by E M Lindsey
He meant it. He held his phone so tight his knuckles hurt, but it was like a lifeline. He waited desperately for the buzz, then he saw Derek’s name flash on the screen with the go-ahead. His fingers trembled as he hit the number, then hit call.
His throat was dry when a soft voice picked up and asked for his name. “I’m Miguel. And uh…I think…I don’t know. I think I just need some help talking myself down off the ledge.”
Chapter Nineteen
Amit was slightly out of sorts the night after he had taken Elizabeth out for her birthday. His mom had painted it like it was tradition, but really it was getting her out of the house so his auntie could make arrangements for her escape. She had some money saved, and her car, and now that she was legal, she didn’t have to get the okay from anyone.
“I don’t want to mess up my senior year,” she confessed to him, “but I don’t think I can stay there. He introduced me to this guy a month ago—before your mom called. And he was nice to my face but the stuff I heard him saying over the phone…” She trailed off with a shudder and Amit curled his hands into fists, trying to control his rage.
“That’s not going to happen, okay?”
“It’s just so fucking weird that this goes on here. And your sister’s willingly going along with it?” Elizabeth asked, eyes wide with horror.
Amit shook his head. “No. I mean, yes. But her husband isn’t like that. Ejaz is a really great guy, and he loves her. Your parents have no fucking idea what they’re doing.” And he was realizing now the difference—how he’d been railing against Farhia signing her life away, but it wasn’t that at all. She liked her fiancé, she wanted to be married to him, even if she hadn’t met him a conventional way.
She wasn’t terrified, she wasn’t at risk the way Elizabeth was. Farhia had been allowed to grow up, to go to college, to figure herself out. Now she was getting married, and she was ready. The relationship had been arranged, but Farhia and Ejaz had spent a year getting to know each other, falling in love, realizing they wanted to make each other happy. He felt a surge of guilt for having ignored the truth for so long, and he hated that Elizabeth had to suffer just to give him some perspective.
“Your mom seems nice,” she said, swirling her straw around her drink. She had a coke with a cherry in it, and his eyes tracked the way it bobbed through the ice, his head all over the place.
He was missing Miguel fiercely now, and almost a week had gone by with no word. Was it really over? Had Miguel truly written him off so easily? Not ten minutes later, Tony, James, and Sage walked into the bar. He locked eyes with them and started to wave them over, but realized it wasn’t the greatest idea with Elizabeth there. He didn’t want to keep it a secret from them, but until she was with his aunt and safe, he couldn’t risk it.
“Hey,” Sage said, his eyes flickering over to Elizabeth who looked equal parts fascinated and terrified of the huge, inked men. “Haven’t seen you in a minute.”
“Yeah, just been busy,” Amit said. “Barely got time to take this girl on a date.”
“A date?” Tony asked flatly.
Amit realized how quickly the moment had gone bad. “Uh…yeah.”
“Oh. Cool. We didn’t know you and Miguel weren’t a thing,” Tony said, but there was anger in his eyes, and Amit hated that he had to wait. Just a few more days, but still, these were his friends. Nearly family by now.
Amit shrugged. “I’ll come by later this week and we can talk.”
“I think we’re pretty booked up,” Sage said, and Amit felt that like a physical blow.
“Sometime soon, then,” Amit said.
None of them committed, and they walked away, casting him a dark look. It made sense they’d have Miguel’s back. A small part of him was glad for it, because Miguel needed it far more than he did, but it still gutted him to be shut out in the cold.
“Your friends are kind of intense,” Elizabeth said. It was obvious she hadn’t understood the full scope of what had happened, and Amit was in no real mindset to explain it to her.
“They’re cool guys. Just protective.” He left it at that, and luckily, she didn’t seem to want to know more.
It haunted him though, for days after. He only just managed not to text Miguel, and only because whatever misunderstanding, he wanted to handle it in person. Too much went wrong over text, and he knew both their lives were a shit-show right then.
His Saturday shift crept up on him, and it was the last one he was working before his week off to help spirit Elizabeth off with his auntie’s friend, and then deal with the fall out. The parents would be pissed, but Elizabeth was of-age and safe. The father, luckily, was ignorant enough to be free with his text messages, and Amit had assured both his mom and auntie that he was keeping them uploaded to his computer as a way of pushing back.
The man was trying to sell his daughter—he was stupid enough to believe that’s what arranged marriages were—and Amit would happily call on all of his contacts to ensure Peter didn’t have a leg to stand on. But it wasn’t easy. Amit was emotionally drained, and he was missing Miguel, and he was fairly sure there was no happy ending for him when it was all over.
Walking to his dresser, Amit pulled his drawer open and ran the tip of his finger around the lace of his purple panties. Some of Miguel’s favorites, and he felt strangely naked without them on. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wear them since the other man left town. He hadn’t so much as put gloss on his lips or polish on his nails, and he knew why.
He was sad.
Those things would be part of him with or without Miguel, but no one had ever made him feel so damn beautiful before.
A knock on his door startled him, and before he could push the evidence back into the dresser, his sister walked in. Farhia’s eyes went right to the neatly folded panties, then to the row of nail polish. She looked at him a long moment, then reached in and selected a midnight blue. It was one of his favorites—a shimmer mixed in to give the illusion of a starry night sky.
She twisted it in her hands, then pointed to his desk chair. “Sit.”
Amit obeyed, not quite sure why, but he knew it was better to give in to his sister when she wore determination on her face like that. She was dressed to go out—jeans, a tight shirt with sleeves to her wrist, a matching floral hijab which was tucked around her neck loosely. She adjusted it before sitting on her heels, then took one of his hands in hers, using her teeth to open the bottle.
“What,” he started, but her sharp look silenced him.
“I know Aminah has been a bitch to you about this. About everything, really,” she amended. She stroked the brush over his finger, and he watched as the color spread.
“She doesn’t know about this,” he said.
Farhia gave him a look, and he felt shame burn in his gut, because of course she did. “We’ve been going through your stuff since we were toddlers, Amit. We know what’s in your secret drawers. We know all about your crush on Tommy in the fifth grade. We know you got your first blow job during home coming week.”
He felt his throat tighten. “I don’t…”
“Mommy told me it was time to talk to you. I didn’t tell Aminah I was coming in here, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she added.
It was what he was worried about. Their last confrontation had left him shaken and beat-down, and so fucking sure that who he was would sign their mother’s death warrant. He didn’t think that now, though he still couldn’t help but worry whether or not his mom really did support him. He knew it was from years of hiding, but one conversation with his mom—no matter how well it had gone—couldn’t erase that.
“I don’t know why she turned out the way she did, but I figure every family has at least one, right?” Farhia went on, reaching his pinky.
Amit breathed out a small sigh. “I guess. Would be nice if it was one of the cousins back in Multan or something, though.”
She laughed, a quiet sound that made the apples of her cheeks go very round. �
�It would be, yeah. But it isn’t.” She finished his thumb, then grabbed his other hand, but paused to look up at him. “I love you. You know that, right?”
His heart twisted in the best way. “Yeah. I do.”
“Whatever Aminah thinks—that isn’t all of us. It’s not me, it’s certainly not mommy, or auntie. I told her not to say anything before. People always said, let them come out to you, don’t force it. But I think maybe that was wrong here. I didn’t realize how badly you were suffering.”
Amit wasn’t really sure what the answer was. He watched her finish the first coat, then move on to the second, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he truly had missed out on nights with his sister in pajamas doing mani-pedis and talking about boys. Now she was getting married. She was moving out, and starting her own family, and he felt so left behind.
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But I would have been shit-scared no matter what. It’s not…just nail polish, you know? Or liking boys.”
She laughed softly and shook her head. “Yeah, I figured. I don’t live under a rock, Amit. I know things. I went to school just like you did.”
Except she did better than him, and she didn’t feel crushed by the weight of her father’s death, or responsibility, or a fear of existing as herself. She’d flourished, and now she was happy, and he was both envious and proud of her.
“It was getting easier. I met someone, and I was happy. But he took off, then mom dropped Elizabeth in my lap, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore,” he told her. His throat was tight, and he sniffed, mortified that he was losing control of his emotions like this.
Farhia capped the polish, set it aside, then rose to her knees and put her hands on his shoulders. “You need to figure your shit out. The bar is fine, but you’re miserable. Go back to school. Mommy will be fine—I’m not going anywhere. Ejaz’s family lives here, he doesn’t feel like taking off. Aminah—for all that she’s a judgmental bitch, is still the baby. She just wants mommy to need her.”
Amit bowed his head for a moment, then looked back up at her. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”
“You did once. You can get back to that, you know?”
He wondered when his little sister had gotten wiser than him, and stronger. “I’ll think about it. That’s all I can do right now.”
Farhia rose to her feet and helped him up out of the chair. “Be yourself, at the very least. If Aminah says anything, remind her that we know about the Winnie the Pooh underpants.”
Amit laughed. “Right.”
Farhia grinned. “She’ll get over it. And if she doesn’t, that’s her loss.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, careful of his nails. “Same with this guy. If he fucked off—for whatever reason—then he doesn’t deserve you.”
At that, his stomach twisted, because Amit was pretty sure it was the other way around. Miguel was larger than life, gorgeous, and one of the kindest people he’d ever known. He deserved more than Amit could give him, but Amit was just selfish enough to hope that Miguel would choose him anyway.
“Amit,” she said after a second, and there was something about her expression that made his adrenaline spike. “I need to apologize for me.”
His brows rose. “What…”
“Um.” She lifted her hand, pointing loosely, and waved it at his ear. “We fucked that up, and I’m…I know. I do know we got it wrong.”
At that, Amit sat back down so hard, his chair rolled until it hit the desk. His entire life he’d been waiting for just one of them to acknowledge that he was Deaf. He wanted them to understand that although he might be able to communicate with them—however much effort it took—and that he may have been able to mostly blend into hearing society, he still wasn’t hearing. He wanted them to admit to fucking up and leaving him out. And now here she was, and she was doing it, and it felt hollow.
“It’s hard to understand you all most of the time,” he said, then laughed. “I mean, that part was nice when mom was mad. I didn’t know half the shit she was saying to me. But…” Licking his lips, his gaze turned up to the ceiling and he searched for his courage. “I wanted more. I hate talking sometimes. I hate trying so fucking hard to understand. I hate when you tell me never mind so many goddamn times, I just pretend like I get it.”
He could see the way the apples of her cheeks darkened, and the shame in her eyes. He fought back the guilt he’d been conditioned to feel every time his deafness made hearing people feel uncomfortable because he shouldn’t be the one apologizing.
“I’m going to do better,” she told him.
He almost laughed, mostly because he didn’t believe her. Doing better was learning his language, was making an effort, was listening to him and not leaving him out. Doing better was letting him be Deaf in a house full of hearing people and not making him do all the work. He didn’t have a lot of faith, because he’d experienced enough of what it was like to let himself believe it would get better.
One step was enough, he decided. The rest would come. Or it wouldn’t.
He didn’t say any of that, though. Instead, he just pulled his sister in for a hug. “Thank you. Even when I hate you, I love you.”
She laughed and kissed his cheek. “I know. Now make yourself pretty and go make that bread, baby.”
He rolled his eyes and shoved her toward the door. “You are the worst.”
She winked, then left him to his own devices. Though he didn’t feel better—or at least, he didn’t feel healed from the aching pit of loneliness in his gut—he at least knew where he stood with his family. And there was no way he could put a price on that.
Miguel didn’t call anyone when he got back into town. His nerves were wrecked, his emotions as uncontrollably fragile as they had been when he’d first woken up with his hand missing and his face irrevocably scarred. Talking with Alexis had helped. She’d booked him in to three sessions the week he was back, and as much as he had always thought therapy was for weak cowards who couldn’t just suck it up, he knew that was his old man speaking.
Miguel had to shed the last of that world, of those beliefs his father had beat into him that the only thing he’d ever need was booze, pussy, and something to snort. He could have used that mentality years ago when he finally escaped Texas, but Alexis had assured him that it was never too late.
The trip itself had been uneventful, even in the face of the Tyndalls’ request for his parental rights. He talked to Rowan not long after their second meeting, and was advised not to do anything without legal counsel. He texted Miguel a name—Soren Green—who was his most trusted colleague and wouldn’t be a conflict of interest.
Rowan: You have an appointment on Tuesday at nine. I filled him in on as much as I could, so trust him.
* * *
Miguel: I just don’t know if I should bother. I can’t really afford it, and I don’t want custody. Seems like a waste of his time and mine.
* * *
Rowan: It isn’t. The fees are taken care of. And even if you plan to do this, it doesn’t mean you should do it alone. Trust me, okay? We have your back. That’s what family does.
That last line was the one that both gutted him and solidified his decision to stay, even if he was still reeling from the news that Amit had left him and moved on with someone else. Amit wasn’t his entire world. Amit wasn’t even a fraction of it. He was just someone Miguel had let himself want and reach for. The fact that he wasn’t enough hurt, but it wouldn’t end him.
He was stronger than that. And he had a support system he hadn’t anticipated when he took Martin’s advice to stop at the little po-dunk town’s only tattoo shop and drop baby roots.
Miguel was relieved when he rolled up to the house and found James’ car missing and the place locked up tight. It allowed him to reset as much as he could, showering, then slipping into the main house to cook himself something that wasn’t roadside diner garbage.
He settled in front of the TV, the sound off and the captions on the way he’d been w
atching last time Amit was over, and he soothed himself with the familiar scents of a place he’d come to think of as his. It felt empty without Amit, and emptier still knowing Miguel couldn’t text him and ask him over the way he’d been planning to do on his return. But it was enough.
Chapter Twenty
“Mr. Ruiz?” The man in the doorway of the little office looked nothing like Miguel expected. The address led him to a little brick house tucked in the older neighborhood on the edge of town, and he hadn’t even been sure it was a lawyer’s office until he spotted the sign on the door, Soren Green J.D. Family Law.
He walked in to what was clearly once a living room, and a woman with very pale blonde hair greeted him from behind her computer. He sat about ten minutes waiting, then the man himself appeared. Miguel wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but it had definitely been something more along the lines of Rowan.
Rowan wasn’t a tiny slip of a man or anything, but he was someone you could see walking the front of a court room giving an impassioned speech. This guy, Soren Green, looked like he’d be right at home in the middle of a boxing ring.
He had a shaved head, thick neck, his forearms exposed by his rolled sleeves showed a litany of colorful tattoos. He walked with a severe limp, and he held his shoulders like someone expecting to be sucker-punched at any given second. But he had a friendly smile, round cheeks, and a crooked nose, which seemed to fit his face.
He extended his hand, and Miguel felt the callouses as he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Green.”
“Soren, please. Rowan says you’re one of the brothers at the shop.”
Miguel didn’t quite know what to say about that. He’d been surrounded by the term brothers his entire life, but he’d never been graced with the title. Hearing it now was a lot to take in. All the same, he managed a smile as he followed Soren back to the office.