takes the limo up the steep incline of my parents’ circular drive.
I’m home.
A year. That’s a long time to be gone. And I’m not going to lie, I wish another six months had been tacked on. It’s going to be a long weekend.
Lance stops the car and turns off the ignition. Five seconds later, he’s at my door, pulling it open. Offering me his hand, I put my palm against his and climb out of the limo.
Cold and impersonal, the King mansion stands before me, every window lit up like a beacon in the dark world. It’s funny how the little clapboard house Chloe and I rent from her aunt has more character and is far more inviting than Mom and Dad’s twenty-five thousand square feet of luxury living. Sometimes bigger isn’t always better…at least when it comes to houses.
Climbing the polished white marble stairs leading to the front door, I glance over my shoulder to see Lance following behind, my leopard-print Kate Spade carry-on in his right hand. I love Lance, but Kate Spade leopard print doesn’t suit him.
Stepping to my left, he grabs the latch on the front door and pushes it open, waiting for me to enter the foyer. The pristine Brazilian cherry hardwood floors and trim work stand in contrast to the light cream-colored walls. The only splash of color comes from Mom’s prized Afshar rug that is proudly displayed to the right of the open foyer, in the sitting room. Not that anyone actually sits in there, because come on, you can’t walk on an antique Afshar rug that’s made with wool foundations instead of cotton, like the newer oriental rugs. Everyone knows that. I can see Mom’s reproachful glare in my mind’s eye.
In my periphery, a flash of hot pink catches my attention. Twisting in the direction of the pink blur, I’m just in time to intercept a hug from Mom. She crashes into me, squeezing hard. I can’t hug her back because my arms are pinned to my side.
In a situation like this, I’m at her mercy. I’m free when she decides to let go. Mom’s not much of a hugger, so it shouldn’t be too much longer.
Any day now.
She smells like fermented grapes. A red. It has a heavier fragrance than white.
Seriously, why is she still hugging me?
After an unusually long hug, she pulls back and looks me in the eye, smiling. “So glad to see you, sweetheart,” she says. “You look beautiful. And looky here”—she touches the side of my nose—“you got a…piercing.”
I read her lips effortlessly, just like old times. It makes me miss Thor and the clumsy way he signs. He may not be good at it yet, but at least he tries; that’s more than I can say for my parents. Even with all their money, and everything they provided me, they never did give me what I really wanted…parents who communicated in my language.
I take a step back, brushing a light finger over the small, diamond stud in my left nostril. I forgot she hadn’t seen it yet.
“Well.” She smiles, her shoulders, dropping. “Let’s get you settled in upstairs.” Mom takes to the staircase, her shapely butt sashaying in a rhythmic side-to-side motion as she ascends. Glancing down at my drab blue hospital scrubs, I sigh and pick up my carry-on, trailing behind her.
She opens the door to my old room. It’s been eight years since I officially inhabited this room, and nothing’s changed. The walls are still the same latte brown, and the quilt on the antique four-poster bed has the same yellow and orange sunbursts shining in each panel. Mom’s all about the antiques. Even the bathrooms have claw-foot tubs with vintage Wolff faucets. It’s all in the details, she always says.
Tossing my suitcase on the bed, I turn around. Mom is waving her hands, trying to get my attention.
“Did you catch that?” she says.
“No, Mom, I did not.” I sign, not even bothering to move my lips. Did you understand me? Still, after all these years, she can’t manage to look at me when she talks? A surefire way to piss me off.
“Harper, you know I don’t understand you when you only use ASL. I have to be able to read your lips to understand you.” Patting my shoulder, she gives me a half smile. “Why don’t you get out of those scrubs and come downstairs. I found this fabulous centerpiece on Pinterest and had to give it a try. Pauline, Sophie, and I have a bottle of wine open, and the glue guns are hot. They’d love to see you, and we could use the help. Come on downstairs.”
Biting my tongue, I nod. Pinterest crafts were not on my list of things to do tonight. I’m tired. Yet, sleep remains the best friend I never hear from but wish would call and check in sometime, maybe even stay for a slumber party. A girl can dream…well, daydream.
“Good.” Mom pats my cheek, sweeping me into another hug.
The minute she’s gone, I fall face-first onto the bed, burying my head in a pillow. I want to scream, but I hold it in, opting for deep breaths instead. Pulling in a lungful of air through my nose, the scent of freshly laundered sheets and pillowcases calms me.
Exhale…in…out…
After an hour flight to Chicago, then another two to Manchester, not to mention that I lose an hour coming east, I’m beat. The last thing I want to do is change clothes and hang out with my mother’s socialite friends, who are most likely on their second or third bottle of wine.
I wonder what Thor’s doing? Sitting up, I grab my purse and pull my phone out. Made it to NH. What are you up to? Pressing send, I set my phone on the mattress and unzip my suitcase. Riffling through folded clothes, I take out a pair of black leggings and a long dark green and blue plaid button down. It’s comfy and cute enough to pass Mom’s scrutiny. (I knew the scrubs wouldn’t. And let’s not even talk about my nose piercing.)
My phone flashes with an incoming message. Thor: Glad you made it. Have a great time. Thinking about you.
Me: No way, Mr. Busy Rock Star. Not buying that line for a second. I’m sure you’re at some important rehearsal, too busy to be thinking about me.
Thor: You’re kind of right and kind of wrong. I am at some important rehearsal, but that birthmark I found on the inside of your thigh this morning, when we were in the shower…haven’t been able to get it out of my mind all day. And when you took me in your mouth. I can still feel your lips wrapped around my cock.
Blood pools in my cheeks, remembering how hot that shower was—and it didn’t have anything to do with the temperature of the water. I run a hand along the inside of my thigh, wishing it was Thor’s.
Me: Two days. I’ll be home in two days.
Thor: I’ll be extra dirty in two days. A shower will be a must. ;-)
Along with the heat of my blushing cheeks, I press my legs together, mourning the emptiness at my apex. Thor pressing me against the shower wall with his wet body, my legs wrapped around his waist as he filled me so perfectly, has me hoping I remembered to pack Prince O. Not the same by a long shot, but I’m going to need it if Thor keeps sending me text messages like this all weekend.
My phone flashes again. I’m gonna bite that birthmark when you get back. That’s a promise.
The lights in my room flash. My eyes flick to the door just in time to see Mom peeking around the corner.
Holy hell! I slide the phone under the pillow and am off the bed in 2.3 seconds, heart thumping wildly. “You scared the shit out of me!” I sign fast, mouthing the words. I doubt she understood anything, which is for the best. She hates it when I let expletives fly. I don’t know how many times I’ve been told that swearing isn’t ladylike. Naturally, those were all the signs I learned first.
Mom, shoving the rest of the way into my room, says, “What’s with you? You’re so jumpy?” She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Are you coming down?
I nod, bringing my hand up, signing, “Yes.” I hope the exasperated look on my face hides the blush Thor put there. “I’m coming down.”
“Well, don’t dawdle. We could use your help.” She winks, closing the door again.
Spinning around, I pull my phone out from under the pillow, another two messages light up the screen: And the things I’m gonna do to you with my tongue. Want me to tell you or let your imagination run wild?
Harper? You okay?
Oh, dear God. My boyfriend is sexting me at the same time my mother is begging me to hang out and make Pinterest crafts.
Sorry. My mom needed me. I have to go help her with something. I pout, hitting send. Picking through my suitcase, I find Prince O, snuggled inside his carrying case. Oh, thank God. Boy, am I going to need you later. I pat the case, a sensual ache already growing between my legs, thinking of all wonderful things Thor’s tongue is capable of.
Thor: Thought I scared you off.
Me: You don’t scare me. We’ll continue the dirty talk later. Why don’t you get yourself warmed up? You paid close attention to my birthmark while we were in the shower, remember what I paid special attention to? I’ll text when family time is over. ;-)
Thor: You’ve got my attention. I’ll be waiting.
Smiling, I lock my phone and toss it onto the bed. Swapping my scrubs for leggings and a long, comfy shirt, I head downstairs. Walking toward the dining room, I peek inside. Mom and her friends, Sophie and Pauline—women I’ve known my whole life—are sitting around the massive table gesturing wildly, enormous smiles on their face. Three uncorked bottles of wine sit in the midst of wineglasses, fake flowers, ribbon, and tulle. Why bother with the glasses when you can have the whole bottle? There’s one for each of them.
Oh, hell no. It’s too late for this. You couldn’t pay me enough to walk into that room.
Tiptoeing past the dining room, I hold my breath and turn down the hall, toward the kitchen. The closer I get, the more fragrant the hallway becomes. Fresh fruits: strawberries, apples, blueberries, their sweet, earthy scents permeating the air. Whatever Mrs. Rutherford is baking, it smells heavenly.
Like when I had seen Lance at the airport, my heartbeat picks up in anticipation of seeing Mrs. R. I’ve missed her equally as much, if not more. When I was a kid, if I had a problem, Mrs. R was the one person I’d run to. She always had all the answers. And if she didn’t, she’d still offer sound advice.
Strolling into the kitchen like I live here all the time, I walk right up to Mrs. R and tap her shoulder. Whirling around, the plump older woman stares at me with wide eyes. “Harper!” She signs, pulling me into a warm hug.
When my mother hugged me earlier, I was held captive in her grip, unable to participate. With Mrs. R I’m able to squeeze her back with the same fervor.
I close my eyes and let Mrs. R’s scent wash over me. For my whole life, she’s always smelled the same way, like warm buttered croissants, fresh out of the oven. Or homemade pound cake. Years of time spent in the kitchen, her skin and clothes radiate home.
Pulling away, I offer her a sunny smile. “I’ve missed you, Mrs. R.”
“It’s never the same around here when you’re gone.” Besides Chloe, Mrs. R is the only other person close to me who uses ASL. But, unlike Chloe, who learned ASL so she could communicate with me, Mrs. R was already fluent in the language, having learned years before she took the job with our family, in order to communicate with her mother. I think Mrs. R’s ability to sign was one of the reasons my parents hired her in the first place.
“Are you hungry? Peanuts and pretzels on the plane is no dinner. Let me make you something.”
At the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. What was the last thing I ate? I don’t even remember. “I don’t know if I should. Mom wants me to help her with the centerpieces.”
“Give her another twenty minutes and the wine will kick in. She won’t be finishing those centerpieces tonight. You need to eat. You’re too skinny.”
I glance down at my C-cup chest and poke my soft tummy, shaking my head in disagreement. With the demands of school, stress eating peanut butter cups has become my new favorite pastime. Those mini ones are the perfect size to tuck into my lab coat’s pockets. “I’ve actually gained a few pounds since I’ve been home last. But that’s okay. Food and I have a good relationship.” I give her a thumbs-up. “A sandwich would be amazing. Thank you.”
“You got it.” Mrs. R winks and shuffles off to the refrigerator abandoning her tart shells and bowls of fruit. Pulling out several varieties of deli meats, mayo, mustard, tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese slices, she keeps piling the ingredients on her ample chest, using it as a table.
Skirting the island, I jog up next to her, and take jars and containers of meat off her hands, lightening her load.
Both of us spin around, depositing the makings of the world’s greatest sandwich on the island’s granite countertop. “Grab the bread.” Mrs. R instructs, pointing to the other side of the kitchen. At least a dozen loaves are stacked on the far end of the counter, in preparation for Dad’s party tomorrow, I assume.
I swipe a loaf off the top, not even bothering to see what kind it is, I’m so famished. At this point, I might not even mind a little mold growing on the crust. Plopping the bread next to the jar of mayo, I take a quick look at the edges, just to make sure there is no green fuzz, though. Yeah, don’t think I’m hungry enough to share my sandwich with mold spores. Not wanting to channel my inner Alexander Fleming tonight.
Twisting the bread tie, I pull out two slices of rye, loving the earthy scent. I reach for the knife sitting beside the bread bag and Mrs. R. slaps my hand away. I look at her, sticking out my bottom lip. “What was that for?”
“You, go sit. I’m making this sandwich.” She points to the barstools on the other side of the island with the table knife.
I give her my best pouty face. “Okay, but I was just trying to help.”
“You can help by telling me how you have been. What have you been up to?”
“Oh, goodness. I’m so busy. I feel like I’m always a step behind at the hospital, so I work twice as hard to make up for it. And when I’m not at the hospital, I’m working at the YMCA. I’m in charge of the Deaf Youth After School Program. I’m beat, Mrs. R.”
Folding slices of turkey, roast beef, and salami on top of each other, Mrs. R layers sharp cheddar between them—just the way I like it. Topping it off with lettuce, a couple of slices of tomato, and a thick coating of mayo and mustard on the top piece of bread, she puts the cap on and slides the plate across the counter. “Dig in.”
“This is a work of art.” Lifting the sandwich, I bring it to my lips. It’s so tall, I can’t fit my mouth around it. I smash it down with my fingers, biting off a small corner of the crust, the bitter taste of mustard hitting my tongue first.
I move in for a bigger bite, foregoing any modicum of manners. Mouth full, my eyes roll to the back of my head, savoring Mrs. R’s handiwork. Holding the sandwich with my left hand—refusing to give it up—I sign with my right, “This is amazing. So good.”
“Glad you like it.” Mrs. R. busies herself, cleaning up the sandwich mess. Restocking the fridge, she turns around and asks, “Sounds like you’re working hard. Any time for fun? Got yourself a fella?”
Midbite, a smile creeps to my face.
“Oh, so there is a man.” Mrs. R. shimmies her hips, eyebrows wagging.
Chewing, I set the remaining one-fourth of my sandwich on the plate. “His name’s T-H-O-R. He’s in a band.”
“A musician.” She nods her approval. “Nice.”
“He’s got such a kind heart. You should have seen him play his guitar for the kids at the Y. He was a natural with them.” I pick at a corner of cheese poking out from between two pieces of salami, popping it into my mouth. “And he’s so protective of his mother.”
“Any man that’s good to his mother is a keeper.” She nods, carrying a bowl of raspberries and a cookie sheet of tart shells over to the island, resuming her work.
“Yeah.” I agree as I watch her assemble one cute little tart after another. My mind replays bits of last night, when Thor shared his sea-glass story. I pressed him for more, wondering why his relationship with his father had gotten so bad, but he got quiet. Changed the subject. What happened between you and your dad, Thor?
Every time he opens up, even just a little, the second I push for more, he shuts me out. I’ve gathered that his dad wasn’t the best, and Thor pretty much hates him. But why? Why won’t you tell me? Why won’t you let me in?
Mrs. R drops another raspberry into the pastry, drizzling melted white chocolate on the top. I want to steal one, but I know better than to take one of her creations without invitation. Chloe gives me the evil eye when I steal her food but Mrs. R is ruthless. She won’t hesitate to smack your hand, and it will leave a mark.
“Looks like you’ve got it bad for this guy.” There’s that eyebrow waggle again.
Who am I kidding? I really do. “I think I’m falling for him.” I keep my signs small, hesitant to confide that tidbit of information.
“Oh, Harper!” Mrs. R signs, her smile beaming. “I know that look.”
I roll my eyes, trying to hide the look Mrs. R is referring to. The one that makes my cheeks burn with heat and heart skip a beat, pinching tight in my chest, and stealing my breath away. The feeling that scares the shit out of me. I’ve never felt this before.
Risking a bruised hand, I pick up on of Mrs. R’s tarts and take a bite. I need the distraction. The sharp tang of the berries floods my mouth, along with the sweet, white chocolate drizzle. It’s a delicious combination. “This is fantastic!”
Mrs. R eyes me, contemplating her next move, a sly smile lifting one side of her mouth. “Thank you,” she signs, bring her palm down from her chin.
I pop the rest of the tart into my mouth, savoring the bite. And just when I thought I was safe, Mrs. R smacks the back of my hand, leaving an angry, red outline where her fingers made contact.
“Ouch! That left a mark!”