Signs of Attraction

by Laura Brown

Me: I just want to take it easy. I plan to go to bed soon.

  Reed: OK, get some rest. Tomorrow?

  My heart ached. I wanted to wallow tomorrow as well. I wanted to stop pretending. My whole life I’d been pretending. Now I knew better. I couldn’t hear, my brain was injured, and I was most definitely, without a doubt, not normal. Couldn’t I spend one goddamn day not pretending and just be the useless lump that I was? The useless lump I would never rise above.

  But I knew he wouldn’t let me.

  I glanced toward my room, where my pills awaited me. I needed a feel-good moment. Badly. A handful or two would do the trick, take me far away from myself. Free me.

  Me: OK

  I couldn’t. Could I? I held the phone to my chest. Something felt off. Me. I was off. I was losing myself. Slowly but surely.

  The door opened and D entered. “Hey, how goes it?”

  I thumbed toward the floor.

  D shooed me over and joined me on the couch. “What you need is a night out. You’ve been cooped up inside for two weeks. Let’s go out and get drunk and stupid.”

  “I don’t need to get drunk to get stupid. My father took care of that for me.”

  D grabbed my chin and forced me to look at her. I nearly broke at the underlying fear in her eyes. It connected to something deep inside, something that said maybe she had reason to be afraid. “Don’t go there, Carli. Or I’ll be forced to psychoanalyze you.” Odds were the psychoanalysis had already begun. She clasped hands with mine and yanked me to my feet. “You need to be twenty-two for a change.”

  “I’ve only been twenty-two for two days.”

  “Exactly. Stop acting like an old lady.”

  Didn’t anyone get what I was going through? No. And I had no idea how to explain it, how to make them see just how messed up I was.

  Instead of fighting her, I changed into skinny jeans and a sweater and fixed up my makeup. D came out in a short skirt and skimpy top.

  “No, you still look like a teacher.” She reached into the back of my closet—skimpy-clothes territory—and pulled out a short black skirt and maroon halter top. I didn’t want to be slutty. I didn’t want to run the risk of some asshole putting his hands up my skirt. But I still had no fight in me. I changed into a skirt barely long enough to cover my ass and top that gave me way more cleavage than normal. At least D let me put back on my sweater to handle the chill of the night air.

  Before we left, I ran back into my bedroom. I didn’t know what the night would hold and needed my security blanket. Namely: a pill.

  We hopped onto the T and when we got off, I realized we were closer to Reed’s place than ours. A pang of guilt hit me. I told him not to come over so I could go to sleep, and now I waltzed around the streets of Cambridge, wearing clothes that barely covered my ass.

  The list for the day included Bad Teacher Carli and Bad Girlfriend Carli.

  Cold air embraced my bare legs and blew up my skirt as we hurried toward our destination. At least the fast pace controlled my shivering.

  We got to the party, and it was already in full swing. The bass rang out through the apartment. My left ear bopped to the beat, all jittery with a noise level she could hear.

  I followed D into the slightly quieter kitchen. The place was standing-room only. We stood shoulder to shoulder in the small space, where we mixed up some drinks and toasted being in our twenties. I couldn’t latch on to a conversation. Before Attack, I could. After Attack, I couldn’t.

  I finished my cup and poured another.

  Every cologne and perfume known to man filtered through the air, toned down only by the alcohol and one dude retching into a trash can. The music was loud as sin, but people still talked over it. They laughed, flirted, and had fun.

  Out in the living room, D acted her full twenty-two years. She danced with some stranger who already had his hands on her ass.

  I leaned against a wall, absorbing the atmosphere. They were all my age, college students like me. They were all drinking and laughing and having a good time. Yet I didn’t feel part of this crowd.

  I tilted my cup to my lips, letting the tangy drink wash away the tears threatening to well in my eyes. Parties like these were more enjoyable when I was slightly smashed.

  Or absolutely fucked.

  Something was said and everyone laughed. I threw in a fake laugh, invisibility cloak firmly in place. Loneliness seeped in, not giving a damn I was surrounded by people. My now-empty cup provided me with an excuse to leave the crowd, still laughing and talking over the noise.

  In the kitchen I poured a pity drink into a red plastic cup. I lost count of how many I’d had but knew the equation bordered on: one too many + pity drink = way-too-drunk Carli.

  A tall blond guy joined me at the drink table and said something, but I couldn’t make out a word. Instead of faking it like I used to, I pointed to my left ear and shook my head. He said something else and took a step back. Only he bumped into another party member. Awkwardness ensued as he mouthed to the person and walked off without another glance in my direction.

  I had just identified myself as deaf. And for all intents and purposes, I was. Especially at a party like this. I could be miserable at home; I didn’t need to be miserable surrounded by people.

  Me: Sorry, D, I’m done. This isn’t my scene anymore. You gonna be OK if I scram?

  D: No, wait a minute. I’ll toss this loser, and we’ll dance.

  Me: No, stay if you want. I can’t hear, my head hurts, and I’m not normal anymore.

  D: :-( I’m not letting you leave alone.

  Me: I’ll text Reed. But only if you’re OK alone.

  D: I’m always OK. I see a few of my buddies.

  Me: Good. Have fun.

  I moved to grab my coat and swayed more than I expected. I hadn’t had that many drinks. I’d had . . . No clue. Damn. I pulled on my sweater and coat, grabbed my bag, and headed out into the night.

  When I got to the street, I sat down on the building steps. I squeezed my legs closed to give myself some sort of dignity and tried not to think of my skirt rising up above the cold concrete. The cool air soothed my head as I breathed in the city fumes.

  It wasn’t that late. I could walk to the T and head back to my dorm. Only when I moved to stand the world tilted a little too much.

  Bad girlfriend of the year coming in three, two, one . . .

  Me: You still up?

  I rubbed my hands on my goose-bumped legs as I waited. Why hadn’t I worn gloves?

  Reed: Yeah, trouble sleeping.

  Deep breath. Own up to your mistakes.

  Me: This is bad. D dragged me out to a party. Only due to my left ear I can’t hear a thing. And my head doesn’t work like I’m 22. It works like I’m 42 or 52. Or not quite living at all. I bailed on D, but I’m closer to you and may have drank a little more than I thought. Or at least more than I can now handle. How can a brain injury affect my tolerance?

  I paused, thumb poised over the send icon. I contemplated erasing it all. I could just tell him I missed him and to pick me up at the train station. Or I could send it and let the world crumble where it may.

  I hit Send and shivered while I waited for a response.

  Reed: When did you last take your meds? You’re not supposed to drink with them. And where are you? I’ll get you.

  Me: Last night.

  I hit Send before realizing the lie. I’d had one before I left. Maybe that was why I felt loopy?

  I gave him the address and huddled farther into myself while I waited. The frigid air nipped at my bare legs, and up my skirt. My cheeks were numb from the chill. I was trying to see through the curtains in the apartment across the street when Reed pulled up. My stomach flipped, not sure whether he’d be upset or not. I stood, smoothed down my skirt, and walked to his car. I may have swayed a bit, but the fuck-me heels would do that to a person.

  When I got in, Reed reached over and held my face still, studying me with eyes that always saw far too much. One hand left my face
to flip on the inside light. I pulled back and put on my seat belt.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why what?” Did he know? Could he tell I lied?

  The tension in the car threatened to leak out onto the street.

  “Why did you drink? Why did you go to the party? Why did you tell me you were sleeping?” And the unasked question: Why did I brush him off?

  At least he didn’t ask about the pills.

  My throat clogged, each swallow pushing tears up and down as they threatened to overflow. This handsome man waited for me to answer. He’d given me everything he had. And I ditched him to go to a party.

  I couldn’t look at him anymore, couldn’t see the pain in his eyes, pain I had caused. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. No longer could I keep the tears inside. I sobbed into them as Reed hugged me from over the center console.

  When my tears subsided I sat up and had to look at his even more pain-filled face. “I’m taking you home with me,” he signed.

  “I need my medication.”

  He looked at me good and long, and I braced myself for the fight. In the end he nodded and drove me home first. I packed a bag, grabbed my meds, and then we went back to his place.

  The car ride had been blessedly warm, but I was still to-the-bone cold and didn’t dare take my long jacket off. Reed told me to wait. He ran a hand through his hair, shoulders tight with tension. He checked the time, then did something on his phone. A minute later he checked it again and moved into the living room.

  From the doorway, he set up something on the screen that looked like a Skype call, but it was on his television. The bottom corner held a box with a live image of himself.

  A woman with black hair sprinkled with gray, and tight curls, appeared on the screen. Her skin was a rich brown, and her nose indicated an African heritage. Her eyes warmed into a smile when she saw Reed.

  She signed back and forth to Reed for a few minutes, her smile fading as they went along. At the end of the call they each signed “I love you” one-handed before disconnecting.

  “Who was that?” I asked as soon as he turned around.

  “My mother. She’s a nurse.” He moved past me and unzipped my bag lying on the kitchen floor. He pulled out my OxyContin and placed it on top of the kitchen cabinet where I couldn’t reach.

  What the hell?

  He turned to face me, ignoring the fire burning in my eyes. “No medication with alcohol.”

  “I can’t sleep without meds.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have drank.”

  Why did I text him? “Give me my medication.”

  “In the morning.”

  In the morning, I would be unable to move from pain. I shook my head, hands balled in fury.

  “Do you want to die?”

  I let go of my balled fists. Unfortunately for me I didn’t respond, not right away. And the expression on his face shifted 180 degrees to something close to terror.

  “You want to die?” he asked again, softer, taking a step forward.

  I took a step back. No. Yes. I waved to myself. “This not life.”

  He took another step, and another, until I was backed into the wall. A wall I happened to be very familiar with. One hand weaved through my hair and held my head. He leaned forward and kissed me. Not light. Not easy. This was full of passion. The ever-present tears spilled over my cheeks as I wrapped my arms around him, unable to resist.

  He pulled back. “You feel that?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s life.”

  He claimed my mouth again as his free hand undid the buttons and removed my coat. I let go of him and allowed my coat to puddle by my feet. He broke the kiss and got a good look at what I was wearing. He let out a breath that caressed my cheek.

  “You look alive to me.” He pulled me back into him, one hand running up my bare thigh and under my skirt to cup my behind. A very different kind of goose bumps broke out on my skin. I arched into him, needing more.

  “You feel alive to me,” he signed, removing the hand from my head to do so. He grabbed my hand and pressed it to his chest. Beneath my palm his heart beat fast. “You feel me?”

  I nodded and angled my head for his kiss, which he gave me. He lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around him. Inside I wasn’t damaged, not when I was in his arms.

  “I feel alive with you.” It was the truth. For the first time in two days my world wasn’t falling apart.

  He wrapped my arms around his neck and carried me into his bedroom. When he set me down, I pulled my sweater off. He took me in from head to toe. “You’re definitely alive.” Still roaming over me, he stopped at my neck, where I wore his necklace. A smile so full of love broke out. How was it my own heart shattered?

  “Make me forget I’m broken.”

  The smile remained, but it no longer reached his eyes. “You’re not broken.” Then he didn’t allow either one of us to say anything else. He pushed me down onto the bed, hands teasing my nipples through the clothing until my nerve endings were doing complicated math equations. When I writhed, he removed one hand and slipped it back under my skirt. He swiped my undies to the side, teasing my center with smooth strokes.

  “You feel that, right? That’s living.”

  And here is where I was glad I wasn’t learning ASL only in class. “No, this is fucking.”

  A laugh choked out of him, and his hand stilled in me. I’d have to thank Willow for showing me that sign.

  Here was everything I needed. Reed got off me and stripped out of his clothes in gloriously smooth movements, revealing that mouthwatering body to me. Then he removed my panties and nothing else. And damn if that didn’t turn me on further. Condom prepped, he shifted up my skirt the inch farther it needed to go and entered me.

  My brain got a little delirious with pleasure at that point, able to concentrate only on him moving inside me, on his scent, his touch, his taste as I licked his shoulder. Oh, I’d miss this if I left. Miss this feeling of euphoria. Miss this feeling of love. Miss this feeling of Reed.

  He stilled his pace, which was just warming up to perfect. I opened my eyes, and he brushed a hand over my head, a silent question. Was I bang-able? The thought alone caused me to laugh, and he groaned and thrust in, breaking off my own laugh.

  “Head fine.” And for the moment it was.

  He let his head fall forward. It had been a while. We’d had sex only twice since the attack, both times slow and sweet. I didn’t want sweet. I wanted to feel alive. Damn the consequences.

  I arched up into him, fast glides with my hips, begging him to let loose, toss out the control. Claim me. He took another deep breath and then joined me. Hard and fast, sending me flying in no time. Only he wasn’t done. Still pumping fast, he lifted my shirt, pulled down my cups, and sucked me into his mouth.

  Who knew a second orgasm could hit so fast? I hadn’t even fully come down to the ground from my first before the second, more powerful one ripped through me. I wrapped my legs around him, kissing any skin I could find, meeting his thrusts as best I could.

  He managed to send me flying one more time before he groaned and collapsed in my arms. His breaths teased my skin. I held tight. In his arms, I didn’t have a brain injury. In his arms, my ears didn’t matter. In his arms, I felt perfect.

  He pulled back and leaned on one arm. “You OK?”

  “Yes.” I was more than okay.

  “Good.” Then he rolled to his back and took me with him.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Reed

  I HELD CARLI for a while, until she picked up her head with curiosity brewing in her eyes. She hesitated for a moment, as if wrestling with herself over something. “Your mother’s black?” Her cheeks pinked.

  I laughed. Well, that explained the hesitation. I grabbed the blankets, wrapping us both up in them. “Half and half.” I guessed it was a good thing I hadn’t introduced them yet. I needed to explain a few things to Carli. For starters.

  I reached o
ver and grabbed a notebook and pen.

  My grandma was black, grandfather white. Quite the scandal back in the day. My dad was white as well. They used to joke that her heritage plus his created a Hispanic kid.

  Her eyes took in the paper, then darted to my face, more questions swimming around. Before I could sign or write, she returned to the paper.

  1. Past tense for Dad? 2. Hispanic?

  “Problem?” I asked before holding out my arm and pointing to my bare skin. “Not a tan.” She rolled her eyes, and I collected the paper.

  My birth mother was Brazilian, birth father Puerto Rican. We have no idea if they were born here or there. My father died two years ago. Car crash.

  I needed to share more than that. Needed to explain why I got so bossy about her pills. But words in either language wouldn’t come. She’d been through enough—she didn’t need my sob story added on top.

  “I’m sorry,” she signed, the sincerity of the sign on her face.

  I shrugged. Anger and sorrow at my father’s loss still battled for higher ground. Nothing she needed to know. Time to point this conversation back toward her.

  That’s life. No one can predict the future—best to make the most out of each day and what we have. Even if that’s a messed-up brain and a lot of pain.

  And that looked like something Dad would write. It didn’t resemble the truth. Truth was, Dad made a decision. But how could I explain it all to someone who never met him?

  She shook her head, bringing me back to the present and my comment about her.

  “What’s wrong? You’ve been quiet for two days,” I asked.

  She shifted upright and grabbed the pen and paper.

  On Thursday I lost control of my classroom. My co-op teacher had to step in. Good chance my career is finished before I graduate. If I graduate.

  She struggled more than I had thought. On top of everything, it couldn’t have been a good feeling. I put the notebook down and pulled her into me until her head rested on my chest and my arms wrapped around her. I rocked her gently as I held her, anger building inside me for the asshole who did this to her. Family had always meant a little something different to me than others, but this man—this “father”—didn’t deserve her.