I hate that word. “I’m not eighteen anymore.”
“Listen, I know enough from talking to Astor that this kinda shit takes time. Months, maybe years. And this dude sounds like he’s on the war path. So until things settle, I’m staying by your side.”
I stiffen. “Easton, no. You have enough going on.”
He strides toward me, but I’m not intimidated. I’m concerned.
“I’m worried about you, Taryn. Bryan got to you again, right here.” He lifts my bruised hand. “And I will hang out, even when I’m not wanted, to make sure you and Jamie are safe. And also, you promised.”
I hesitate. “Promised what?”
“That you’d teach me sign language. That you’d help me relearn music.”
“Which you’re refusing to do, because you think you’ll become less of a musician.”
His mouth flattens and twists before he admits, “Well, yes, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Don’t change your principles.” I pull my arm from his hold. “Forcing yourself to accept your diagnosis through some misdirected determination to keep us safe isn’t right, Easton. You need to work through this in a positive way, not by being a superhero—”
“You promised,” he repeats, and I swear his eyes change color. From bright copper to an opaque, tarnished penny.
“I’m a lawyer. I break promises all the time.”
“Not this one.”
Easton reaches around me, the cologne of him enveloping my senses. Leather, clean soap, our sex. His mouth tickles my ear before he draws back, his hand on the doorknob as he opens it. “I’ll be at your place later tonight, whether or not you allow it. You can either start teaching me, or I can sit on your stoop, play my guitar, and annoy all your neighbors. Hey, maybe your ex will stop by and I can wreak some havoc on his face.”
“Easton. You wouldn’t dare.”
“Dare me, then.”
I hold firm. “Stop this.”
“I meant it when I said you weren’t alone anymore, sweetheart. Go now, if that’s what you want, but know that I’ll be there for you later.”
Sighing, I say, “Easton … “
He kisses my cheek, his full lips lingering on my skin. Ironically, it’s in the place that hurt the most when my jaw was healing.
“I’ll be there,” he repeats as he lifts away.
“You should hate me. I lied to you. I kept the fact that I’m still someone’s wife from you. I—”
“You’re not getting rid of me,” he says succinctly.
Then shuts the door in my face.
I stand there for a few frozen seconds, appalled that it’s come to this, when I had it all figured out. It was all settled, damn it! Jamie and I were doing so well. Finally, at last, we were creating a happy, fulfilled future together. The fear had lessoned.
Standing here, I’m utterly heartbroken to realize that Easton’s right.
I want him with me, even as our future crumbles.
29
Easton
My hearing’s going in and out.
I worked hard to listen to Taryn. It was the most important conversation we’ve ever had, and her voice siphoned through my head like pasta sticking in the holes of a colander.
I shut the door on her, since I couldn’t trust myself anymore. I just wanted to hook her against me, bury my nose in her scent, and remember that she ignites every other sense I have, even when the sound of her fails me.
Taryn’s story, her past, remains in the air. I don’t need full hearing to understand that Taryn’s fought hard and still fights.
I want to kill that fucking guy.
Protecting her is more important than impulsive murder, so I use my unspent energy to scrawl a few lyrics, like I’m still a member of Nocturne Court.
I am, damn it.
The bruises shadow,
Your face is sunlight,
I’m torn between,
Dark and dream.
“Bah,” I grumble, and tear the sheet of paper from my notebook, tossing it somewhere over the kitchen counter.
It’s hard to pull on creative threads when everything else in my life feels strict and scripted.
Taryn’s in trouble.
My band’s convinced I’m on drugs.
My head is falling apart.
A few hours pass with me on my stool, my guitar discarded at my feet, crumpled pieces of notebook paper forming a wayward pattern across my floor, and I’m forced to realize I’ve only been playing a waiting game. My mind’s better served at Taryn’s, since she’s all I can think about, anyway.
Her and her kid. A boy born deaf, who’s never heard sound, yet was nurtured and nourished by a mother with full hearing.
“Can you guide me, too, Taryn?” I murmur into the air. “Or am I asking too much of what you’ve already been through?”
I’m not gaining answers sitting here frowning into paper.
My leather jacket’s discarded on another stool. I swipe it as I head to the door, pulling it on with every intention of maintaining control over the things I still can. My acoustic guitar comes next, strapped sideways over my back.
Once on the street, I stop in front of my bike, frown well-chiseled onto my face.
As sound swings from one ear to the other with a funneling, siren-like frequency, I don’t trust myself to ride it.
I went years with no problems in my ears, then came a few moments with unpredictable clogs and blockages, but they were random and rare. Never before has it been so present and forceful as it has today.
My stomach churns. I’m scared. No—I’m haunted by the near-certainty I’m going to wake up to permanent silence tomorrow.
I itch for my drumsticks, for the remembrance of the beat, the draw of music, but there’s a larger yearning, and it blooms in my chest, almost banking the fear and luring me with the idea that if I have to wake up deaf, at least I can wake up with Taryn.
* * *
Taryn opens the door so it swings with a light wind, blowing pieces of her hair back, and I watch as they resettle into the thick blonde waves down her shoulders.
Seeing.
She smiles with a closed mouth in greeting, and I have the unrepentful urge to scrape my thumb across her lower lip. So, I do.
Touching.
As my fingers cup the side of her jaw, she encloses my hand with hers and squeezes. “Hey.”
Taryn lowers my hand, and I draw my thumb to my mouth, the sweetness of her dewy gloss etching into the ridges of my fingerprint.
Tasting.
I bite my thumb firmly with my teeth, wishing it were her plump mouth against mine. Her eyes flare at the sight, but she otherwise remains composed.
I drop my hand and ask, “Can I come in? Or were you serious about the stoop?”
Her mouth moves, and I don’t catch the sound. I want to believe it’s because she’s whispering. “What’d you say?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” Taryn says louder, but she steps aside. “After what I confessed.”
“Wasn’t any worse than my confession,” I admit. “We both kept traumatic facts in our back pockets.”
Taryn says something again, but my back is to her once I brush past. I turn to face her. “What?”
Her stare is strained with worry, but I ignore it.
“I said, we also both suck at timing.”
“Oh, you had a fainting spell in front of a concert hall of nineteen thousand people, too?” I smile wryly, and she laughs.
She laughs, and I hear it, and I sigh in relief.
Taryn guides me out of the short hallway into her main room, and I catch a drift of her perfume, vanilla and sweet soap, and I breathe deep.
Scent.
Taryn gives me her profile. “Jamie’s still up.”
I see him on the couch, nose buried in his tablet, but I stop Taryn with a light touch to her elbow. “Has your ex come by again?”
Taryn shakes her head, her attention on her son. But her lips move
with emphasis when she adds, “Jamie doesn’t know he’s around. I’d like to keep it that way … “
“For as long as you can.” I squeeze her shoulder, the cotton of her sweater soft against my callouses. “Got it.”
“Jamie,” Taryn says for my benefit as she moves forward and lightly smacks Jamie on the knee. “Look who’s here.”
Jamie glances up and breaks into a grin, his adolescent teeth all askew and spaced out. It’s a feature I always think adds to the beguiling nature of a kid. Nobody should be adorable with scattered shark teeth, yet cute kids everywhere have ‘em.
He signs, Hello, Awesome.
I sign back, Hey.
Jamie shows no sign of surprise, but glances at his mother, who nods. Jamie signs, Mom says you want to learn sign language.
“I do,” I say, since I’m not exactly sure how to continue the conversation. I can understand it better than communicate with it.
Taryn steps close to my side and murmurs, “I didn’t tell him why. He … you’re learning … for his benefit.”
I don’t hear all of it, but understand enough to nod. Jamie signs something, adding an eye-roll, and Taryn laughs.
“He says you need to start with the alphabet, which is the legit most boring part ever,” she translates. “But it’s necessary. And this little expert over here wants to teach you.”
My brows shoot up. “Really? You do, dude?”
Taryn puts a hand to my lower back and rubs. No leather can keep back the heat of her touch. “Let him. It’ll make his night.”
“Oh—that’s not it,” I say to her. “I was, well, I knew you were gonna teach me, but I didn’t think Jamie would be interested. I don’t want to put him out.”
“Are you kidding?” Taryn signs as she talks to me. “You’re his idol. The fact that he gets to teach you something is a factoid he’s going to smack his friends over the head with, over and over again, before the week is even out.”
I have to say, I’m fucking delighted at the humor and light in Taryn’s eyes, and I’m thinking maybe this night can be salvaged somehow, despite the thundercloud of her ex hovering nearby. And hey, if I can help by learning the alphabet with my hands, so be it.
“That is the highest compliment, little buddy, that you’re willing to dump your game for me.”
Jamie tosses his tablet aside and bounces up.
“He says, come into his room with him,” Taryn says.
I start to follow Jamie, who’s already creaking the floorboards to get there, but ask Taryn, “You coming, too?”
“In a bit. I have to make some phone calls, first.”
My brows furrow.
“Astor,” Taryn clarifies. “I’ve filled her in somewhat, and she’s going to help me where she can.”
“Yeah? Good.”
“Yeah,” Taryn echoes. An anxious cloud drifts over her features, but she waves me forward. “Go. I’ll be fine. There’s some leftover dinner, too, if you’re hungry.”
Oh, yeah. Food. With all the craziness, I’d forgotten to eat. And after Taryn and I’s fuck session earlier, yeah, I’m ravenous. “Sure. Thanks.”
She smiles. “I can hear your belly rumbling from here. Almost like I have another kid to feed.”
“I fully admit I have the stomach of a preteen boy.” I offer a smile in return, and there are a few quiet seconds where we enjoy each other’s faces.
Then, the reasons hit—why I’m here, what we’ve discussed, the threats we fight—and both our smiles flounder as we turn and give each other our backs.
I don’t want to think on it too hard, so I set my guitar down and focus on finding Jamie’s room.
“Hey, bud—ah. Shit.” Before I step over Jamie’s threshold, I hang back and press his doorbell button that emits a light in his room a few times to let him know I’m coming.
I push the door open further and find Jamie cross-legged on the floor with a ton of flashbacks to my youth—in the form of flashcards. These are of different hand signals.
Behind him is a small desk with a simple chair and laptop surrounded by laundry, action figures, and books, a visual of any ten-year-old’s room, except for the mirrors that have been outfitted on either side of his computer like side mirrors on a car. I’m guessing it’s to see who’s coming up behind him when he’s at his desk, since he can’t hear footsteps.
The interesting anomaly sends my study to the rest of his room in an attempt to pinpoint any other do-hickeys he possesses to help him navigate a hearing world. He has an alarm clock on his nightstand, but if I have any guesses, it either vibrates or flashes bright lights to wake him up.
And—of all things—I notice the fire alarm on his ceiling. It has a large lightbulb attached to it, acting, I assume, as a strobe light if it ever goes off.
You are in no way prepared, Taryn had said to me.
Jamie taps the floor, bringing my attention back to him. He motions for me to sit on the ground beside him, and I do, feeling old and creaky as my joints crack and pop as I cross my legs.
Jamie reaches behind him and pulls down his laptop to settle on his thighs. He pulls up a blank document and types, in rapid succession:
We can use this to talk while we work on the cards.
I nod, and Jamie smiles at me, puts the laptop between us, and starts on the flash cards.
A, he mouths, then mimics the hand-sign by making a fist, palm toward me. I do the same and say, “A.”
He tilts his head, frowning as he studies my hand.
“What? My form’s not good enough for you?” I ask.
Jamie huffs out a soundless laugh, pulling my thumb out of my fingers and placing it outside. He pats it approvingly, then goes to his computer.
I have my work cut out for me.
I elbow him playfully and type, I was never any good at school. Pausing, I ponder him briefly, think of Taryn, and add, Stay in school.
Jamie huffs in laughter again. I’m a smart kid, I like school, and you don’t have to worry about impressing my mom while you’re in here.
“Ah …” My lips pull back from my teeth, and Mr. Body Language Reader over here catches every muscle twitch. His eyes go skyward and I write back before he can say anything further, Let’s get back to the alphabet. I only know A. Teach me B, homie.
Jamie’s eyes narrow, but he does as asked, and we go through the alphabet, with Jamie correcting more than approving, effectively showcasing with strobe-lights my utter deficiency when it comes to the linguistics of sign language. I only learned a little, years ago, when I was first diagnosed, and even then it was mainly curse words. But I’m determined, and I ask him to go through it with me again. And again.
The third time we reach M, he halts me with a hand and types, You’re getting better. Stop frowning so much.
I reply, in all honesty, This shit is hard. Grimacing at the curse, I type, (Sorry, Mom)
Jamie nods sagely. I’m lucky I learned it as a baby. I don’t even remember Mom teaching me.
I’d like to picture Taryn, bent over a baby in a bassinet, entertaining with hand gestures and goofy expressions as she teaches her child the mechanics of communication without hearing. But with the past she painted with me today, it’s hard to imagine sunlight streaking over their forms from some side window, when I know there’s a shadow standing in the doorway.
How did you learn drums?
Jamie’s question brings me back to the present. I had an affinity for it, right about when I was your age. Just picked up some sticks and started banging away at a desk. Then, I did it while listening to music and found I could pick up the drum keys after one listen.
Jamie makes an indecipherable sound in his throat, but he’s deeply focused on what I’ve written. Then that’s how you should see sign language. Just pick up your fingers and start banging away.
I chuckle. Approach it as naturally as possible, huh?
Exactly. Jamie’s fingers hover over the keyboard, but he comes to a decision and keeps typing. I have to tell
you something.
Shoot.
There’s another reason why I want to help you with ASL, even though I like that you want to learn it. And I like teaching you, because I don’t think it’s just because you’re trying to impress my mom.
I look at him a little closer. You don’t?
He shakes his head no, then replies, There’s something going on with you—he shakes his head, deletes the line, then types, I want you to teach me drums.
My back shoots straight. “Huh? Drums?”
Jamie nods. With the speed of a ten-year-old possessing full familiarity of a search engine, he pulls up an image of a practice pad kit, which are basically padded circles on a drum stand instead of a full kit—something to use in a home studio or a bedroom, without sending the rest of your family members into a conniption over the noise.
I drag the computer from his lap over to mine. You want to learn drums?
He nods.
I drag my tongue along the backs of my lower teeth, wondering if it’s decent to ask, but decide to, anyway. But how can you? How are you able to?
Jamie’s stare lingers on my expression. He reaches over to type while I still possess the computer. It’s very possible. Deaf people can listen to music through vibrations. The vibrations provide music cues, like what instrument is playing. We can’t pinpoint a piano so good, or brass instruments in an orchestra. But you know what we can understand the best? What’s the clearest vibration?
I’m filled with so much clarity my fingers go stiff. I type, Drums.
Yes. If a song contains lots of drum tones, like Nocturne Court’s music, I can find the beat.
My hands drift away from the computer, but my attention centers on Jamie. I say, “You’re saying you can learn the drums. Play to music and stay on the beat. Even though you’re completely deaf.”
Possessing more perceptiveness than any boy his age should, Jamie slowly nods his head as he continues to regard me.
“Goddamn really,” I mutter, almost breathless.
I stare at this kid in a whole new light.
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 19