After experiencing the ease of telepathic communication, the last thing she wanted was to write out everything. How could she explain the best night of her life had become the worst? She couldn’t stop replaying the date. The romantic setting. The way he had kissed her and had held her. The conversation. For the first time in her life, she’d felt normal. And just when she started to believe dreams could come true, the magic had evaporated the way dreams always did. The hover scooter might very well have turned into a pumpkin.
Nor was Psy Prince Charming. He preferred a woman who could speak.
The ride home had been long and awkward. She’d scooted to the rear of the seat, putting as much distance between them as she could, but she couldn’t escape his body heat or his leather-and-cloves masculine scent.
Or his continued apologies.
Words were cheap. His actions had said it all. She’d refused to forgive him. That was the sole benefit of being a mute—the ability to freeze out someone who’d wronged you. She didn’t need to be fixed!
Her gaze sympathetic, Rosalie patted the sofa. “Sit down.”
Stifling a sigh, Cassie sank onto the couch. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could hide in her room.
“You have something stuck in your hair.”
Her hand shot to her head, and she found the twig of lavender. She pulled it loose and sniffed it. A lump formed in her throat.
“What happened? Can you talk about it?”
Talk. How ironic. She opened her notebook. We broke up, she penned the simplest, shortest answer she could give.
It sounded strange to call what had happened a breakup, but the night had held so much promise, it had seemed like so much more than a date. It had felt like the start of a life. Communicating with Psy had been so wonderful, so liberating. For the first time, she’d been free of limitations, free of pad and pen. She hadn’t realized how much she hated the damn notebook.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I know you’re disappointed. But it’s better to find out now it won’t work out than get your heart broken later.”
Too late.
“Did you have a disagreement?”
Yes.
“Over what?”
He wants a woman who can talk.
Rosalie sighed and squeezed her hand. “I was afraid of that.” Her mother always feared people would hurt her. That’s why she was so protective.
Cassie stared balefully at her notebook. Ironically, if she’d been forced to write with Psy, there wouldn’t have been a fight. In the heat of an argument, one did not sit down and, carefully, in one’s best penmanship, spell out one’s grievances. She recalled all the times her limitation had prevented her from expressing anger, hurt, sadness, disappointment, frustration. Like now. She couldn’t adequately explain to her mother what had happened without writing a damn essay.
Only with Psy had she been able to speak her mind.
Was that part of the reason she’d gotten so angry? Because telepathy had touched a painful nerve and revealed the full extent of her handicap, of her loss?
She’d never spoken, but she wanted to. So. Damn. Much. Then, given the opportunity to say anything, she’d gotten into an argument and shut down the communication altogether.
Perhaps she could have handled the situation better. She had told him he could ask her anything and that she’d preferred directness. She just hadn’t expected him to bring up the one topic she wished to avoid.
Until the fight, she’d never gotten the impression he found being with her cumbersome. He’d been in her head, and she’d been in his. He’d answered all her questions. He’d enjoyed her company, had enjoyed looking at her. She’d aroused him. The attraction had been strong and mutual.
She’d screwed up. She could kick herself.
“I didn’t really like him,” Rosalie said.
That wasn’t the impression she’d gotten. You acted like you liked him. You invited him to dinner, she wrote.
“Because I could tell you liked him. Now he’s the jerk who hurt my daughter! He seemed—never mind. It’s not important now.”
Seemed how? She lifted her chin.
“Like his niceness was an act. I sensed a lack of sincerity.”
No, he is a nice guy. The fight was more my fault than his. Probably all her fault.
“I doubt that.” Her support never wavered. She always took Cassie’s side.
She flipped to a blank page in her notebook and pressed the pen to the paper. A black smudge spread as she considered how to phrase the question Psy had raised. What exactly did the doctors say about my inability to speak?
“What do you mean?” Her mother drew her brows together.
What was the cause? The diagnosis.
“We’ve talked about this many times. Your vocal cords failed to develop. You would never be able to speak. I took you to every specialist imaginable. They all agreed.”
Did you take me later to be rechecked?
“Later like when?”
When I got older. Age seven. Ten.
“Not specifically for that. However, anytime you saw a doctor like for an ear infection or school immunizations, I always asked. Don’t you remember them checking your throat all the time?”
Cassie shook her head. Her early childhood was hazy, and didn’t doctors look in a person’s throat anyway?
“Why do you ask?”
Psy wondered if maybe something couldn’t be done now. Maybe there have been advances.
Her mother’s face tightened, and she pressed her lips together. “I would hate for you to get your hopes up, go through more painful tests, only to be disappointed.”
Painful?
“Oh, it was terrible. You cried. I cried. You couldn’t verbalize how much you hated it, but I could tell from how you carried on when you knew you’d be going to the doctor. You don’t remember?” Rosalie sought and held Cassie’s gaze.
Now that she mentioned it—yes. She did. A hazy memory took form. They had stuck something down her throat, and she had gagged. It had been awful. She shuddered.
Her mother covered her hand and squeezed. “If I could have done more, I would have. I hate that this man you hardly know got your hopes up for nothing.”
He didn’t. He just asked.
Her mother’s mulish expression showed she’d shifted into full mama-bear mode. Her assessment Psy had been insincere had been influenced by what Cassie had told her. She shouldn’t have shared anything. Once Rosalie believed somebody had slighted her daughter, there would be no forgiveness. She would never accept him now.
“I know I’m a little overprotective—”
A little? She arched her eyebrows.
“I’ll try to do better. I’ll try not to be so…overbearing.”
Whether her mother could dial it back remained to be seen, but the fact she admitted to the behavior and promised to work on it was huge.
I’d appreciate it. Thank you.
“It’s good you’re employed, and you went out on a date—even if he was a jerk. I wish your date had gone better, but one day you’ll meet somebody who deserves you.”
She already had. Hopefully her bout of anger hadn’t ruined the start of a promising relationship. She sniffed the sprig of lavender. Would Psy want to see her again? She faked a big yawn. I’m going to bed. She needed to text him and apologize. Good night. She kissed her mother and got up.