by Jay McLean
“I had some free time.” He shrugs. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
I look over at Dad. “Did you know?” I sign.
“No. It was a last minute thing,” Josh answers for him.
My eyes snap to his, my smile somehow getting wider. I knew he was learning ASL, but I wanted to wait until he was ready to bring it up. His grin matches mine and I squeeze him tighter, my legs kicking out in front of me.
“I miss you so much,” I sign.
“Why do you think I’m here?” he signs back.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to relieve the ache his actions brought on.
His eyes focus on my hands when I sign, “How long are you here?”
“Two nights,” he says.
My fingers move again. “T O M M—”
“He’s here. We can see him tomorrow,” he says, tapping my leg. “Tonight, I just wanted you to myself.”
I squeal. It’s silent, but it’s there. And Josh knows exactly how I feel because he chuckles. Dad stands, pulling my attention away from Josh. “Are you staying the night?” Dad asks him.
“If that’s okay with you?”
Dad nods. “I’ll get the couch ready for you.”
My jaw drops, my eyes narrowed at him, causing him to laugh. “I’m just playin’, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Josh and I wait until he’s in his room, the door closed after him before facing each other. “So,” he says.
It should be physically impossible to smile as much as I am.
He lowers his voice, his breath warming my neck. “I’ve always wondered what your room looks like in person.”
Standing up, I take his hand and lead him to my room. I shut and lock the door behind us and when I turn around, he’s standing close. Almost too close. He smirks, looking at me in a way I’ve seen many times before. I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking it, too.
We’re in so much trouble.
“I like your room,” he says.
He hasn’t even looked at my room.
Lying, I sign, “I have my period.”
He squints, his lips pressed tight. “I don’t know that last one. Spell it for me?”
“P E R I O—”
“Shit,” he cuts in. But recovers quickly. “I mean, that’s cool. It’s not like that’s the reason why I came to see you.”
I push on his chest until the back of his legs hit my bed and he falls back, landing on the mattress.
Josh’s eyes widen as I start to strip out of the stupid coveralls work makes me wear. He leans up on his elbows, his eyes taking in every movement, every inch of skin I reveal until I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my underwear. He sits up completely—his hands finding my hips, fingers dipping into the band of my panties and twisting them, pulling the fabric against my center, making my eyes drift shut in pleasure. He says, his voice husky, “I thought you said you…”
“I lied,” I sign, opening my eyes when I feel his tongue sweeping my navel.
He glances at the door.
I click my fingers to get his attention. “It’s locked,” I sign.
He smiles. “You’re in so much trouble.”
* * *
I watch him from the doorway of my bathroom… watch the muscles in his back outlined by the dim light of the lamp on my nightstand. He’s facing away from me, his head moving, eyes scanning the wall of pictures and articles of him I’d found online. They sit above my desk where I normally sit when we video chat. He’s had no idea they’d existed until now. I’d started collecting them the day after his return at SK8F8, but I’d kept them hidden, just like my true feelings for him. It wasn’t until our time together during spring break that I was finally ready to admit to myself that those feelings weren’t going away.
They never had.
He turns when he must hear me approaching, his carefree smile making me weak. “Stalk much?” he says, arm around my shoulders, pulling me flush against his side.
I nod, my thumb between my teeth, slightly embarrassed about what he might be thinking. But then I remember what his mom had shown me and I forget my insecurities and get lost in his embrace. With warm lips, he kisses my forehead. “I’m kind of stupidly crazy about you, Becs. Just so you know. And if I thought for a second that it wouldn’t make you mad, I’d shout it from the rooftops.”
I grasp his hand and lead him to my bed, where we settle on our sides, our eyes locked, searching, consuming each other’s presence, knowing our time is limited. It always is. “Can I ask you something?” he asks, lazily playing with a strand of my hair.
I blink once.
“Why do you smell like ketchup?”
I laugh into his chest and reach over him for the phone on my nightstand. I have no idea how I’d even begin to sign the answer. I work at a ketchup factory, watching the bottles go by on a conveyer belt and making sure they all have that little aluminum cover that keeps them fresh on the shelves.
He reads my note more than once and asks, “How did I not know this?”
Chewing my lip, I type, Because I didn’t want you to know. You’d make it into something it’s not and it would become a bigger deal than it really is.
His mouth opens. Closes. And opens again. “So what… you’re doing that as well as the internship and the hours at Say Something?”
I nod.
“Why? Do you need money for something? I have money, Becs. Lots of it. You shouldn’t have to be spending your summer working two jobs and—what do you even need the money for? College? Equipment? You’ve booked your tickets to see your Grams, right? Because if you need it for that, I can cover you.”
“Stop!” I mouth. I set my phone under the pillow and stare up at the ceiling, frustration building in my chest. This is exactly why I didn’t tell him.
“I’m sorry.” He leans up on his elbow. “I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?” I sign.
After shifting my hair away from my eyes, he says, his voice barely audible, “You’re my girl, Becs. Why won’t you let me take care of you?”
His words hang in the air, more like a statement than a question, and I let them repeat in my mind, over and over, until I come up with an answer that’s both satisfying and true. I grab my phone and wait for his eyes to switch from mine to my hands before typing, You being here, being on the other end of the phone, that’s you taking care of me. I don’t want or need anything else. But if it ever comes to that, and it might, I promise I’ll ask you. I don’t want your money to define our relationship. I don’t want to be the poor college student depending on her rich boyfriend. I just want you, Josh. All I’ve ever wanted is to love you, and for you to love me, and that’s it. That can’t be enough?
His defeated eyes move to mine, before his head lowers, his mouth soft and safe as he brushes across my lips. “Promise you’ll ask if you need it.”
“Promise,” I mouth, and switch the app on my phone to have Cordy say, “Now let’s get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow. I’m skipping group therapy and taking you to Say Something. We have a huge charity shave, and then I want to have your mom and Tommy here for a late lunch before you and I go out for dinner and drinks with some people from my paper. I’m going to show you off to everyone, and you better be on your best behavior, Warden.”
He laughs, his head dipping, causing strands of his hair to brush against my chest. “So we should probably get all the naughty stuff out of the way now, right?”
“How naughty are you thinking?”
“How thin are these walls?”
30
—Joshua—
I jerk awake with Becca’s arms thrashing wildly, hitting me from all angles. I try to grasp her hands but it’s too dark, and before I can switch on a light, before I can think, it all stops. I wait for her next move, not wanting to spook her in case it sets something off. She sits up quickly, her feet landing on the floor with a thud, and reaches for her phone. I try to settle the po
unding in my chest while I rub my eyes, adjusting to the dark.
Her door rattles, catching my attention, but it doesn’t open.
“Unlock the door, sweetheart,” Martin says. His voice seems calm—too calm. But Becca doesn’t move.
I get up quickly, unlock and open the door for him, not knowing what else to do.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, just goes straight to her and squats down to her level, taking her hands in his. I assume she alerted him, that’s why she reached for her phone, and I wonder how often this happens. Because it seems too routine.
My heart breaks at the sight of her, and at the silence that surrounds us. “It was a bad one, huh?” Martin says.
Becca nods, her shoulders shaking with her sob and why the fuck am I just standing here?
“You need to breathe, Becca. Deep breaths,” he soothes.
It should be me. Why didn’t she turn to me?
Martin eyes me quickly before refocusing on Becca. “Remember what Dawn said—that the nightmares appear when you find yourself truly happy. Think of what’s making you happy, Becca.”
Becca nods again while wiping her eyes across her forearm. Martin catches my stare and motions for me to join him. It takes a moment for me to come to, for the shock and semi-disappointment to dissipate.
I put one foot in front of the other and hope that my presence isn’t the cause of her misery.
“Josh is here,” Martin says, patting her hands. “Do you remember that?”
Becca blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then she looks up at me. Moments pass. Moments of heartache. Eventually, she smiles, and I feel the air in my lungs for the first time since she woke. She takes my hand and places my palm on her cheek, letting it soak in her tears. She looks so young, so dejected. I wait for her to say something. Anything. Because in the haze of everything that’s happening, I forgot for a second—just one—that she can’t say anything. But she moves… back into bed, scooting to one side, making room for me to lie with her. Without hesitation, she nestles into the crook of my arm, her hand on my chest, her legs tangled with mine.
Martin nods at me as he moves to the door where he stills, one hand on the knob, the other rubbing his nape. I can see the battle in his eyes, unable to decide whether to close the door and give us some privacy, or leave it open so he has peace of mind.
“Leave it,” I whisper, making the choice for him.
He nods, the relief easing out of his shoulders. He’s gone a moment later, but he doesn’t go back to bed. Instead, I hear him in the kitchen, his footsteps moving, fridge door opening, coffee pot churning, and I know that, just like me, he won’t sleep. Not until we know our girl is no longer in pain. That the suffering is gone. That her past won’t take away from the joy of the present. At least for one night.
I focus on Becca, on stroking her hair and feeling the heat of her breaths on my chest, and I push aside all other emotions and remember how badly I wanted this. How badly I craved and missed this exact feeling. Every night away from her, in whichever hotel room I’d find myself in, I’d close my eyes and think about this, and during the months after Dad’s passing, it was the only thing that kept me going… this one thought… this one moment of calm and clarity.
Minutes pass until an entire hour ticks by and I spend that time switching between staring at the ceiling, staring at her, and listening to Martin in the kitchen. Slowly and carefully, I untangle her arms and legs from around me, making sure she’s still asleep before shrugging on my jeans and joining him.
“Coffee?” Martin asks, his voice low.
I nod and sit at the table, exhausted and overwhelmed.
“Couldn’t get back to sleep, huh?” he says, placing a mug in front of me.
I shake my head and rub my face. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Not as much as it used to. The last one was when she was at her grandmother’s during spring break.” He sits down, kicking out his legs to the side. “Her therapist says it happens whenever she feels as though she’s truly happy. It’s like her subconscious’s way of trying to make her believe that she doesn’t deserve it.” He takes a sip of his drink. “It’s messed up. Even in her death, her mother still finds ways to haunt that little girl.”
I almost tell him that Becca’s not a little girl, but I see her through a father’s eyes and I understand.
“To be honest,” he adds, “with you showing up the way you did, I was almost expecting it to happen.”
“You did?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes.
“For her, true happiness means you, Warden.”
We sit together—two grown-ass men who once despised each other—and we find an even ground through the one thing that connects us. Becca.
We talk, not just about her, but about everything. I ask him about his work, he asks about mine. I thank him for cashing the blank check I gave him, even though it wasn’t anywhere near as much as I’d hoped he’d go for. He tells me what all the money went toward, as if I’d want to know. I don’t. I just want to make sure she’s taken care of. And the longer we sit, the more I get to know him, the clearer it becomes that with or without that money, Martin would have found a way. He would’ve moved mountains to take care of her, even if the strength it took to do so was eighteen years in the making.
We take turns making excuses to check on Becca, who seems to be back to sleeping deeply, peacefully. The sun begins to rise, the birds make it known it’s morning, and on my third coffee, Martin receives a phone call that has him standing quickly and heading right for Becca’s room.
I follow, of course, and watch as he nudges her awake with a hand on her shoulder. “Becca, wake up.”
She stirs slowly, her beautiful eyes clear of tears, and looks up at him. “Where’s Josh?” she signs.
I move toward her. “I’m here.”
Her dad says, “Lexy just called. She wants to see us. Get ready.”
Becca shoots out of bed and goes to her bathroom. A moment later, her shower turns on.
“Who’s Lexy?” I ask Martin.
“Her voice therapist. You coming?”
“Y-yeah,” I mumble, picking up my discarded clothes scattered all over the floor along with Becca’s bra and panties. I pick up her underwear and quickly shove them in my pocket, hoping he doesn’t see them.
But he does, because he cocks an eyebrow and points to my pocket. “Souvenirs?”
* * *
Becca sits in the middle of her dad’s truck, bouncing in her seat, while Martin drives. I sit on the other side of her, staring out the window, trying to forget the shame of this morning.
“It has to be good news, right?” the car speakers sound, relaying the message from her phone. She calls it Cordy… because her vocal cords are whack. She finds it ironic. I find it kind of morbid, but whatever.
“I don’t want you getting your hopes up, Becca,” Martin says.
“Hopes up for what?” I chime in.
Becca takes my hand, neither of them answering me. She types on her phone, “Make sure you tell your mom and Tommy about coming over.”
“Over where?” Martin asks.
“I invited them for a late lunch at our house.”
“Oh no,” Martin murmurs. “Tell them to wear something with lots of pockets to hide the inedible scraps Becca calls food.”
* * *
There’s a skip in Becca’s step while we make our way up to a large building. Going by the signs on the door, I assume it’s filled with medical suites. She walks through the foyer, my arm gripped tightly to her chest and when we reach the elevators, she presses the button that has the doors opening. Once inside, she hits the button for the third floor, her smile uncontainable when she looks up at me.
She’s so damn beautiful.
And I’m so damn lucky to have her.
I squeeze her hand. “Olive juice,” I mouth.
Her smile widens. “So much,” she mouths back.
* * *
Becca introduces me to Lexy and I shake her hand, call her ma’am, tell her it’s an absolute pleasure to meet her and that Becca’s told me great things about her, even though I know almost nothing about her besides the fact that she’s her voice therapist. (A voice therapist for someone who has no voice… now that’s ironic.) But, Becca said I had to be on my best behavior, so that’s what I’m doing.
We sit in her office, an office filled with medical degrees and diagrams of mouths and throats and chests and a bunch of other gadgets I also know almost nothing about.
Again, Becca sits in the middle—still bouncing with excitement—her dad on one side and me on the other and we sit in silence, waiting for Lexy to pull out a file and sit behind her desk.
We wait.
And wait some more.
Finally, Lexy looks up from the desk and speaks. “I called you this morning because I didn’t want you waiting any longer and with the news I have, I didn’t want to have to tell you over the phone.” Her demeanor is the opposite of Becca’s from earlier and we must all see that, because the air turns thick and Becca’s no longer bouncing.
“So what does that mean?” Martin says.
My head’s spinning, a million scenarios running through my mind. What the hell does it mean?
Lexy leans on her forearms, the folder now open in front of her. “Doctor Schmidt looked over your file and your medical history. And while I did the same, and thought that you’d be the perfect candidate for the operation,”—what operation?—“he was unable to give us the outcome we all wanted. I’m so sorry, Becca. The operation’s not suitable for someone in your position. There’s just too much damage that’s irreversible.”
Operation.
Damage.
Irreversible.
That’s basically all I got from her speech.
Becca inhales deeply and squares her shoulders. “It’s okay,” she signs, but it’s not.
It’s not okay at all. She’s fighting the disappointment. Fighting the tears. “We all knew that the operation wasn’t a sure thing, right?”
What fucking operation?
Martin clears his throat. “So that’s it? There’s no alternative? No second opinion?”