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  Lifting my hands, I cover hers, stopping her midsentence, or midword, I don’t know. Her shoulders heaving, she watches me. “Teach me.” I squeeze her hands. I’m tired of being left out. “Please. I don’t want to rely on phones, or notebooks, or lipreading. I want live here.” Folding her hands completely inside mine, I hold on tight. “And here.” Letting go, I brush my fingers over her left temple. “And here.” I lean in and kiss her. It’s a simple kiss, just my lips on hers, but there’s weight to it, words and thoughts and actions being spoken from my mouth to hers. A promise and a plea.

  I close my eyes. “I want to hear you,” I whisper, holding her tight in my arms.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Harper

  Walking out of the terminal, Lance is waiting for me, just like he does every time I come home, or need a ride anywhere. Sixteen-year-olds, if they’re lucky, get a car. I got Lance. I don’t know if my parents didn’t think I could drive, or they felt I needed a driver because they didn’t want me driving, they’ve never said. But, like every red-blooded sixteen-year-old on the planet, I wanted a car, not Lance. When it came to my well-being, I didn’t have a voice…I mean choice.

  My parents had hired him, so I was stuck with him.

  But, Lance was cool. He knew how much I hated being chauffeured around. Instead of driving me in the limo, he’d choose one of my dad’s many sedans. When we were far enough away from the house, he would pull over, and let me get behind the wheel. Like in the Princess Diaries, I was Mia Thermopolis to his Joe.

  It’s thanks to Lance that I can drive, he taught me how. Yep. My chauffeur taught me how to drive, not my parents. Hell, I didn’t get my license until I was eighteen, when I went away to college. That was an argument and a half. Both of parents were so resistant to the idea and to this day, they’ve never told me why. But I put my foot down. I refused to move halfway across the country and not be able to drive myself around. That wasn’t happening.

  And look at me now; I have an impeccable driving record. Not so much as a parking ticket to my name. It’s a proven fact that deaf people are better drivers, fewer distractions to pull our eyes off the road. I love my parents dearly, but sometimes their ignorance blinds them.

  Lance flashes me a smile and holds out his hand. On cue, I latch on to his fist and we fall right into our secret handshake, ending with Lance pulling me in for a big hug. Lance always gives the best hugs.

  Stepping back, I pull out my phone and type. It’s good to see you, Lance. I’ve missed you. Flipping it around, I hold it up, so he can read my pleasantry.

  “Good to see you to, Miss Harper. Glad you’re home.”

  “Yeah.” It is good to be home, if only to see Lance and Mrs. R. Like any visit home, I know it will lead to some sort of argument between my parents and me. Even though I’m twenty-six, and have successfully taken care of myself for a long time, they will inevitably do or say something that will make me feel less than, or not as good as their hearing friends’ kids. I do believe that Mom and Dad have my best interest at heart. I mean, they’ve always provided for me, given me all the best tutors and newest tech when it came out. But, emotionally, they detached themselves. Sometimes, a hug would have been more precious, louder even, than the world’s best hearing aid.

  And even then, the best hearing aids in the world couldn’t make me hear. I could see the disappointment on their faces. Was it disappointment in the tech, or disappointment in their daughter? I’ve never been able to tell.

  Take me to your leader, I add to my message, flipping it around to show him.

  Giving me a sidelong glance (Lance is well versed in the continuing saga of Harper vs. Samantha and Charles King), he reaches for my Kate Spade carry-on (I packed light to keep this visit short) and ushers me toward the parking garage.

  Lance opens the door to the backseat of the limo and I slip inside, sinking into the deep bucket seat. The small pull-down table between the seats is stocked with my hometown favorites: cider doughnuts and Polar brand seltzer water. It’s been a thorn in my side since I moved to Missouri, haven’t been able to find Polar seltzer anywhere!

  Twisting off the cap, I press my lips against the mouth of the bottle and tip it back, savoring the elixir inside. Oh, refreshing raspberry Polar, how I’ve missed you!

  Glancing at Lance, I hold up my bottle of Polar in thank you. He smiles and winks, gently closing me inside.

  Resting my head on the high back of the plush leather seat, I let my eyes fall closed, yawning. The car purrs to life and we’re moving. Dad’s limousine rides so smoothly, it’s hard not to fall asleep. Early rounds will be the death of me. And it certainly didn’t help that Thor spent the night. Not that I’m complaining about the second part; that was a welcomed change of plans to the otherwise uneventful Netflix romance movie marathon I had on the docket.

  I shiver at the memory, recalling in vivid detail, how amazing Thor’s body felt next to mine. It’s not like my experience with men is through the roof—there have only been two, and Thor is one of them. But somehow, when I’m with Thor, everything feels so much…more…amplified.

  His fingers seared my skin. The way he kissed me, sometimes like a whisper or a prayer, other times, it was like he was belting one of his songs to the last row of a concert venue. I don’t remember being able to hear, but with Thor, and the way his body hummed with each spoken word, it was like I could hear him…his every thought. Our bodies were tuned into a different frequency, one that only the two of us could hear. I’ve never felt so connected to someone.

  Not even David.

  Thoughts of David surface. My high school sweetheart and the boy I lost my virginity to. We were together for four years, a long time, at least by high school standards. Oh, who am I kidding? Four years is a freaking long time, longer than some Hollywood marriages last.

  A smile creeps to my lips. I haven’t thought about David in a while. He was a great boyfriend. And from what I’ve seen from Facebook posts, he’s happily married and going to be a father.

  When David and I graduated, we wrestled with the notion of a long-distance relationship, but in the end, mutually decided it was for the best to call it quits. It killed us both. We were each other’s firsts. But, we needed to spread our wings and see what the world had to offer. He was off to Gallaudet University, where I chose Washington University in St. Louis. His roots were firmly planted in the Deaf world, where I straddled the line between the Deaf community and the hearing world—the defining characteristic that overshadowed our relationship from the very beginning. David came from a Deaf family, I came from a hearing family. We respected each other’s differences, but in the end, we knew our relationship wouldn’t work out. We made better friends than lovers.

  I’m happy for David. I will carry him in a special place in my heart forever. But Thor, in a very short time, has touched my heart in a way no man ever has.

  Lance makes the sharp turn onto the long drive and takes the limo up the steep incline of my parents’ circular drive.

  I’m home.

  A year. That’s a long time to be gone. And I’m not going to lie, I wish another six months had been tacked on. It’s going to be a long weekend.

  Lance stops the car and turns off the ignition. Five seconds later, he’s at my door, pulling it open. Offering me his hand, I put my palm against his and climb out of the limo.

  Cold and impersonal, the King mansion stands before me, every window lit up like a beacon in the dark world. It’s funny how the little clapboard house Chloe and I rent from her aunt has more character and is far more inviting than Mom and Dad’s twenty-five thousand square feet of luxury living. Sometimes bigger isn’t always better…at least when it comes to houses.

  Climbing the polished white marble stairs leading to the front door, I glance over my shoulder to see Lance following behind, my leopard-print Kate Spade carry-on in his right hand. I love Lance, but Kate Spade leopard print doesn’t suit him.

  Stepping to my left, he grabs the l
atch on the front door and pushes it open, waiting for me to enter the foyer. The pristine Brazilian cherry hardwood floors and trim work stand in contrast to the light cream-colored walls. The only splash of color comes from Mom’s prized Afshar rug that is proudly displayed to the right of the open foyer, in the sitting room. Not that anyone actually sits in there, because come on, you can’t walk on an antique Afshar rug that’s made with wool foundations instead of cotton, like the newer oriental rugs. Everyone knows that. I can see Mom’s reproachful glare in my mind’s eye.

  In my periphery, a flash of hot pink catches my attention. Twisting in the direction of the pink blur, I’m just in time to intercept a hug from Mom. She crashes into me, squeezing hard. I can’t hug her back because my arms are pinned to my side.

  In a situation like this, I’m at her mercy. I’m free when she decides to let go. Mom’s not much of a hugger, so it shouldn’t be too much longer.

  Any day now.

  She smells like fermented grapes. A red. It has a heavier fragrance than white.

  Seriously, why is she still hugging me?

  After an unusually long hug, she pulls back and looks me in the eye, smiling. “So glad to see you, sweetheart,” she says. “You look beautiful. And looky here”—she touches the side of my nose—“you got a…piercing.”

  I read her lips effortlessly, just like old times. It makes me miss Thor and the clumsy way he signs. He may not be good at it yet, but at least he tries; that’s more than I can say for my parents. Even with all their money, and everything they provided me, they never did give me what I really wanted…parents who communicated in my language.

  I take a step back, brushing a light finger over the small, diamond stud in my left nostril. I forgot she hadn’t seen it yet.

  “Well.” She smiles, her shoulders, dropping. “Let’s get you settled in upstairs.” Mom takes to the staircase, her shapely butt sashaying in a rhythmic side-to-side motion as she ascends. Glancing down at my drab blue hospital scrubs, I sigh and pick up my carry-on, trailing behind her.

  She opens the door to my old room. It’s been eight years since I officially inhabited this room, and nothing’s changed. The walls are still the same latte brown, and the quilt on the antique four-poster bed has the same yellow and orange sunbursts shining in each panel. Mom’s all about the antiques. Even the bathrooms have claw-foot tubs with vintage Wolff faucets. It’s all in the details, she always says.

  Tossing my suitcase on the bed, I turn around. Mom is waving her hands, trying to get my attention.

  “Did you catch that?” she says.

  “No, Mom, I did not.” I sign, not even bothering to move my lips. Did you understand me? Still, after all these years, she can’t manage to look at me when she talks? A surefire way to piss me off.

  “Harper, you know I don’t understand you when you only use ASL. I have to be able to read your lips to understand you.” Patting my shoulder, she gives me a half smile. “Why don’t you get out of those scrubs and come downstairs. I found this fabulous centerpiece on Pinterest and had to give it a try. Pauline, Sophie, and I have a bottle of wine open, and the glue guns are hot. They’d love to see you, and we could use the help. Come on downstairs.”

  Biting my tongue, I nod. Pinterest crafts were not on my list of things to do tonight. I’m tired. Yet, sleep remains the best friend I never hear from but wish would call and check in sometime, maybe even stay for a slumber party. A girl can dream…well, daydream.

  “Good.” Mom pats my cheek, sweeping me into another hug.

  The minute she’s gone, I fall face-first onto the bed, burying my head in a pillow. I want to scream, but I hold it in, opting for deep breaths instead. Pulling in a lungful of air through my nose, the scent of freshly laundered sheets and pillowcases calms me.

  Exhale…in…out…

  After an hour flight to Chicago, then another two to Manchester, not to mention that I lose an hour coming east, I’m beat. The last thing I want to do is change clothes and hang out with my mother’s socialite friends, who are most likely on their second or third bottle of wine.

  I wonder what Thor’s doing? Sitting up, I grab my purse and pull my phone out. Made it to NH. What are you up to? Pressing send, I set my phone on the mattress and unzip my suitcase. Riffling through folded clothes, I take out a pair of black leggings and a long dark green and blue plaid button down. It’s comfy and cute enough to pass Mom’s scrutiny. (I knew the scrubs wouldn’t. And let’s not even talk about my nose piercing.)

  My phone flashes with an incoming message. Thor: Glad you made it. Have a great time. Thinking about you.

  Me: No way, Mr. Busy Rock Star. Not buying that line for a second. I’m sure you’re at some important rehearsal, too busy to be thinking about me.

  Thor: You’re kind of right and kind of wrong. I am at some important rehearsal, but that birthmark I found on the inside of your thigh this morning, when we were in the shower…haven’t been able to get it out of my mind all day. And when you took me in your mouth. I can still feel your lips wrapped around my cock.

  Blood pools in my cheeks, remembering how hot that shower was—and it didn’t have anything to do with the temperature of the water. I run a hand along the inside of my thigh, wishing it was Thor’s.

  Me: Two days. I’ll be home in two days.

  Thor: I’ll be extra dirty in two days. A shower will be a must. ;-)

  Along with the heat of my blushing cheeks, I press my legs together, mourning the emptiness at my apex. Thor pressing me against the shower wall with his wet body, my legs wrapped around his waist as he filled me so perfectly, has me hoping I remembered to pack Prince O. Not the same by a long shot, but I’m going to need it if Thor keeps sending me text messages like this all weekend.

  My phone flashes again. I’m gonna bite that birthmark when you get back. That’s a promise.

  The lights in my room flash. My eyes flick to the door just in time to see Mom peeking around the corner.

  Holy hell! I slide the phone under the pillow and am off the bed in 2.3 seconds, heart thumping wildly. “You scared the shit out of me!” I sign fast, mouthing the words. I doubt she understood anything, which is for the best. She hates it when I let expletives fly. I don’t know how many times I’ve been told that swearing isn’t ladylike. Naturally, those were all the signs I learned first.

  Mom, shoving the rest of the way into my room, says, “What’s with you? You’re so jumpy?” She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Are you coming down?

  I nod, bringing my hand up, signing, “Yes.” I hope the exasperated look on my face hides the blush Thor put there. “I’m coming down.”

  “Well, don’t dawdle. We could use your help.” She winks, closing the door again.

  Spinning around, I pull my phone out from under the pillow, another two messages light up the screen: And the things I’m gonna do to you with my tongue. Want me to tell you or let your imagination run wild?

  Harper? You okay?

  Oh, dear God. My boyfriend is sexting me at the same time my mother is begging me to hang out and make Pinterest crafts.

  Sorry. My mom needed me. I have to go help her with something. I pout, hitting send. Picking through my suitcase, I find Prince O, snuggled inside his carrying case. Oh, thank God. Boy, am I going to need you later. I pat the case, a sensual ache already growing between my legs, thinking of all wonderful things Thor’s tongue is capable of.

  Thor: Thought I scared you off.

  Me: You don’t scare me. We’ll continue the dirty talk later. Why don’t you get yourself warmed up? You paid close attention to my birthmark while we were in the shower, remember what I paid special attention to? I’ll text when family time is over. ;-)

  Thor: You’ve got my attention. I’ll be waiting.

  Smiling, I lock my phone and toss it onto the bed. Swapping my scrubs for leggings and a long, comfy shirt, I head downstairs. Walking toward the dining room, I peek inside. Mom and her friends, Sophie and Pauline�
�women I’ve known my whole life—are sitting around the massive table gesturing wildly, enormous smiles on their face. Three uncorked bottles of wine sit in the midst of wineglasses, fake flowers, ribbon, and tulle. Why bother with the glasses when you can have the whole bottle? There’s one for each of them.

  Oh, hell no. It’s too late for this. You couldn’t pay me enough to walk into that room.

  Tiptoeing past the dining room, I hold my breath and turn down the hall, toward the kitchen. The closer I get, the more fragrant the hallway becomes. Fresh fruits: strawberries, apples, blueberries, their sweet, earthy scents permeating the air. Whatever Mrs. Rutherford is baking, it smells heavenly.

  Like when I had seen Lance at the airport, my heartbeat picks up in anticipation of seeing Mrs. R. I’ve missed her equally as much, if not more. When I was a kid, if I had a problem, Mrs. R was the one person I’d run to. She always had all the answers. And if she didn’t, she’d still offer sound advice.

  Strolling into the kitchen like I live here all the time, I walk right up to Mrs. R and tap her shoulder. Whirling around, the plump older woman stares at me with wide eyes. “Harper!” She signs, pulling me into a warm hug.

  When my mother hugged me earlier, I was held captive in her grip, unable to participate. With Mrs. R I’m able to squeeze her back with the same fervor.

  I close my eyes and let Mrs. R’s scent wash over me. For my whole life, she’s always smelled the same way, like warm buttered croissants, fresh out of the oven. Or homemade pound cake. Years of time spent in the kitchen, her skin and clothes radiate home.

  Pulling away, I offer her a sunny smile. “I’ve missed you, Mrs. R.”

  “It’s never the same around here when you’re gone.” Besides Chloe, Mrs. R is the only other person close to me who uses ASL. But, unlike Chloe, who learned ASL so she could communicate with me, Mrs. R was already fluent in the language, having learned years before she took the job with our family, in order to communicate with her mother. I think Mrs. R’s ability to sign was one of the reasons my parents hired her in the first place.