His jaw ticks, before that cool mask he wore in class descends over his features. A hefty shrug is all I get, before he spins, sweeps up his laptop, and shoves it into his bag. I’m well trained to expect disappointment in men. I’m positive he’s about to walk out that door without so much as a thank you. But instead, he returns to the kitchen and sidesteps me to the sink.
I move to block him, but his hand grips my elbow. With very little effort on his part, Ryder drags me toward the other end of the room. A palm comes up. Stay.
Frowning, I cross my arms and stare at him. He turns away before I can say anything else, quickly running the water on the plates, scraping them clean, and using the in-sink garbage disposal. Ryder bends to open the dishwasher door and sets our plates and silverware inside, then tugs it shut. I watch him bring the pans, utensils, and bowls I used into the sink, squirt soap on them, and wash, then rinse them. Once he’s set everything to dry on the rack, he wipes my work area clean, folds the dish towel with military precision, and sets it on the counter, exactly parallel to the edge.
“Neat freak,” I mutter.
Ryder turns my way, having not heard me, and wipes his damp hands on his jeans.
Our eyes meet as he walks up to me, making me once again very aware that he’s a very tall, muscly, green-eyed, asshole lumberjack. One who I now know has a neurotic need for a clean kitchen and towels folded into crisp ninety-degree angles.
Thank you, he signs.
Then he slips around me and leaves me alone in my kitchen, but for the faintest ghost of his scent—clean soap and pine forests.
Eau de asshole lumberjack, don’t you forget that.
As if I could. God, this is going to be a long semester.
Ryder
Playlist: “Roma Fade,” Andrew Bird
I spoke too harshly to her. I do that sometimes. I’m blunt and honest to a fault. I say what I mean when I’m in an analytical conversation that deserves practical conclusions. But that doesn’t seem to be the wisest tactic with Willa. I pissed her off when I told her to get real about what’s feasible in a business model’s budget, but I sent her off the deep end when I suggested the success of her soccer career rested not only on her raw skill at the game but on significantly greater pragmatism.
I don’t feel too bad, since she took her opportunity for a prompt revenge after I teased her about her hair. I knew the pasta tasted a little spicy, but I have a high threshold for heat, at least my mouth does. My ass, on the other hand, is as sensitive as everyone else’s, so I’m careful in general not to eat crazy spicy food. Judging by the fact that it’s only this morning that I stopped wincing when I sat down, Willa dumped enough cayenne in my pasta to make the toughest hot sauce lover weep.
At first, I was tempted to get her back, but the fact is that my unflappable responses seem to needle her to no end. Just keeping my mouth shut and letting her think that pepper never got to me is enough revenge.
“You’re quiet.” Aiden’s on my good side, and he’s had enough practice that he knows how loud, briefly, and in what environments to speak so I can vaguely hear him. We’re running on a trail hidden in shade, not a soul around, so it’s a good place for him to chat my ear off, the one that’s half-decent. The other’s a lost cause.
I appreciate the spirit of Aiden’s unwavering belief in continuing to treat me as “normal,” but sometimes I think he holds on to my “normality” a little too robustly. I want to say I’m the same guy I was before all this happened, but I’m not. I’m different, and while I never want pity or special treatment, I wouldn’t mind simply being allowed to be changed. Because I am. Deafness changed me, and I’ll never be able to give him back the carefree nineteen-year-old who used to bullshit while playing video games, who arrogantly taunted him and schooled his ass playing pick-up soccer in the backyard.
I know he’s trying to amuse me, telling me I’m “quiet,” but I don’t find it funny today. I’m twisted up about this situation with Willa, confused by how quickly she snaps, how readily she dishes out shit but can barely take it. I want to confide in Aiden because historically he’s been good for advice. But with this situation, Aiden’s the last person I want to talk to about Willa. He’s already too invested in us.
I can feel Aiden’s gaze on me, so I give him a shrug, and keep my eyes on the path. After that, Aiden doesn’t talk while we finish the second half of our distance.
I savor the peaceful silence while we run, which might sound odd, but when you’re deaf like I am, you still hear sound, it’s just not enough. It’s maddeningly soft, tinny, skewed. Sometimes I wish I heard nothing at all, so I wouldn’t constantly be reminded of everything I didn’t.
Though I’ve always been a quiet person, I never thought I’d love the sound of silence as much as I do now. Silence is a relief, a break from the constant torture of straining and trying to catch any scrap of discernible noise that I can.
That silence doesn’t last long.
“You and Sutter get anywhere with your project plan?” Aiden asks me the moment we tumble to the grass at the end of the trail and start stretching our legs.
I shake my head, then pull out my phone and type, I just started talking to you again after you put us together. You really want to bring this up?
Aiden laughs and his light blue eyes twinkle with sick amusement. I really had to restrain myself from throttling him over the first family dinner we had after he paired us off.
“She giving you a hard time about communicating?”
I pause, my jaw ticking as I open up my phone. No. She signs a little, I type. Talks slowly and clearly. Doesn’t act like I’m ruining her life by being paired with the deaf dude.
“Well, that says a lot about her right there, in my book. She’s doing what all people should, but many don’t.”
His point lands where he meant it to, right in my sternum. I get what he’s trying to say. See? She’s not someone who resents you or gives up on you because of how you are now.
Aiden straightens, then switches to stretching his other leg. “You could try to pop on the hearing aids. Talk to her a little bit…”
I roll my eyes and chuck my phone away. Conversation over.
A slap to the earth draws my attention. When I look up, Aiden’s face is tight. “Ryder, why are you still doing this? Why’d you give up on them, quit speech therapy—”
I cut a hand through the air. Enough.
“You’re being so stubborn!”
I rip my phone from the grass, anger tightening my breath to short, painful bursts as I type. You have no clue what this is like. The aids make it worse—what’s loud is even louder, what’s quiet still isn’t audible. And I still can’t find the sound of my voice.
“Ry—”
I stand, palm up, as I type one-handed, Leave it or I’ll drop the class.
“Now, wait a minute.” Aiden springs up from the grass. “You need that class.”
I nod. But I need you to leave me alone about this more, I write.
His shoulders fall as he reads my message, then his eyes meet mine. “Okay, man. I’m sorry.”
Thank you, I sign sarcastically, with a smack to my other hand.