Tone Deaf

by Olivia Rivers

  “Good morning,” she murmurs. Her warm breath seeps through my cotton T-shirt and brushes against the skin of my shoulder. I shiver, but try to conceal it by wrapping my arms around her. A small smirk lifts the corners of her lips, telling me that I’m not very good at hiding how much her touch messes with me.

  I kiss her forehead and sign back, “Good morning.” And it definitely is, now that she’s with me and safe. I pull her into my lap and rest my cheek on top of her head, and we stay that way for a long time. I’m not sure exactly how long, because having Ali this close does a weird time warp thing to me. It’s like time stops, and all that matters is this brave, feisty, beautiful girl in my arms.

  I kiss along the side of her jaw, stopping every once in a while to teasingly brush my lips against her mouth. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, capturing me in a deep kiss. Then she slowly pulls away and picks up my electric guitar I’d left leaning against the couch. She runs her hand along the smooth varnish, pausing to trace the small scratches that mar it after years of use. Usually, I hate it when other people touch my guitar, but Ali’s grasp on the instrument is delicate and reverent, and I don’t mind it at all.

  “Killer has a picture in his RV of you guys when you first started the band,” she says. She softly strums a simple chord. “You’re holding this same guitar in it.”

  “This was the first one I ever owned,” I sign. “It’s still my favorite.”

  “You use a different one when you perform,” she notes.

  “Yeah.” I reach over and run my hand along the neck of the guitar. “It’s my favorite, but the sound quality is honestly not that great. So I have to use a more professional one for performances.”

  She nods and carefully picks at a couple strings, and I smile as I recognize the notes she wrote to go along with the lyrics in my notebook.

  “It sounds a lot better with your adjustments,” I sign. “I’ve been playing what you wrote all morning.”

  She blushes a little at that, but a smile upturns her lips. “So do you think after all these years of working on it, your song might actually turn out perfect?”

  “No,” I sign. “But if you help me write it, I think our song might turn out perfect.”

  Ali’s smile grows, but then she looks up from the guitar and stares me right in the eye. Her lips tighten into a thoughtful expression, and she looks just as intense as she was when we had that serious discussion yesterday. I shift back a little, unsure where this conversation is going.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” she signs.

  “You promise to help me finish the song, and then I’ll kiss you again?”

  She scoffs at my suggestion. “Not quite. You answer one question of mine totally truthfully, and then I’ll help you with the song.”

  “That’s not fair.

  “Welcome to life.”

  I don’t like it when she talks like that, all bitter and realistic. Ali is the type of girl who deserves to live in a fairy tale world full of happily-ever-afters. The fact that she never got that—that instead she’s been struggling through hell—makes my chest ache. I peck her on the cheek and sign, “Fine. It’s a deal.”

  She smirks triumphantly, but the expression quickly melts into a hesitant frown. She brushes her fingers along my jaw, then drops her hand and trails it along the scar on my chest. Even though my shirt separates our skin, a trail of heat follows her fingertips.

  “Tell me about your family,” she says.

  I pull away from her, but she keeps her gaze steadily on mine, her hazel eyes concerned and curious. I swallow hard and hesitantly sign, “That’s not a question.”

  She sighs. “Must we get into specifics?”

  “We made a deal. I’m supposed to answer a question.”

  “Fine.” She rolls her eyes and asks, “Would you please tell me about your family?”

  “No.”

  She cocks her head a little. “What?”

  “I said no,” I sign, switching back to ASL to make sure she gets the message. “There, I answered.”

  Her lips purse into a tight little frown. “That’s not fair.”

  I pick her up off my lap, depositing her next to me on the couch. Anxiety crawls over my skin, and I don’t want to be near anyone, not even Ali. I stand up and repeat what she signed before. “Welcome to life.”

  I head into the kitchen, needing some ice water to cool me down. My blood feels like it’s suddenly boiling, and I’m breathing too fast, and I need to escape these feelings. Scratch that—I need to escape the past. And talking about it is not going to help.

  As I reach for a glass in the cupboard, a small hand snatches mine out of the air. Ali tugs me around to face her, and as I stare down, I’m once again amazed at how such a tiny girl can have so much power over me.

  Ali pulls me close to her, until there’s just enough room between us for our hands to sign. “It’s okay,” she signs. “I don’t care what you tell me. I’ll be okay with it.”

  She smiles up at me softly, and I’m pretty sure this is the moment when I’m supposed to break down and admit every horrific detail of my past. But I’ve never been very good at the whole “supposed to” thing, so I just step away from her and snatch a cup from the shelf.

  I grab some ice out of the freezer, and I’m about to drop it into the cup when Ali says, “I told you about my past. Now you tell me about yours.”

  The ice starts to freeze my hand, but I just tighten my grip on it, taking in the pain. It’s so familiar that it’s almost comforting. “It doesn’t work that way, Ali,” I mutter, turning my head just enough for her to read my lips.

  “Then how does it work?”

  The pain becomes too much, so I let the ice cubes fall one by one, watching them hit the bottom before I reply. “It works like this: you stop asking questions about my life, and leave me the hell alone.”

  There’s a long pause, and then I feel her arms wrap around my waist, and her warm breath whisper in my ear, “But I don’t want to leave, and I don’t think you want to be alone. Not really.”

  I’m pretty sure her arms are the only thing keeping me standing. I turn around and grab her hand, firmly entwining our fingers. Brushing a strand of hair from her face, I lean close to her and say, “My story isn’t pretty, Ali.”

  She stares up at me, her eyes open wide, asking me to tell her more. I groan and let my head fall back. Memories claw at my brain, and I just want to collapse somewhere and close my eyes, to block it all out. I dump my cup in the sink and lead Ali to my bedroom. I tug her onto the bed, and she lies down, letting me wrap her in my arms and press close to her. Her sweet scent calms me, and I breathe in deeply, reminding myself that even if I don’t have her forever, I have her now.

  We stay there for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms. I soak in her presence; I’ve never felt this close to someone. Her warm breaths heat my neck, and gradually they slow, until I’m sure she’ll fall asleep. But her eyes stay open and locked on mine, still waiting for an answer to a question I never discuss.

  I untangle my hands from hers and slowly sign, “My dad killed my mom when I was ten.”

  I wait for her to recoil and run away, but all she does is reach up and brush her fingers against my cheek. Her touch is firmer than usual, like she’s trying to brush the memory straight out of my head, and I close my eyes, appreciating the contact more than I thought possible. There are no sparks like before, but there’s warmth in her touch that fights off the cold chills I always get when I think about this.

  “So you grew up in the foster system?” she guesses.

  “No. I wish I had, but no.”

  Her gaze turns inquisitive, and I hesitantly go on. “He didn’t physically kill her. I mean, he wasn’t the one to give her the pills. But she had psych issues, and she was suicidal. Instead of helping her, my dad drove her off the edge.”

  “So you blame him for her death.”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  She doesn�
�t judge me, or tell me I’m wrong, or try to change my mind. She just holds me closer, wrapping her arms around me so tight that I don’t think I could leave if I tried. But, strangely, I don’t want to leave. Somehow, it feels right to tell her all this, like our relationship wouldn’t be real if she didn’t know the truth about me and my past.

  My vision blurs, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s from tears. This is the second time she’s made me cry since I met her, but this time, I don’t feel ashamed. She wipes away one of my tears, just like I did for her. “Tell me everything,” she says.

  I swallow hard. “Both my parents were deaf. I learned to speak English because my mom insisted on it, but as soon as she died, my dad wouldn’t let me talk around him. He always resented having a kid who could hear, so he insisted I use sign language.

  “I had a lisp all through elementary school, because I didn’t speak enough. I got picked on for it, but that didn’t even begin to compare to my home life.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, and Ali brushes her fingers across my cheek and lightly kisses each of my closed eyes. After a long minute, she seems to realize that I don’t want to admit to anything, so she says it for me.

  “Your dad abused you. Like mine.”

  I nod and shudder, hating those words. Yeah, I was young, and yeah, there probably wasn’t anything I could do about it. But . . . what if there was? What if I could have stopped it, what if I’d tried harder, what if I just wasn’t strong enough?

  Ali sighs, seeming to read my mind. “It’s not your fault, Jace.”

  “But what if it is? He was obviously mentally ill, and I knew it, and I always went and pissed him off, anyway.”

  “If it is your fault, then everything you told me the other night is a lie.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You told me it wasn’t my fault that my dad hit me. So if you’re saying that it is your fault that your dad did the same thing . . . then I must be at fault, too.”

  My breath catches, and I snap my eyes open, staring right at her. I hurriedly sign, “It’s not your fault, Ali. Don’t even suggest that. You did nothing wrong.”

  She smiles gently. “Then you didn’t do anything wrong, either.”

  Tears flow freely down my face, and Ali kisses each one away, her lips soft against my skin. I close my eyes, trying to figure out the emotions racing through me. There’s anger, of course, because that’s always there. But it seems subdued, and there’s also something else: relief. Other people have told me before that I did nothing wrong. But it feels different coming from Ali, knowing that she’s been through the same hell and believes I didn’t deserve any of it. She’s the first person who really understands.

  She holds me for a long time, and I let her. We don’t talk, and Ali doesn’t try to counsel me or give me pity. She just presses me close to her, letting me absorb her warmth and strength.

  Eventually, she holds up her hands and signs, “Can I ask you another question?”

  “If you really have to.”

  “Is this why you hated me so much at first?”

  I frown. “I hated the fact that you were deaf and that you reminded me of my past. But I never hated you.” Guilt gnaws at me, and I add, “I’m sorry. How I treated you when we first met was wrong, not to mention idiotic. My dad had issues because he was too selfish to take care of his mental illness. It had nothing to do with him being deaf.”

  Ali gives a slow nod, accepting this. She stares at me intently, and I can tell she’s trying to judge how fragile I am, and how many more questions I can take. I brush the back of my hand against her cheek, silently telling her it’s okay.

  “Your whole obsession with health,” she signs, “I mean, all the health foods and exercise and stuff. Is that why?”

  “Yeah. My dad had some sort of mental illness, and instead of getting real medication, he used meth to deal with it. He was always cruel, but when he shot up, he was downright vicious.”

  “I’m sorry. You never should have had to go through that.” She hesitates, and then signs, “Is he in your life at all anymore?”

  I shudder at the thought and shake my head. “No. He went to prison after he gave me that scar on my chest. There was no way he could explain away an injury like that, and he’d already been arrested before on a couple of minor crimes. So he got sentenced to five years.”

  Ali relaxes a little and signs, “I’m glad he’s locked away now.”

  I nod, silently agreeing. Then I add, “I guess the whole health thing is my way of making sure I don’t turn into him. My dad never took care of anyone, including himself. So I guess I’m into all the health stuff because of that.”

  She stares at me, her eyes so serious that I have a hard time meeting them. “You do know that it won’t work,” she murmurs. “Don’t you?”

  I freeze, stunned at her words. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that eating healthy and running won’t ensure you don’t turn into your dad.”

  I open my mouth to shout, to tell her she’s completely wrong. But all that comes out is a hoarse squeak. I stare at her, longing for her to take back what she just said, but she just shakes her head. Then she presses a hand against my chest, right over my scar.

  “This is what will make sure you never become your dad.”

  At first I think she’s talking about my scar, and I’m confused. Then I realize her hand is pressed over my heart. Ali places her other hand against me so both her palms are pressed against my chest. Comforting warmth spreads out from her touch, and I close my eyes and cover her hands with my own.

  “It’s okay, Jace,” Ali murmurs. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  How many times have I told myself those exact same words? Everything’s going to be okay. But I’ve never been able to believe it.

  At least not until now. Hearing Ali say those words changes them completely, and part of me latches onto them, believing what she says.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. I smile shakily and pull back so I can sign, “So now that I’ve spilled my guts to you, will you help me finish our song?”

  She nods, but then hesitates and signs, “With one condition.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”

  “Too bad.”

  I try to give her an exasperated look, but I don’t think I manage. The small smile on her lips is soft and caring, and it’s impossible to get upset at her when she looks like that. “What’s the condition?” I ask.

  She leans over and tenderly kisses me on the cheek. “It has to end on a happy note.”

  30

  ALI

  OVER THE NEXT week, Jace and I fall into an easy routine. The early mornings we spend working on songwriting; Jace is due to submit four new songs to his label in just a couple weeks, and I agree to help with all of them. While he has natural talent, he’s never had classical training, and his eyes light up excitedly as I teach him new concepts. He spends hours scribbling lyrics, testing chords on his guitar, and signing rapid-fire questions at me. His enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself enjoying music in ways I haven’t allowed myself to in years.

  Our mornings together are always too short, and the days too long. Jace’s tour schedule is crammed with events, so if he’s not prepping or performing, he’s traveling. I just keep hiding away in the back of the RV, staying safely out of view and only going outside for a few minutes at a time. Boredom eats at me, and texting Avery helps, but I’m growing more and more anxious to get to New York. After weeks of travel, we’re stopped in Austin, Texas, and still so far away from my destination.

  This morning, we sit together on the couch closest to the window. The curtains are drawn to keep anyone from seeing me, but other than that, everything seems perfect. I’m texting Avery, and Jace is testing out a series of chords I wrote for a bridge, occasionally pausing to kiss me.

  I stand up and grab our breakfast plates off the small side table. In just a few minutes, Jace
is going to have to leave for a rehearsal, and I can already feel boredom gnawing at me. I’m sick of drawing and coding to pass the time, and even managing Jace’s social media stuff is starting to feel tedious.

  I walk into the kitchen and dump the plates in the sink. There’s a growing mound there, and I frown, deciding that someone needs to take care of them. I turn on the sink, but just as I’m about to grab the dish soap, Jace’s strong arm wraps around my shoulders. He rests his chin on top of my head and uses his free hand to push the soap away from me. I turn off the water and face him, my eyebrows raised questioningly.

  He gives me a chiding look and signs, “I woke you up early so we could spend time together, not so you could be my maid.”

  I roll my eyes and say, “I thought you were a health freak. Don’t you know that dirty dishes build up bacteria?”

  He shrugs and kisses me on the tip of my nose. That seems to be his favorite place to kiss me, aside from my lips, of course. It’s such a sweet gesture, and it always takes me a little by surprise.

  “I want to spend the morning with you,” he signs. “Is that really such a terrible thing?”

  “Of course not,” I reply with a smile.

  He pulls me into his arms and presses me firmly against his chest, and his breath tickles my ear. I have no idea what he’s saying, but I know it’s affectionate.

  Jace suddenly freezes, every muscle in his body stiffening like he’s been shocked. His grip on me tightens. Then he takes a giant step away from me, his eyes growing wide as he stares at something behind my back. I turn toward the entrance of the kitchen, and—

  Shit.

  Tony gapes at me, frozen in the doorway. He pushes his glasses up his nose and squints, like he thinks he might be seeing things. When I don’t disappear, his eyes grow wide, and he opens and shuts his mouth a couple times as he struggles for something to say. Finally, he manages to sputter out, “What?”

  Not good, not good, not good. I tense, unsure whether I should try to explain what I’m doing here, or follow my instincts and bolt for the door. Jace pulls me back to him, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulders. Tony takes a step toward me, his brows furrowed in a mixture of disbelief and anger.