Lark
I knock on my sister Wren’s bedroom door and wait for her to call out to me so that I can enter. She doesn’t answer. I know she’s here. Her purse is on the hall table. Then I hear the creaking of her bedsprings and I step back from the door.
Wren has been in a steady relationship for a couple of months now, so the sex happening isn’t what bothers me. It’s who she’s with. I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns. He’s not good enough for her, and Wren is the only one who doesn’t know it.
The sex part doesn’t bother me. Hell, when Finny lived here, there was a constant parade of one-night stands in and out the door. Beds creaking gently was the smallest worry. It was usually the wall-banging, screaming, and then a grunted orgasm that got to me. But not the way a casual observer might think. Actually I was jealous as hell.
When I told Ryan I was a tattoo virgin, that was the least of my admissions. I am a twenty-three-year-old real life virgin. My chastity belt is the scars on my arms. I can’t get comfortable enough with a man to take my gloves off, and I hate the idea of being intimate with someone to whom I can’t show all of myself.
Ryan saw more of me today than anyone I’ve ever met. Well, aside from my sisters, and our parents Marta and Emilio. They adopted all of us, and I was twelve when they got me. They adopted us all at the same time.
“Five little girls all at once,” Emilio would grumble when he was frustrated by us. “What the fuck was I thinking?” Then he would grin and pull out one of his many instruments and we would start to play with him. He would forget all the bad shit we did, and we would bond over Led Zeppelin and White Snake covers. He would forget that our long hair clogged the shower drain, or that the downstairs bathroom overflowed with feminine hygiene products.
Wren’s door opens and she slips out. Her boyfriend nods at me and I flip him the bird in response. He doesn’t stop to talk, but he goes out the door.
“I wish you would at least try,” Wren says as she opens the refrigerator door.
“I did try. The first time he cheated on you. And the second. Now my give-a-damn is busted.” I toss up my hands. “I got no more fucks to give.”
Wren growls and sinks down on a barstool.
“I hope you used a condom. No telling what kind of shit he’s carrying around.”
“Of course I used a condom.” She blows out a frustrated breath. “Is this how it’s going to be every time he comes over? If so, I’ll just find somewhere else to live.”
“If that’s what you want,” I bite out.
“Okay then,” she says on a heavy breath.
“You can’t force me to like him.”
“I know.” She gets up to return to her room. At the door, she looks back at me over her shoulder. “Did you need something?”
I need to talk to her about Ryan and the way that he found out about my suicide attempt. I need to talk to her about my interest in him and his complete disinterest in a girl like me. And I want some advice about what to wear tonight when I meet him.
“No,” I say instead. “I didn’t need anything.”
Her eyes go soft. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I stomp to my room and slam my door a little too hard.
I wanted to show her the tattoo I got today. I wanted to show her how Ryan put my parents’ rings in them without me even having to ask him. I wanted to show her how damn special the whole thing was, and how beautiful he made it. But I didn’t get to show her anything.
I roll my gloves down and pull them off. Then I walk to the mirror and uncover my new tattoo, gently removing the plastic wrap Ryan put on me. The seagulls are perfect. I can’t wait to see what else he comes up with.
I first started wearing the gloves because I couldn’t stand looking in the mirror and seeing the evidence of the way I destroyed my family and killed my parents. It hurt every time I had to see the scars. But now, they’re going away, and I couldn’t be happier.
I look up at Ryan’s Skyscrapers baseball cap and tug it low over my eyes. I wonder why he wants it back so badly. I toss it onto the bed and go get in the shower.
When I get dressed, I do it with the knowledge that someone will be looking at me who knows my secret already. I don’t have to work so hard to hide it. And I leave home feeling freer than I have in a very long time.
Ryan
She takes my breath when she comes around the corner. She’s wearing a blue jean skirt and a shiny, loose-fitting top. She has white gloves pulled up past her elbows, although one side is riding a little lower than the other and I see the tattoo I did this morning. Her brown hair is loose around her shoulders and her dark brown eyes sparkle at me.
“Hi,” she says. She smiles and ducks her head.
“Is my cap safe?” I ask. I look at the tiny purse she has clutched in her hand.
“It’s safe,” she says. “For now.” She grins at me and my heart jolts.
I look at the seagulls I tattooed on her arm. “I like you with ink. We should add a lot more.”
She smiles. “I like that idea.” She nods toward the restaurant. “Are you hungry?”
I shrug. “I could eat.” Truthfully, I am starving. I haven’t eaten since the sandwich I had this afternoon. “What about you?”
She nods. “You’re buying. Of course I’m hungry.”
“Who said I was buying?” I am, but still.
“You want to see your cap again, right?”
I nod. “I do.” I open the door and motion for her to precede me into the restaurant. The wind catches her shirt as we go through the door and blows it up, and I get a peek at her flat belly. And…my dick gets hard. Oh, shit. This is really, really bad.
We follow the waitress to our table, and Lark slides into one side of the booth and I take the other. I am sincerely grateful for the table between us. The waitress leaves two menus and walks away.
A group of teenagers at a nearby table all take their phones out and start snapping pictures.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “By the end of the night, you’ll be known as the hot guy I’m fucking on the down low in all the tabloids.”
I shake my head like a dog shaking water from its fur. “I’m sorry, but all I got from what you just said was that you think I’m hot and we’ll be fucking later.”
Her face turns bright pink and she looks away bashfully.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says.
“So you don’t think I’m hot?” I tease.
She finally smiles. “No, I do,” she rushes to say, her fingers working quickly.
I grin. “Good. I think you’re pretty hot too. S-M-O-K-I-N-G,” I spell out with my fingers, and then I blow the tips of them like they’re on fire.
Her smile grows and the flush on her cheeks moves all the way down her chest. “Thank you,” she says tentatively.
I lean toward her a little like I’m imparting a secret. “Now about the fucking…” I toss my hands up in question, leaving it open for her.
“Well, we don’t have to worry about that since you don’t fuck hearing girls.” She stares hard at me, and this time it’s me who blushes.
“I didn’t say I don’t like hearing girls. I just couldn’t take one home to meet my parents.” I must be the biggest dick on the face of the planet after that comment. But she’s not angry. She leans back against the seat cushion and just stares at me.
“You’ve had sex with hearing girls?” she asks. Her eyes search my face, like she’s looking for the smallest hint of a lie.
“Never had an opportunity,” I admit. “My circle has been pretty small.”
She takes a sip of her water. “Tell me about your circle. Where did you go to school?”
I name a school for the deaf upstate.
“You lived there all the time?”
I nod. “Except for holidays and weeks off.”
“Did you ever get lonely?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Never. Too many people around.”
“Th
en you went to NYU?”
I nod. “How did you know that?”
She smiles. “I might have asked Logan.”
“I met Logan at NYU. It was refreshing to meet someone who was deaf at such a big school.”
“I bet it was. Why didn’t you go to a deaf college?”
“I got a scholarship at NYU to study art.”
“You said your circle was small,” she reminds me. “If you were at NYU, your circle was huge.”
“No, the school was huge, and so was the student population. But the deaf population was tiny.”
The waitress comes back and I assume she asks what we want, because Lark orders and then the waitress looks at me. I point to what I want on the menu, and she writes it down. She asks Lark something and Lark looks at me. “You want some wine?” she asks me.
I shake my head.
Lark tells her no and she walks away.
“You don’t drink?” Lark asks me.
“Not when I’m on a first date.”
She smiles at me and my heart skips double time. “Is this a date?”
I stare into her eyes. “This is a date.”
She lays a hand on her chest and pretends to be startled. “But I’m a hearing girl!”
“I know, right? Crazy, isn’t it? Just don’t tell my mother.”
A man in a suit approaches the table and speaks to Lark. She looks around, and realizes that the number of people interested in her being here has grown.
“Who was that?” I ask.
She reaches for her purse. “My security guard.”
“I didn’t know you had anyone with you.”
She shrugs. “It’s kind of his job to stay in the shadows. We need to leave, though,” she says.
“Why?”
“Too many people know I’m here.”
Phones are snapping pictures like crazy. The waitress hurries to our table and drops off a couple of bags.
“Mark asked for them to change our order to take-out. Is that okay?”
I get to my feet and pick up the bags.
“Is it okay with you if we take it to my apartment?”
I nod, toss an amount of cash I think will cover the bill onto the table, and follow her to the door. Her security guard speaks into a Bluetooth gadget on his ear, and a car pulls up in front of the restaurant. She nods toward it. “It’s for us.”
We get in, she settles down beside me, and lets out a heavy breath. I can feel it stir the air on my arm. “Is your life always like this?” I ask.
She nods. “Most of the time.” Her face falls. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” This happens when I go out with the Reeds too. They’re like royalty.
The car stops at her apartment building, and we go up in the really fancy elevator to the even fancier hallway. “S-W-A-N-K-Y,” I spell out on my fingers.
“E-M-P-T-Y,” she spells back.
She motions for me to set the bags on the kitchen counter and she takes out plates, then starts to transfer the food over. “I know it’s not as nice as the restaurant,” she says.
“Better,” I say. I smile at her. “Where’s your family?”
“They’re all with their boyfriends and husbands. It’s just me here.” She shrugs and her mouth twists. But then she grins. “But I do have your baseball cap to keep me company.”
I look around. “Where is it?”
“It’s on my bed. I’ll get it for you before you leave.”
She motions for me to bring my plate and walk into the living room. She sits down on the couch and motions for me to sit next to her. She sets her plate on the coffee table and then pulls the table closer to us. I set my plate beside hers.
“We need drinks,” she says. She hops up and goes to get two sodas. “This okay?”
I nod. “Perfect.”
We sit quietly and eat and the food is really good.
She accidentally drops a dollop of sauce on her glove and rubs it away.
“Why don’t you take those off?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s okay.”
I take her hand in mine and reach for her elbow. Her eyes close and I can feel her deep breaths lift the hairs on my neck. I arch my brow in question as I reach to roll down the edge of her glove.
She nods. “I can do it, though.”
I don’t stop. I scrunch it up in my hands until I can pull the fingers and slide it all the way off. Her hand trembles in mine.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She nods. “I’ve just never…” She stops signing. “Never mind.”
“Never what?” I ask.
“Never…shown…anyone.” She holds her chin tight and stares me down. “Until you.”
I reach for her other glove and do the same to it. She keeps her lower arm turned away from me, but then she tips it and I can see the slashes on that arm.
“Both arms?” I look at her face.
“Yes.”
“Same time?” I watch her eyes. They stare into mine.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Guilt.”
“Did you ever do it after that?”
She smiles softly. “No. Emilio taught me to play piano.”
“Emilio?”
“My adoptive dad. He and Marta adopted me when I was twelve.”
“When your parents died, there was no other family to take you?”
She shakes her head. “No.” She looks at me shyly. “Do you feel…differently about me…after seeing the scars?”
“Yes,” I admit.
Her face falls.
“No, not like that. It makes me admire you.”
“Because I tried to kill myself?” Her eyes narrow.
“No. Because you survived it.”
She pulls her legs up onto the couch and turns to face me, her plate forgotten.
“I see scars every day,” I tell her. “It’s kind of my specialty. And I understand why people want to cover them up. I really do. But sometimes I wish they would leave them.”
“Why?” Her face is tight and almost angry.
“Because scars mean you healed. You went through a trauma and your body healed. Scars mean you came out the other side. You survived.”
Her face softens.
“But I can also understand the need to cover them. That’s why I try to make beautiful art that means something, to cover them up.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering. “That’s all I meant. I promise.”
“I survived,” she signs.
I smile at her. “Yes, you did.”
Suddenly she leans over toward me, and her mouth hovers a breath from mine. I don’t even take time to think about it. I kiss her. I kiss her hard, just like I have wanted to do since I met her.
She tastes like garlic and want.
She tastes like all the things I can’t have. But for some stupid reason, I’m taking them anyway.
Lark
Oh, God. His lips are on mine and his hand gently cups my neck, holding me close to him, his thumb swiping down the tender tendon at the front of my throat in gentle passes, the tips of his fingers sweeping behind my ear.
He pulls back, lifting his mouth from mine long enough to look into my eyes, asking me silently if this is okay. I nod my head and lean back over to kiss him again. He pulls me into his lap and I go willingly, sinking into him. He pulls back again and says with his voice, “Too fast?” The words are soft and unwieldy, but I understand him.
“Not too fast,” I say. I kiss him again, but he’s already pulling back.
“No,” he says. “Too fast for me.” He points to his chest. His breaths are heaving from him, and I can feel the ridge of his dick pressing against my bottom. He’s hard. He’s turned on. I know he is.
But I scurry back to my side of the couch. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Wait,” he says. He reaches for me. “Don’t go.”
But I pull so far back that he can’t reach me, and then I ge
t to my feet. My legs feel like rubber, and shame floods my face with heat. I go to the kitchen and pretend to rummage in the refrigerator, but I’m not looking for anything in particular. I surface with a jar of jelly and nothing else. He walks into the kitchen behind me, subtly adjusting himself.
He eyes the jar in my hand. “Did you have a sudden urge for strawberry jam?” he asks, his eyes laughing along with his mouth.
“Yes.” I pull out a spoon and dip it into the jelly, and lift it to my lips upside down. Then I feel stupid, so I just leave it jammed in my mouth.
“I like jelly,” he says. I shove the jar toward him and it skids across the counter. He catches it right before it careens off the edge and slams onto the tiles. “Thanks,” he says with a grin. Then he goes to the drawer and takes out a spoon, dips it into the jelly, and sticks it in his mouth. “Best thing about being deaf is that we can talk with our mouths full,” he signs.
I grin, still sucking on the spoon, although all the jelly is gone. He reaches over and pulls the spoon from my mouth. Then he tosses both our spoons into the sinks with a loud clatter.
“You want to tell me what that was all about?” He jerks his thumb toward the couch.
“Would you believe I really wanted some jelly?”
He barks out a laugh. “Does that craving happen often?”
Only after I have dinner with a really hot guy who already told me I’m not his type, and then I kiss him, and then he tells me to stop and I have misinterpreted the signals. “No.” I shake my head. “Not usually.”
He nods and walks slowly toward me. I take a step back, and put the jelly back in the fridge. I turn back to him and wince. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”
His face scrunches up in question. “What?”
“When I kissed you.” I close my eyes tightly for a second, and then open them. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He laughs again. “The only part of me you made uncomfortable is my dick. And that’s the best kind of uncomfortable in the world. We guys love to be uncomfortable. My dick would call it more happy than uncomfortable, actually.” He adjusts his pants again. Then he takes two steps closer to me and we’re suddenly breathing the same air. “And that’s because he really likes hot girls who kiss me.” He laughs. “Don’t worry. He’ll get over it. After a long cold shower. Or two.” His eyes narrow. “You thought I slowed it down because I was uncomfortable?”
Holding Her Hand Page 3