Only when its us, p.20
Only When It's Us, page 20
Mom and Dad drive me home, making sure I’m tucked in bed and have lots of homemade meals stashed in my fridge. Becks is here to keep an eye on me since his family’s around and he likes to spend all but Christmas Eve in our place rather than with them. Tucker’s already headed home for the holiday break.
I fall asleep, knocked out by a level of exhaustion not unlike when I came down with meningitis. It’s not until undefined hours later that I wake up to banging on our door. I hear Becks’s faint rumble, the higher-pitched melody of a voice I know.
Willa.
She strolls in, frowning at me. “Well, hi there, Frankenstein. You’re looking swell.”
I drag a pillow over my face to hide, but soon it lifts at the corner, one big brown eye blinking slowly as it watches me. Willa moves the pillow and sits on the edge of my bed so I can see her and read her lips.
“Brawny, why didn’t you tell me?”
I groan and shove my forehead into her thigh. Her hand sits heavy on my back, then starts to swirl in a lulling figure eight.
She opens her phone’s notepad and types, I know I can be a bit of a witch, but I could have picked you up, spit in your chicken soup, stuck a laxative in your ice cream to deal with the post-anesthesia blockage.
I glare up at her.
“I’m not making a very good case for myself, am I?” she says.
No, I mouth.
Her eyes hold mine, as slowly, carefully Willa slips her fingers through my hair. It feels so good, a wave of warmth rolls down my spine and I shudder.
“Is this to help you hear better, hopefully?”
I give her a thumbs-up.
She smiles wide and infectiously bright. At that moment she completely lives up to my nickname for her. Sunshine.
“That’s exciting! Though it will pretty much shoot your sex appeal. You work the strong, silent angle way too well.”
This is what has killed me about Willa since day one. She jokes and teases me like it’s not strange at all that I don’t talk and I can’t hear for shit. Never has she acted like my limited communication skills required changing. It’s like she never saw them as limitations at all.
I grasp her phone, open the notepad, and type. Our final? How did it go?
“Final?” Her eyes widen. “What final?”
I wrap a hand around her thigh and squeeze. I’m ninety-five percent sure she’s joking, but you never know with Willa, and unlike her, I need a good GPA to help me secure my future. If she missed her portion of our test, I’m fucked.
“Oh, cool your tits, tree-feller. I took it and kicked its butt, mostly because your notecards are neurotically thorough.” She pats my back gently. “So, thank you for that.”
I shift in bed because fluid is pooling behind my incision site and the pressure is aggravating. I’m still a little woozy, and I haven’t been able to eat anything besides popsicles. Watching my attempt at moving, Willa tugs those full lips between her teeth. She looks like she’s trying hard not to laugh at me.
“Aw, you’re like a sleepy little pill bug. Let me help you.”
If I had the energy to grumble, I would. Willa stands from the bed, grips my waist and leverages me up with surprising ease for such a compact woman. And if that wasn’t enough to twist my heart, she cups the back of my head and eases me down, quickly shoving another pillow behind me.
“See? There.” She backs up and curtsies. “Nurse Ratchet, at your service.”
I give her a look that makes her laugh, once again reminding me why all this was worth it. Because if Willa’s laughter is this beautiful when my head is filled with surgical sludge and inflammation, it’s going to be breathtaking when it’s all finally clear. I’m going to hear again, and I’m never going to take this precious sense for granted.
Thank you, I sign.
She signs back, a small smile on her face, You’re welcome.
I’m tired. My eyelids droop, but I don’t want another minute to pass before I talk to Willa. About everything from the other night at her apartment, to this painful reality wherein her mom is about to be a patient in my parents’ home.
Does Willa know the severity of her mom’s prognosis? My gut says no. I’ve seen Willa’s face light up when her mom calls, when the screen brightens with a picture of a woman whose smile and eyes are identical to hers. If she knew her mother was actively dying, Willa would not be functioning like this.
I search the sheets for my phone, which got lost in the rotation. Willa leans over, searching the bed with me, and decks me with that soft, addicting fragrance of hers. I’m about to press my nose to her hair, but she straightens with my phone before I can.
“Aha!”
Taking it from her, I start to type. I’m not even halfway through when Willa’s phone blares from her pocket and she pulls it out to read the screen. Her face falls as her eyes dance left–right.
Terror pools in my stomach. It doesn’t look like good news. As gently as I can, I pat the bed. It earns her attention, making her eyes snap up to mine.
“Sorry…” She glances down at her phone, then stares off into space. “My mom…she just said today’s her moving day.”
I reach out a hand, torn between comforting her and finishing my message, but Willa pockets her phone, dragging her fingers through her hair and sending mad spirals popping in their wake. “Sorry, Ry, I have to go now. Are you okay? Becks has you?”
My hand drops, my shoulders slump, and I try to hide my frustrated disappointment. Of course, she needs to go be with her mom, I don’t begrudge her that, but now what do I do? When do I tell her? I can’t not go home for Christmas, but I don’t want to bump into Willa and blindside her. Something tells me Willa does not do well being blindsided.
Willa takes my hand, squeezing before she lets go. She looks torn, like she wants to say as many things to me as I want to say to her. But when our fingers untangle from each other’s until our hands drop, it feels final. It feels like goodbye.
How do I tell Willa I want this to be just the beginning?
20
Ryder
Playlist: “Hearts Don’t Break Around Here,” Guitar Tribute Players
Willa’s been avoiding me as much as I knew she would. I’ve known her for a few months now. I know how she copes with difficult things. She avoids them. She’s checked in with me via text a few times, but only her usual nonsense teasing and banter. It’s driving me nuts. I want to rip out my hair and scream, beyond frustrated at the yawning gap in our communication.
I can’t tell her via text what’s going on. The subject matter’s too sensitive, the context too bizarre. This is a face-to-face conversation. Problem is, I can’t talk to her on the phone or get her to see me in person.
One week away from Christmas, my mom’s having a coronary I’m not home yet. Willa has yet to be available to see me and has been incapable of saying one serious thing in days. I unlock my phone and send her the message I should have sent her the day after she left my place.
We need to talk.
Three dots appear almost immediately, then,
Brawny, are you breaking
up with me?
Goddammit, this woman. I rub my eyes and breathe deeply. My phone buzzes again.
You’re doing that thing where you
rub your eyes and take deep
centering breaths so you don’t
commit homicide to the world’s
next soccer star, aren’t you?
A begrudging grin tugs at my mouth.
I can neither confirm nor
deny these allegations.
Knew it. I have to come down to my
apartment and grab some things
for the holidays. I’ll be around until
midday tomorrow. Want to do dinner?
You can cook me meatballs.
I roll my eyes, but before I can respond, a new text message pops up. Mom.
Ryder Stellan Bergman, I ask one
thing of you. One. To be home for
Christmas holiday. Where are you?
A growl leaves me. I don’t hear it well, but damn, do I feel it. The women in my life are going to make me go insane.
Mom, I’m sorry. I’m trying
to figure out this situation
with Willa. She won’t
see me to talk.
Mom’s dots appear.
Make her.
Jesus. I’m my mother’s son. It’s part Swedish culture, part disposition—she thinks everyone should be as blunt and direct as she and I are. No bullshit, no games.
That’s not how Willa
works, Mom.
I’ve guessed as much.
I just miss you.
Home isn’t the same
without my Ryder.
Lay on the guilt a little thicker. My phone buzzes again.
Can you just come for
dinner tonight?
Just Ren, Viggo,
Oliver, and Sigrid.
So basically everyone.
Except Ax, Freya, and
her despicable other half.
I suppose you could
see it that way.
Okay, but I’m coming home
afterward. I’ll be back in time
for Christmas, promise.
Your terms are acceptable.
See you in an hour.
An hour? I toss my phone away, then remember I need to text Willa back.
My mom’s going to murder me
if I don’t show up for family dinner.
Can’t cook for you after all.
Breakfast tomorrow?
Jerk.
Make me those cinnamon
rolls and fresh coffee, and
you’ve got a deal.
I want to be pissed at her presumption that I’ll get up and make her smart mouth fresh pastries. But we both know I’m going to do it.
Deal.
Bright and early, Sunshine.
Can’t wait.
A stupid smile pulls at my lips. I don’t type it but it’s on the tip of my tongue. Can’t wait, either.
It’s as loud as I thought it would be. Ren and Sigrid—Ziggy as we call her—are incapable of talking without it being a yell. Viggo and Oliver are Irish twins who’ve always bickered terribly, so they’re at each other’s throats. Ironically, while I’m on the cusp of correcting my hearing, all I want is silence. Sneaking away from the chaos briefly before dinner, I take the stairs up to my old bedroom that’s frozen in time from high school and drop onto the twin bed.
Sighing with relief at the blissful quiet, I close my eyes. As I’m falling asleep, I find myself picturing a cabin in the woods, at the foot of some snowy mountain. A fire roaring, some kind of stew bubbling in the pot over it. I’m sitting in a worn armchair, listening to that soothing crack and pop of firewood as it catches and bursts into flames. Breathing deeply, I smell woodsmoke and evergreens, herbs in the stew and that damp mustiness of a cabin. But then a new scent punctures it all. Roses. Citrus. Sunscreen.
Willa.
She slips her hand along my neck and her fingers massage my scalp as she slides onto my lap. My breath leaves me in one long pained hiss as her ass wiggles right over me, and she tucks her feet up on the couch.
Hi, she says.
I can hear her. I hear her voice and it’s liquid gold in my ears. It’s a soft, low purr. Her eyes look like a jungle cat’s in the hearth’s glow, butterscotch and amber as the firelight dances in her irises. Her hair’s wild. It looks how I picture it might after she’s been in bed, tumbling around.
Everything thickens beneath the fly of my jeans, need tightens low in my stomach. Dream Willa shifts again, her hands cupping my face. Her lips are a breath away, her eyes locked with mine. She inches closer, closer—
A bang on the door makes me jerk awake. I glance down. My dick’s raging hard, straining against my fly. I’m obviously, painfully aroused. Scrambling up off the bed, I pull open the door just enough to hide behind it and see Dad on the other side.
What? I mouth.
Dad looks apologetic. “The boys and Freya ran an errand for Mom and Ziggy’s too small to help me. Joy wants me to move her bed so she faces out toward the glass doors, but to do that, I need to move Nana’s dresser. You’re healed enough by now, moving something heavy should be okay.”
I groan. That thing weighs tons. I swear it’s lined with lead or has some secret safe with bricks of gold hidden in it. That’s not what’s freaking me out, though. Willa and I still haven’t talked. Meeting her mom before we have seems like a terrible idea.
Pulling out my phone, I type, Can it wait?
What happens if her mom says something to Willa? Willa will kill me for not talking to her about it, even though I’ve tried everything I can think of. I can hear her saying it. I’m gonna kill you, Brawny, I’m gonna kill you dead.
Dad gives me that disappointed-in-my-son look. I’m sure he assumes I have balls enough to have somehow strong-armed Willa into talking about all of this. He’d be wrong. I appreciate his faith in me, even if it’s misplaced.
I wave my hand, finally giving in. Okay. Talking about Nana and looking at my father has done wonders for the discomfort inside my jeans, so I open up the door, close it behind me and follow Dad downstairs.
Walking down the hallway to meet Willa’s mom, dread tightens my throat. I’m sweating, on the verge of panic.
Dad says something to her as we enter the room that I can’t hear except for his upbeat doctor pitch. A smoky voice that’s even harder to make out says something to Dad.
Dad takes me by the arm, stands on my good side and drags me next to him. “Joy,” he says loudly. “This is my son—well, one of my sons—Ryder. Ryder, this is Joy Sutter, Willa’s mom.”
I elbow Dad.
Joy looks like her photo on Willa’s phone. She looks like Willa, but painfully thin, with a headscarf and a couple of decades to her.
I wave hello, and feel guilt twist my stomach. Willa should know about this. I want her to know.
Dad turns so I can read his lips as he directs himself to Willa’s mom. “Ryder’s deaf, Joy. He came down with meningitis a few years ago which damaged both his ears, and we’ve had a hell of a time getting his auditory and speech processing to happen since. He can read your lips if you speak slowly and clearly, or you can text him. I’ll send you his number.”
I swallow a strangled noise as I watch Dad send Willa’s mom my cell. Joy just smiles, hands in her lap, her phone sitting on the side table. She looks like the cat that ate the canary.
“Ryder,” she says clearly. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod.
“Well.” Dad glances over his shoulder at the ancient dresser. “Let’s do this, son.”
It’s hell moving it, but we do, before carefully unlocking the breaks on Joy’s hospital bed and spinning her. I can see why she wanted the change. There’s a cheery view out the glass doors to the backyard this way. It might be December, but it’s still sunny out, plenty of plants thriving. A soccer net sits toward the edge of her view. I wonder if Willa’s used it at all.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she says.
“Anything you need, Joy?” Dad steps up to her and sets a gentle hand on her frail shoulder. “Patty will be in soon for your meds and such but if I can do anything to keep you more comfortable right now, just say the word.”
Joy’s staring at me. “I’d just like a minute with Ryder if that’s all right.”
I lock eyes pleadingly with Dad. He glances between us as a grin brightens his face. He squeezes Joy’s shoulder once more, then walks up to me, speaking closely in my right ear. “Good luck.”
With a smack of my back, he leaves and closes the door behind him.
“Ryder,” Joy gestures to the chair near her bed. “Please join me, won’t you?”
I walk up to her slowly, sitting cautiously as she watches me.
“So you’re the asshole lumberjack.”
My eyebrows fly up.
Lifting one hand, she gestures me closer. I lean obediently. Her hands go to my beard, down to my throat. “Make a noise, Lumberjack.”
I hesitate. She tugs my beard. I glare at her.
“Make. A. Noise.”
Sighing, I hum. She holds her hand to my throat, her eyes tight with concentration. When her hand falls away, she tips her head, the gesture so like Willa. “So you voluntarily don’t talk. You could if you wanted.”
I hesitate for a moment, then shrug.
“Why not? You’re embarrassed? It doesn’t sound how you like?”
I pull out my phone, but Joy’s hand rests on my arm. “My eyesight’s shot, son. Nice side effect of the latest cancer treatment. Talk to me or we won’t be getting very far.”
Silence hangs between us. Her eyes bore into me, even as she reaches for her nightstand. Her hand finds a book and slips it off the edge.
The book lands with a soft thud in my lap. “Willa’s been reading to me in the evenings. Don’t believe me, you can ask her. You and I will never talk unless you swallow your pride and open that mouth.”
My heart bangs in my fucked-up ears. Emotion tugs at my throat. She can’t see. I can’t talk.
Except you can. You just don’t. Because it’s hard and weird.
“Alex says you had the cochlear implant surgery.”
I nod.
“Speak up, son.”
Clearing my throat, I manage a faint, “Mhmm.”
“That’s better.” She shifts gingerly in bed. “So, you’ve had that surgery, intending to learn how to hear with the implant and to speak once again.”
