Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  “I don’t know,” I finally admit to Gretchen. “It’s complicated.”

  Gretchen turns her head and finds Tim and Aspen snuggling on the blanket. Her little head is lying on his chest, his big arms engulfing her tiny body. Have mercy, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Turning back to me, Gretchen shrugs. “Okay, see ya.” She takes a step in their direction, and God help me, I grab her arm. Guilt rushes over me, but I don’t let go until Gretchen’s smug smile reaches my eyes. “I knew it.”

  I sigh, letting my friend go and smoothing down a corner of our blanket. “I like him,” I mumble, my voice small and quiet for the first time in, like, forever. Gretchen’s lips tip at the corner, looking a little less smug and more… happy. “I’ve been waiting for you to realize it. All you needed was a little push.” She’s acting like she did me a favor.

  “I did not.” Gathering my hair, I pull it up into a bun. “Look, Gretch, I know you mean well, but it doesn’t matter if I might—” I pause on the word might and lift my brows so she knows this is the word to focus on. “—have feelings or an attraction to Tim. It would be inappropriate for us to act on it.”

  She rolls her eyes, taking a long slurp of her slushy. “Go ask if you can sit with him during the movie.”

  “Absolutely not!” I mean, I just got our blanket all situated. And besides, it looks like he and Aspen are cozy over there together. “I promised Oliver he could sit with us.” And from the looks of his sweaty hair and tired eyes from playing kickball, he’s ready for a break.

  Gretchen’s lips turn down. Her eyes settle on my chest and then to Oliver heading over. “Just remember I am doing this for your own good.”

  What? What is she talking about? “I already told you, Gretch. It’s ina—Ahh! Gretchen! This is a good shirt!” I don’t get the rest of my words out before she empties her slushy out on my shirt where it finishes pooling on the quilted blanket, where Oliver and I planned to sit. “Gretchen! The blanket is soaked!”

  “Exactly,” she huffs, looking proud of herself. “Now go ask him if both of you can sit with him.” Grr! Why do I want to scream at her? I know she thinks she’s pushing me out of my comfort zone, but for once, I wish she would just listen to me. Dating—or fucking—your coworker is a really bad idea. Maybe the worst idea for someone who is being let go at the end of the year. For all I know, Principal Moorehouse could cut the program early and shoo me out of here for making the school look bad.

  “Milah, relax. Teachers B.A.N.G.” She literally spells the word.

  “Oliver can spell,” I interrupt her, but she only shrugs, never stopping.

  “Take Coach Murano. He’s slept with the entire second grade hall.”

  “No, he hasn’t.” He probably wants to, but there is no way he’s made it that far. I think he started at the kindergarten hall.

  “He has.” Her eyes are hard. “Trust me. The man, as creepy as he is, has skills.”

  Oh my God. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

  She did. If her nonchalant shrug didn’t say it all, her crooked grin filled in the rest. “Gretch,” I whine. “Why?”

  She looks behind her, seeing how much farther before Oliver reaches us. “I don’t have a Pe, Milah. You don’t know what it’s like to be lonely.”

  My mouth snaps closed. That might be the most honest and heartbreaking thing Gretchen has ever said to me.

  “Gretch, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  She waves me off. “Don’t. Just trust me and go over there and get to know him. For some reason he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of you since he got here.”

  Slowly, like I’m not trying to catch Tim sneaking a peek, I inch my eyes over in his direction, and sure enough, he’s watching us.

  “Oh no! What if he saw you toss your slushy on me? He’ll think I did it on purpose.”

  “Maybe he likes that kind of desperation in a woman?”

  “Gretchen!”

  Her laugh draws the attention of the couple next to us, and I almost want to make a break for the car, but Oliver makes it to our blanket and I know there is no escaping what I’m about to do next.

  “Oh no, Ms. Iglesias.” Gah, his little voice melts my frustration.

  “It’s okay, Oliver,” I soothe, squatting down in front of the little boy. “Ms. Ross tripped.” I glare at Gretchen standing there all innocent. One day, I’m going to repay her for this little stunt. Even if I have to do it from Costa Rica. “We can go sit with Mr. Lambros.” I hope.

  Oliver follows my finger and finds his friend and then takes off.

  “Guess Oliver thought my idea was good.”

  I send my friend an “eat shit” look and let out a sound of pain that reverberates between us before I follow after Oliver and change my mind about sprinting for the car. When I approach, Oliver is already chatting, sitting alongside Aspen who seems to be fascinated with the boy and his animation. He’s had way too much sugar, I just know it.

  “Ms. Iglesias,” the man that nearly caused a spontaneous orgasm earlier when I painted the ridiculous owl on his face, drawls out, his voice teasing. Nice to see his confidence is back. That smugness was muted when his breath was on my neck. My breasts ached as his eyes kept darting between the fabric and my skin, while the rising flush on my cheeks reminded me that I was seriously attracted to this man.

  “Mr. Lambros,” I counter.

  His perusal of me is burning as he lazily takes in the purple stains on my shirt. “Have an accident?”

  Kinda. I accidentally admitted to Gretchen that I was interested in him.

  “Gretchen tripped,” I explain, doing this little “I don’t know” maneuver that I’m sure makes me look stupid.

  “Hmm…,” he muses a moment before standing, reaching back, and tugging his T-shirt over his head, leaving him in his plain white undershirt that, if possible, looks sexier than the plain navy-colored one he’s offering me.

  “Oh no,” I wave him off. I can’t possibly put on his clothes. I’m not slutty by any means but wearing a man’s clothes make mine come off. Don’t ask me why. It just does. It’s like offering me a whole bag of mint M&M’s. I will be your friend and enjoy sleepovers with you. Naked. For several days.

  “Take it,” he says, extending that muscled arm in my direction once more.

  I swallow. “That’s okay. I’m fine. You keep it.” There, that wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t like I said fuck no or anything. It was polite and didn’t give away that I would go with him tonight if he put—

  “What are you doing?” I shriek.

  “I’m putting it over your stubborn as—self.”

  No, he didn’t just handle me. No, he didn’t just force his earthy smelling—oh shit, it smells so much better than I thought—shirt over my head and pull my arms through like I was his to dress. His to dress… oh goodness. My ovaries tingle. Fine, it’s my vajayjay. Either way, it’s not good. Soooo not good….

  In seconds, Mr. Lambros has me dressed in his shirt that hangs past my knees and smells like what Felipe says is the fruit of our desires. I stand there, shocked, a little bit horny, and a whole lot of tingly. “Uh, thanks,” I mutter, forgetting to sign.

  He tips his chin, and I wonder if he missed what I said since the sun has gone down and there are only a few lights on so people can find their blankets.

  “You didn’t have to give me your shirt,” I say, taking a seat next to Oliver. I’m not even going to bother asking him if I can sit here. He didn’t bother asking if it was okay to basically force me to use Big Jon, my vibrator, when I get home. Pe is sure to sniff out sexual frustration if I don’t, so really, Tim is at fault for what happens later tonight.

  “You were wet,” he offers like I’m stupid.

  Ha! Now, I’m wet in other places. Would he like to give me his jeans? No, that would be a terrible idea. Not only are we at school, but Martha has been tracking him like I do a spider.

  “Well,” this time I sign along with my words, “I
appreciate it, but you didn’t have to. And you certainly aren’t getting it back. I’m greedy like that.”

  Tim doesn’t answer me, and I don’t sweat it. What could he do other than say you’re welcome or keep arguing? Instead, he’s grinning at the two kiddos between us. Aspen is signing, “Hello,” and Oliver signs, “My name is Oliver,” which I don’t think Aspen grasps. Names are harder to pick up since they are assigned in ASL. It’s not the same as basic words or commands.

  “She’s really cute,” I say, touching Tim’s shoulder to get his attention.

  He drags his eyes off the little girl he clearly loves and reads my signs. He nods, agreeing with me that she is cute. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to my family,” he tells me, which reminds my curious ass.

  “You live at the foundation for veterans, right?”

  His jaw clenches, and I think I’ve brought up a topic he doesn’t want to discuss. But then he takes a cleansing breath and says, “I do. I’ve been there for four years.”

  Wow. Four years? That’s a long time. I thought it was a short-term facility. Well, I don’t know. I only know what I was able to search on the internet. Anniston McCallister took in her first veteran several years ago. A year or so later, she and Major Jameson, her success story, established a foundation to help more veterans like him to acclimate into civilian life after being discharged from the military. I want to pry and ask Tim what his story is. Why does he need to be in this foundation? He doesn’t seem too bad, a little antisocial, but I don’t feel like he couldn’t do well by himself. I really don’t know him though.

  “Don’t overthink it,” he tells me. “Just ask me.”

  Well, now I can’t ask him because then he will think he’s right and I really was curious about why he’s at the foundation.

  I go with, “You seem really happy with your family.”

  He makes this choking sound like he smothered a laugh. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

  He’s right, but I will never admit it—especially when he just flashed me a true panty-melting smile.

  Radio host: How did you feel when Timaeus turned down the orchestra? Did your symptoms carry a lot of weight in his decision?

  Penelope: One thing you should know about my son is that he is stubborn. So stubborn that, even if my symptoms played a part in his decision, I wouldn’t have been able to talk him out of it if I wanted to.

  Radio host: Were you disappointed that he didn’t choose the life of fame?

  Penelope: Absolutely not. My husband—Timaeus’s father and I have always wanted what was best for him—whatever made him happy.

  “What makes you think I wasn’t planning to say that?” Milah’s cheeks are flushed with heat, and I wonder if I’ve embarrassed her with my comment.

  “Your brows were furrowed,” I tell her, “and you have this line that creases—”

  “I have premature wrinkles!” This time it’s not her cheeks I notice, but the aghast look set deep within her caramel eyes.

  This is not how I wanted this conversation to go.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” Back away slowly, Tim. Correct this word vomit right now before she smacks you. “I just mean that when you’re thinking hard about something your forehead—”

  “Just stop. I don’t want to know what my skin or facial expressions do when I’m talking to you.”

  I can respect that. She doesn’t want to know how her hips sway in those ridiculous high shoes she wears, or that when she’s angry her bottom lip quivers like a warning before she explodes. She’s fascinating to watch. So expressive….

  “Anyway, as I was saying before the whole wrinkle fiasco—”

  My mouth opens, ready to argue that it isn’t a wrinkle but simply a cute crease, but she points a finger straight at me, warning me to stay quiet. “You do seem happy with your family. When you’re at school, you’re closed off. With them—” She waves her hand toward Anniston, wrinkle forgotten, and points to the rest of my family who are spreading out blankets toward the front. “—with them, you smile.”

  With them I smile….

  She’s an observant little thing, isn’t she?

  “I smile,” I lie, and it earns me an eye roll.

  “You smile when you leave.”

  And she’s a smart-ass; it’s not like I don’t have enough of those in my life already.

  “That’s not true. Now you’re just making shi—stuff up because of the whole wrinkle comment.” I shoot her a playful glare. “I smile.”

  Or at least I wanted to smile at her when she took great care while painting the owl on Aspen’s face. The toddler on my lap held so still while Milah maneuvered around my legs, getting the angle just right. Her scent was everywhere. Vanilla and something more… exotic. Something that reminds me of sun and sand. Something that reminds me of Vegas. Home.

  It’s been said that when you lose one of your senses, your remaining senses heighten. I don’t know if it is that they heighten or that you pay them more attention. It’s like when you eat garlic. By itself, it’s harsh and overpowering, but when you add it to a dish—like spaghetti—it’s light and blends with the other flavors. I think that’s how my senses worked. When I had all five, I had a perfect blend—a sampling of all the flavors. Now that I have four, I’m able to focus on each one separately, letting their power overwhelm and flood me with each individual flavor.

  “We’ll agree to disagree about the smile,” she says, her hands moving in tandem. Hello, reality check, how I’ve missed you.

  “You don’t have to sign,” I tell her, hoping my words come out more as a whisper and not silent.

  “It’s getting dark. You won’t be able to see my face if I don’t. Wait!” She pulls out her phone and turns on the flashlight. “There, now you can see me.”

  It’s back. The urge to flee is coursing through me at a speed I think I won’t be able to control. I move, snagging Aspen around the waist, ready to take her to Anniston and Theo and walk home. All twenty miles.

  “Tim, stop.”

  I can barely see her lips, and that pisses me the fuck off. She was right. In a few minutes, I won’t be able to read her lips. I probably won’t even be able to see her sign without the light on her phone.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, but this time she doesn’t sign. She’s trying not to upset me, and that makes me feel shittier.

  I sigh, releasing Aspen—who eyes me like only she can. Her tiny little hand reaches for my face. Her mother used to do the same thing to Cade when he would have an episode from his PTSD. I wonder if Anniston notices she does it. That she calms me with a soft touch.

  “I’m okay, munchkin,” I whisper, placing a kiss on her hand before pretending to bite it. Her mouth opens, and I crave to hear the laughter I know is spilling out of her.

  After a minute, I see Milah signing, telling Oliver that I’m fine. Dammit. Now I’ve upset everyone.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Milah, running my hands over my face and seeing smeared paint. That’s the story of my life. Nothing in my life lasts. It’s all temporary.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  The damn light on her phone is still on. She was right. I do need it—even if I fucking hate it.

  “May I?” She pulls up the corner of my shirt still hanging off her body. And like I’ve lost my damn mind, I nod.

  It takes her a minute, almost as if she’s giving herself a pep talk, but eventually, she brings the edge of the fabric up to my face and wipes with one long, fluid stroke. Incredible. It feels freaking incredible. I’d even say it feels better than when she was painting it on in the first place.

  Milah literally had her arm fully extended so she wouldn’t get close to me when she was painting the cartoon owl on my cheek. She was flustered. And when it came time to add the finishing touches, her hands shook when she had to lean in close. Really close. I couldn’t help myself; I took one long drag of her sweet scent like I was tryin
g to get high. I felt her hand twitch against my cheek as her fingers held my face steady. We were so close. So close that we were breathing the same air. And then it was over, leaving her face crimson and me pleading with my dick so I wouldn’t get a boner while holding a toddler. I didn’t; I’m just saying it was a close fucking call.

  Both of Milah’s hands go to my cheeks. Look at Aspen giving away all my secrets. Soon, I won’t be able to pull away from Milah. She already has my attention. Her putting her hands on me is a bad idea.

  “Hold still.” She pulls back so I can see her lips, and fuck me, I smile.

  “Ah! You smiled!”

  Her face is ridiculous. I smile all the time.

  “Shut up.”

  “I didn’t know big, bad Marines turned red.”

  She’s full of shit.

  “You can’t see if I’m red in this light,” I argue, praying that’s the case.

  “Sure I can. These phone lights are surprisingly bright.”

  I feel myself pulling away before I’m met with solid resistance. “Don’t even think about it.”

  I chuckle. “Your grip is surprisingly strong for someone the size of a garden gnome.”

  That comment earns me a harsh swipe to the chest.

  “I’ll have you know that I’m five foot two.”

  Please.

  “Do not arch those brows at me. I’m not kidding.”

  Sure she is. There is no way on this green earth this woman is five foot two. “How tall without the five-inch heels?”

  That shuts her up.

  “It doesn’t matter. The movie is starting, and I can’t get this paint off. I was feeling bad about it, but now I think you deserve to walk around the rest of the evening looking like a bird pooped down your face.”

  For someone who says I don’t smile unless I’m around my family, I just did it twice in the past five minutes. With her. Not my family. I’ll take that win, Dr. Parker. I might still have a few issues I need to work through, but I am moving on.

  Okay… so I’m not really moving on. Every uncomfortable encounter I’ve had with Milah, or anyone for that matter, I have fled. But I stayed tonight! Granted the two ladies on my blanket weren’t taking no for an answer. But deep down, I didn’t want Oliver to think any less of me than he already does. The poor kid doesn’t need me showing him how fucked-up living with deafness can be. I’m a special kind of fucked up. I’ve been to meetings. I’ve been to clubs with my mother. People everywhere are living better lives than I am with even fewer senses.