Kiss Me Back

by Sidney Halston

  In the video, I see Jazmin say something to Lola and point at her ears, then Lola gasps, looks down and takes off her earbuds.

  How odd, I think. She was listening to music in a club? How the hell can she hear the customers? Was she so into whatever it was that she forgot to take them off? Maybe it’s an audiobook?

  She always has those things on, I think as something pulls at my brain. Then I see the bald guy and for the next twenty minutes I watch him talking to a group of women who are clearly not interested in anything but his ability to buy them drinks. That goes on and on and I actually feel bad for the guy. He’s obviously being played.. Then there’s what looks like cheering and laughter when Jazmin pops the cork off the champagne. At the corner of the screen I see Lola helping customers, oblivious to everything else around her, which I find strange for some reason.

  I fast-forward to see the bald guy look at the bill, wipe his forehead, and then sign it. The man is full of shit. I copy the footage onto a thumb drive to give to Matt.

  But before I do that, I look at the live feed and watch Lola work. She looks far away, as if she’s thinking about something. I think I catch her looking toward the entrance, which is where I’m usually stationed. Then Toro walks by her and waves. She shakes her head, stands up straight, and waves back, then continues working.

  Watching her just reinforces my feelings. I’m going to keep trying. I won’t give up that easily.

  I take the thumb drive to Matt and explain that it checks out with Jazmin’s story, then head back down. It’s five and I’m done for the day; Lola should be done soon too. Maybe she’ll let me drive her home.

  I sit at the bar to wait but she hasn’t noticed me yet. “What are you listening to?” I ask. She doesn’t move or look back. Obviously, she didn’t hear me. Maybe the music playing from her buds is too loud. “Lola, hey.” Again, nothing.

  I grab the pen and a piece of paper from the pad she’s using to write down the inventory and slowly and carefully write:

  I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Let me drive you home and explain.

  I fold it into a paper airplane and toss it over the counter. It hits her on the head. She stiffens and looks around, then bends and picks it up. I can see a reluctant little smile forming before she turns fully around.

  “Is that a yes?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead she bites her lip and thinks.

  “It’s raining,” I add quickly. “No matter how mad you are at me, I have to be a better option than standing at a bus stop in the rain.”

  Again, she doesn’t answer and I pout. “Please. One more chance. Everyone should get a second chance, right?”

  She looks at me like I single-handedly killed her puppy, and those big, sad, pissed-off eyes make me want to tell her all my secrets. “It was a bad day. It was the anniversary of my brother’s death, and I drank too much and passed out. I promise, no other reason would have kept me from going out with you.” I never talk about this but I find myself spitting it all out in one breath, hoping she’ll believe me. I see her anger shift from mad to something else. All her features soften. “Please?” I ask again. “One more chance.”

  Finally, she lets out a breath and whispers, “You’re still an ass though.”

  “I don’t disagree.” I smile. “So that’s a yes, then? One more chance?”

  “Yes.”

  Thank God! “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait here.”

  “Okay.”

  Then I see the wire around her neck and in her shirt and realize we’ve had that entire conversation while she still had those earbuds on, which I find to be odd, again. I’m sitting behind her, watching her counting inventory. Suddenly everything I know about her converges and I think my brain short-circuits.

  Holy shit. How did I not notice it before?

  “Lola?” I call out. “Lola,” this time a bit louder. There’s no one near us, so I go around the bar and tap her arm. She turns and looks at my mouth, like she always does. I found it so damn sexy, but now I’m thinking she does it for an entirely different reason. “What are you listening to?”

  She finally plucks them out of her ears. “Uh, nothing. Just the radio.” She goes to tuck them into her pocket but I grab one and put it in my ear. There’s no music. Just silence. Her face reddens and she looks away and finishes her work. I reach for her hand and she looks up at me. Her blue eyes are wide and panicked. “Lola?”

  She swallows visibly, and I let go of her hand. I don’t want to embarrass her, but I need her to tell me the truth, even though I think I already know. And I can’t believe I missed the writing on the wall.

  Lola is deaf.

  Lola

  Shit. I think he knows.

  I use these earbuds so people will stay away. Normally if my head is down and I have these on, people will assume I’m in my head listening to music, and they don’t approach me. Or, if they do, and I don’t realize it, I can use the “loud music” as an excuse. I know people usually see me as either the shy chick or the stuck-up, unapproachable chick. I don’t really care what people think of me as long as they let me be. And it’s not because I’m ashamed of my hearing impairment, it’s because I don’t want to get fired. I’ve been fired from two different jobs before and I can’t afford for it to happen again.

  That scares the shit out of me and now I’m frazzled and nervous.

  He grabs my arm, then pinches my chin and moves my head up so that I can see him. “Relax. It’s okay.”

  He doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, and I don’t want him drawing attention to us.

  I clock out and grab my purse. Then he leads us out of the club and to the parking lot. Oh God. Oh God. Now what? Is he going to tell everyone? I was planning on telling him once we went on an official date. I was never going to keep it a secret, but for some reason I’m feeling totally unprepared and vulnerable.

  On our way out of the club he takes one of the big umbrellas with the Panic logo on it that is kept by the valet and opens it. With him holding it over us, my side pressed against his, he guides me to his car. Opening the door for me, he makes sure I’m tucked in the car before he closes the door and jogs over to the other side. I wonder if he said anything. I wasn’t looking at his face and with the rain it’s hard to feel the vibrations from his low cadence. Once inside the car, he shakes off some of the water from his hair. I turn a bit not wanting to miss a single thing he says, which means I have to pay close attention to his lips to see if he’s moving them.

  I also want to run my hands through that thick hair. His beard isn’t as perfectly trimmed as it normally is. It looks like he’s been running his fingers through it, but I love it and I particularly love how it’s the same shade as the hair on his head. He has chunky silver rings on three of his tattooed fingers on his right hand and one on his left.

  I see his lips moving but he’s looking out the windshield. I reach over to the steering wheel and squeeze the top of his right hand. I need him to turn his face to me.

  He closes his eyes and slowly opens them before shifting his body around. It’s strangely endearing how he turns his entire body so that I can see him clearly. “You can’t hear me, can you?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Explain, please.”

  “Secret?” I hope I’m whispering. When I’m nervous my voice gets more pitchy and distorted. I hate talking almost as much as I hate being deaf. I can’t hear my voice so I don’t know if I’m too loud and I’ve been laughed at more times than I care to admit. But he’s not laughing. In fact, he’s never laughed at me.

  He tilts his head in confusion. “A secret? Between you and me? Is that what you’re asking?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah. I promise.” There’s a flash of lightning and I feel the thunder booming. “But can we talk at you
r house? It’s really bad out there.” He looks out the window.

  My house. My tiny horribly embarrassing studio in the shittiest neighborhood in Miami?

  “Your house,” I say, and he must like that because a smile spreads across his face.

  “My house,” he agrees as we take off in the rain.

  I’m absorbed in my thoughts, thinking of how heartbroken I was when I lost my hearing and Gus abandoned me. I know I’ve changed and a lot of time has passed. Fox isn’t Gus and what I have and want with Fox are not the same things as what I had with Gus. Gus and I had a relationship. We talked about marriage and kids and our future. Fox, at most, is a fun time in bed and maybe, eventually, a friendship. But I can’t help thinking of those bad moments in my life when I’m sitting in a car with a man who could possibly have the same reaction Gus did once he realizes that there are much easier women to be with. Women who he can call and talk to on the phone, who he can talk to from a different room, who don’t need to stare at his mouth in order to have a conversation.

  I feel a soft squeeze on my wrist and I startle. He hasn’t said a word. At least I don’t think he has. I suppose he’d get my attention somehow if he needed to. He knows my secret now. And now he knows I’m not being daft when I don’t respond to him, I just can’t hear him. When I turn my head he gives me a reassuring smile, sensing I must be anxious. Which does ease some of the tension from my body.

  We’re in Coral Gables, a nice part of town, a few miles from Miami Beach. We pass two golf courses before he parks his sports car in front of a small two-level apartment building that looks like a little Spanish villa. He turns to me and holds out a palm and very slowly yells, “Stay.”

  That sort of ticks me off. I’m not a dog and yelling isn’t going to do me any good. But I sit there quietly as he closes his door, opens the umbrella and my door. I need to explain to him that even though I’m hearing impaired, I can read lips perfectly, one of the things I picked up quickly. I can also figure out inflections; I could tell by the way his lips moved slowly and sharply that he said it loudly like a command. I tamp down my annoyance, since he’s trying to be a gentleman and he doesn’t understand me. Together, we walk to the small apartment foyer, then he closes the umbrella and we travel up a set of stairs. He opens the door and I’m surprised by what I see.

  It’s a small apartment and everything is white and ultra-modern and I instantly hate it. It just further reinforces how different we are. I would never, no matter how much money I had, decorate my home this way. It’s cold and practical and utilitarian. The living room isn’t very big and most of it is taken up by a white leather U-shaped sectional. He gestures toward the couch and I let my purse drop to the floor right by the door and go sit. He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with two bottles of water. He hands me one before sitting down on the other end of the couch.

  “You can read my lips, right? Do I need to slow down?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “I’m thinking of all the things I missed during all these months. Is this”—he points to my general area in an awkward way—“why you didn’t want to go out with me before?”

  “Part of it, yes.”

  “Can you explain, please? Now I’m realizing that it’s not so much that you’re shy but that you don’t like to speak, right? Why is that?”

  I clear my throat. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  His brows furrow. “No.”

  “You don’t have to be nice. The cat’s out of the bag. I know what I sound like.”

  With a smirk, he leans back casually, grabs a soccer ball from the floor and bounces it softly on his knee. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “A seal? A frog? I’ve heard it all.”

  “And how would you know what you sound like? You can’t hear.”

  I laugh, which I hate more than talking. “Touché.” I clear my throat again trying to focus on my tone. Just with that comment, he’s sort of won me over. People walk on eggshells around me when they find out I’m hearing impaired. Yet here he is teasing me…he’s my kind of man.

  “I’ve been teased before. Cruelly. A lot. And I know sometimes I talk too loud,” I admit.

  “Well, whoever told you that is an asshole. It couldn’t be further from the truth. And you don’t talk too loud. Actually, most times I can barely hear you.”

  “I guess I’m overcompensating,” I say, raising my voice a bit.

  He drops the ball and gently kicks it to the corner of the room and then slides closer, our knees a mere inch apart. “But it is a little weird when you respond with just one word.”

  “Sorry about that,” I say. I’ve avoided talking for so long, only talking when absolutely necessary, that it hadn’t occurred to me that I probably sound like a caveman with the one word answers. “Bad habit.”

  “So, what? Do you sign?”

  “Yes.” I sign out “yes.”

  “Were you born this way? Why don’t you want anyone to know?”

  I let out a breath. This is the most conversation I’ve had with anyone in a long time, aside from Vivian, and I don’t know how prepared I am to have it. But I guess Fox is as good a person as any…

  Fox

  I’m probably overwhelming her but this is a big fuckin’ deal. It’s part of who she is and she’s been keeping this a secret from everyone. Her eyes are the size of saucers and I realize I’m bombarding her with questions like she’s some sort of mutant species I’m trying to figure out. So I gently squeeze her knee. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine.” She’s so quiet it’s hard to hear her but as she gets a bit more comfortable she starts speaking a little louder, and I see her hands move as if she’s signing. When she catches herself she stops and makes an apologetic face but I wave her off. It’s not a big deal.

  I take her hand in mine. I’m going to lay this on her before we start. Maybe it’ll relax her. Maybe it’ll make it worse. But at least it’ll all be out. “Lola, I’m not a kid. I’m a man and I’m sensing that you keep shit locked tight because you’ve been burned before. I’m taking it by the way you’re closed off, some guy hurt you. Well, I’m not some guy who’s going to point a finger and laugh at you. If I thought your voice or your hearing was a problem, I wouldn’t have brought you back to my home. You know I figured it out already. So, stop freaking out and let’s just be real, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says reluctantly.

  “I know I joke around a lot but I’m never going to laugh at you or let anyone laugh at you. Whether we’re together or not. It’s just not in me to allow that to happen. You with me?”

  “I’m with you, Fox.”

  “I’m not the smartest guy you’ll ever meet but I’m also sensing that you rejected me all this time so that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to reject you.”

  “You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

  “Well, I’m not rejecting you. You’re here. So, please stop being nervous. Let’s see what you learn about me—hopefully you don’t reject me.”

  She lets out a big breath and seems to relax a bit. “Okay, so what do you want to know?”

  “Well, other than how charming you’re finding me right now, I’d like to know more about how you lost your hearing.”

  “Yes, you are unbelievably charming and quite arrogant too.”

  “Well, it goes hand in hand.” I wink at her.

  She rolls her eyes, but she has the silliest, cutest smile on her face. “And, with regards to my hearing, no, I wasn’t always deaf. I lost my hearing when I was seventeen from a high fever, which turned out to be meningitis.”

  I’m trying to make her comfortable except that I’m not at all comfortable with this conversation. I don’t know what is okay to ask and what is not but I also need to talk about this. It’s a huge elephant i
n the room that must be discussed.

  Her voice is low and a bit nasally and she sometimes overenunciates but I’m guessing she works very hard to make sure she sounds “normal.” I hadn’t noticed all these little nuances before. Obviously, I’d noticed she speaks softly but I just thought she was shy. There were a few times she spoke loudly, but I didn’t think anything of it. The club’s loud and everyone tends to yell. Now I’m understanding that she’s finding her tone when she talks, since she can’t hear herself.

  “And you can’t hear anything at all?”

  “Nope. I used to hear a little bit but now it’s mostly complete silence.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I run a hand through my hair. “And your family?”

  “My mother died when I was four and I never knew my father. My foster mother was an evil woman who took her government checks every month and ignored me most days, including when I got sick and needed to go to the hospital. She didn’t care enough to take me to a doctor.”

  I’m not sure what to say. My father’s a piece of shit but I think he would’ve taken me to the hospital if I’d needed to go. It takes a minute for me to process this. Damn, this woman has had a tough lot in life. No wonder she’s so closed off. She’s had no one to count on in the past. “Why not tell people? It has to be easier than keeping it a secret, Lola.”

  “I’ve applied for jobs and haven’t gotten them because of it. And I’ve had jobs where I have been fired for it, which is why I need this to be a secret.”