Only when its us, p.6
Only When It's Us, page 6
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.
I surprise myself by doing it because I rarely sign. Sign is a language that works quite differently from spoken conversation. When I realized I was deaf for good, it was overwhelming to contemplate learning a new language, especially when I didn’t have anyone to sign with. I bought a book, watched some videos. Learned a little bit in case I randomly bumped into someone like me.
So, after Willa signed sorry in class, I took a chance the next time I saw her. She understood my hodgepodge sign for telling her the food she was making smelled fucking incredible, and it made something in my chest twist with warmth. I liked being able to meet her eyes when I communicated with her, instead of having my head buried in my phone, waiting for her to turn away from me and read my words. It felt closer, more intimate.
Intimate? What the hell, Ryder?
I shake my head as I walk in silence with Aiden back to the car. I must be lightheaded from my run. Willa and I are collaborative partners, and maybe we have a few things in common—stubbornness, a background in soccer, a love of shrimp scampi—but that’s it. We’d gouge each other’s eyes out before we got intimate.
A tap to my shoulder draws me from my thoughts. “Want to go to her game?” Aiden says.
Are you insane? I mouth.
“Probably.” He shrugs. “I feel like it’s the least we can do after nearly sabotaging her eligibility—”
I smack his arm. We? Shaking my finger, I type one-handed, Ohhh, no. This was all you.
Aiden reads his phone, then grins. “Admit it. You like messing with her, even if you didn’t mean to at the outset. Thing is, that’s not going to get you far in teaming up this semester, so this can be your peace offering. You should come, show your project partner you’re not a complete ass. Just fifty percent.”
I shove him, sending him careening into the side of his car. But I don’t say no, either.
It’s shockingly loud in the stadium. I should have anticipated that. I stupidly pictured a women’s soccer game being as poorly attended as they were when I was little. From a moral standpoint, I’m glad that I was wrong. For the sake of my ears, I’m cringing.
The stands are packed with families, coeds, and plenty of locals. Signs decorate the rows and those goddamn vuvuzelas blast from all corners of the stadium. It’s dusk and there’s a hint of crisp coolness to the air that reminds me so much of fall in Washington, it nearly makes me smile.
I’d be lying if I said sitting here doesn’t make me feel like someone slit my gut, took a fistful of my intestines and drew them out. I feel empty and alienated. It’s wrong for me to be on this side of that fence. I belong on a field, the reliable defender in back. Not sitting on my ass, legs wiggling, longing to do what I’ve loved since I could walk, playing the beautiful game.
It’s been two years. I tell myself I’m over my loss, and most of the time I feel like I am. I’m a practical person. Logically, rationally, I recognize my skill is comprised, my opportunity is gone, and that’s reality. I’m also my Swedish mother’s son, who raised me in her culture’s spirit of lagom—just enough, no excess or extravagance, contented simplicity. I had my years of soccer greatness which was extravagance enough. When they ended, yes, I felt shitty for a while, but then I accepted my lagom life and moved on.
I thought I was past grieving what I lost, but maybe grief isn’t linear. Maybe I can accept what I’ve lost and still mourn it. Maybe I always will.
My phone dings. Aiden.
She’s good, right?
I shrug as I type, Decent enough.
Our eyes meet as he rolls his. “You’re full of shit,” he says.
Aiden’s right, I am full of shit. Willa’s not good. She’s not decent. She’s breathtaking. Her touches are fluid, her movement effortless. Her powerful quads flex as she jukes and spins and tricks every one of USC’s defenders, blasting by them and bearing down on the goalie. She’s had four goals and she’s not slowing down.
I barely recognized her at first, because she wasn’t swimming in sweats, and her hair wasn’t in its normal pouf on top of her head. She wears a fitted kit—a jersey that hugs her lean torso and narrow shoulders, shorts that sit on her hips and cut off just a bit above the knee, revealing those defined quadricep muscles every real soccer player develops. But the shit kicker is her face, bare and clear, because her hair is French-braided severely down the back of her head.
It wasn’t until the stadium lights bounced off her forehead, her cheekbones, those insanely pouty lips, that I recognized her. Now, watching her score and smile, I swear I see her eyes light up from here. She’s happy, and her eyes are sunshine bright, the luminous color of melted caramel.
Not that I ever expect to see that color up close. I’m expertly talented at earning that rich amber, tinged furious ruby red. Pissing her off is easy, and for safe emotional distance, preferable.
But the competitive voice inside me itches to prove I could just as easily make Willa smile. That I could playfully poke and tease and sweet-talk her until her eyes turned toffee-colored sunshine again.
A vuvuzela blasts nearby, interrupting my thoughts and ringing in my ear. Almost instantly the tinnitus escalates painfully in my left ear, the most damaged one. Freya must notice that I wince because she sets a hand on my neck and rubs gently. Some people might find my family’s comfort with each other’s bodies odd, but it’s how we all are and it makes sense, given half of us were raised by or were raising the other half. Freya’s like a second mom—she rubbed my back while I puked and wiped my ass for a fresh diaper probably as much, if not more so, than my own mother.
My phone buzzes with a message from her. We can go. Aiden forgets how painful loud environments are for you. You know he just loves you and wants you to be integrated, but he’s an ass about it, sometimes.
I huff a silent laugh, replying, It’s okay. I like watching Willa. I’m just going to have a monster headache afterward.
Freya’s hands pause on my neck, then resume, after she types, Do you *like* like her?
Sighing, I shake my head. I said I like watching her. She’s good. That’s it, Frey.
At halftime, UCLA’s up four-one, but twenty minutes into the second half, USC’s managed to put three more past our goalie who needs to have her eyes examined. The two teams are now tied, and they have no business being tied. UCLA’s objectively better.
At this point, Old Ryder would be running his mouth nonstop. Before I lost my hearing, it was the one time I was as chatty as the rest of my siblings. Standing in front of the television watching a Premier League match. When I was older, at the many games my siblings played, hollering, cheering, correcting. I saw the field, I got the game, and I had no problem yelling about it.
Willa’s defenders keep falling away from goal-side stance. The goalie’s stepping too far out of the box. Willa’s goddamn midfielder needs to push up and hold possession longer. Willa, though, I have nothing to say to her. Not one single correction. She’s technically flawless. She’s incredibly fit. She balances possession and passing perfectly. She’s no one-trick pony but instead has countless moves to keep her defenders tripping over her. She’s been sprinting for sixty-five minutes and she’s not even starting to show fatigue.
Times flies as I watch her, the minutes of regulation play dwindling to only a few before stoppage kicks in. Willa isn’t just a talented player, she’s the kind of athlete that comes once in a generation. If anybody belongs on a professional field, it’s her. An odd sensation of pride tightens my chest which I immediately dismiss. Willa’s not mine to be proud of. She’s not even my friend. She’s someone I can root for, though, even if she drives me nuts.
Just as I’m tying up my thoughts with that tidy concluding bow, Willa cuts a sick move around a defender, passing to a teammate I recognized earlier as her roommate, Rooney. Rooney one-times it back to her, and on her first touch, Willa rips it into the upper ninety, scoring again. She’s secured the lead with less than a minute left in regulation.
Instinctively, I’m on my feet, clapping with all the UCLA fans. Without thinking, I lift my hands and set my fingers inside my lips, releasing a long, shrill, celebratory whistle that stuns Freya and Aiden. I feel their eyes on me, but I don’t look at them. I look at Willa on the field and refuse to even begin to analyze what I just did.
Willa jumps into the arms of her teammates who tug her braid and smack her ass. Her smile is wide as she floats down the field in their arms. When they drop her at the top of the center circle, Willa faces toward the stadium, hands on hips, gaze scouring the stands, like she’s searching for something. I can’t tell whether or not she’s found what she was looking for before she turns back toward the field.
The oddest sensation settles beneath my ribs. My chest is tight, burning, tangled. I’m looking at Willa Sutter, the pain in my ass who goes from zero to ninety on the rage-o-meter, who smacks off my ball cap and scowls at me like that’s what she got a full ride for, not soccer. I’m here at her game, my rib cage constricting as my heart whispers scary, unwelcome feelings. I turn toward Freya and type, Can we blow this popsicle stand? I’ve got a migraine brewing.
Freya nods, failing to hide her smile. “Migraine, huh?”
I ignore that not-so-subtle hint and swing an arm over her shoulder. Just as we leave the stadium, the buzzer ends the game.
6
Ryder
Playlist: “The Universe is Laughing,” The Guggenheim Grotto
A nudge to my shoulder makes me look up from my seat in the lecture room’s front row. Willa gives me a cautious, inspecting frown as she settles in next to me, this time on my right side. I feel myself stiffen as she opens her notebook and her arm inadvertently brushes mine. Shutting my eyes, I take a deep, chill-the-fuck-out breath, but that just makes the situation even worse.
A soft scent hits my nose. Citrus and sunscreen, a wisp of flowers. Roses maybe? It’s the same one that infused her apartment, until the mouthwatering aroma of what she’d been cooking eventually overwhelmed it. I take a cautious breath in again. She smells like summer, like a hike through fields of wildflowers. I picture it perfectly, Willa ripping the flesh of a California orange with her teeth, slathered in SPF that does nothing to stop the freckles that pepper her nose, a rose blossom tucked in her wild curls.
The scent’s doing things to my dopamine transmitters. I’m oddly calm and content. If I spoke at all these days, right now I’d say, Ahhh.
My eyes are still shut, my mind lulled, but I can feel Willa staring at me. I’m too chickenshit to meet her eyes. I know if I stare right back, unlike previous stare-downs, this one will make my heart tumble in my chest, just how it did when I watched her at her game.
Willa pats my hand, before I hear, “Ryder?”
My eyes fly open as I startle so badly, I slam my knee into the desk. Willa’s voice—it’s the first time I’ve heard it. My pulse trips and thunders through my body. A flush of heat rushes up my throat, then floods my cheeks.
Her voice is liquid velvet, poured sunlight. It’s smooth and low and soft around the edges. It’s the clearest sound I’ve heard since I woke up in the hospital. It feels epically unjust. Why? Why did Willa have to sit on my good side, why did she have to have a voice that falls in that tiny window of wavelengths that I can still pick up?
Why did it have to be her?
When our eyes finally meet, hers glitter with curiosity. She taps my right shoulder lightly with one finger.
“You can hear better out of this one, huh?”
I can hear the quality of her voice but can’t understand everything as she talks. Thankfully, she still says it slowly, and I watch her full lips. Those soft, pouty lips.
Dammit.
I nod.
Slowly, she leans closer, setting her elbow on my desk. Our arms press against each other, as she stares at my mouth, then meets my eyes once more. “Why don’t you talk, then, Ryder? If you can hear somewhat? Why don’t you use hearing aids?”
My jaw ticks as I pull back. Extracting my phone from my pocket, I type, Hearing aids aren’t a panacea. Speaking with them is not that simple.
I watch her open up the message and frown. She pauses, staring at the words for a long minute, then types, Panacea. Damn, Brawny, that’s top-notch bookstore vocabulary right there.
I glance up. Willa’s smiling gently. She’s giving me an out, not pushing me to explain myself.
If I didn’t think it would lead to world devastation, I would hug her for it. Instead, I text her back. Bookstore vocabulary?
Willa nods. “Summer job. Worked at a bookstore. You learn big words.”
Favorite book, I type.
She exhales heavily. I don’t know where to begin. I have too many.
Pick one.
She shoves me. “You’re so bossy.”
I smirk.
Willa taps her mouth. As I watch her, I find myself oddly thinking how satisfying it would be to drag that full bottom lip of hers right between my teeth. Shit. Bad train of thought. I need to get laid. I’m daydreaming about biting the crazy-haired thorn in my side.
My phone buzzes. Jane Eyre.
I scrunch my nose and type, Rochester is such a dick.
He’s a Byronic hero, Willa fires back. Tortured, moody, sexually intense. He’s runner up to Darcy on that front. Jane is the real star anyway. She’s strong and unapologetically independent.
I smile at her response, as I get that weird feeling in my sternum, just like when Willa scored at her game and I watched her eyes light up like sunshine. The feeling that made my mind spin and unease tighten my stomach.
“Ryder.”
I can’t quite suppress my shiver when I hear her say my name again.
Her head’s tipped to the side. With her frizzy, untamed hair, her wide-set brown eyes catching the lecture room’s warm lights, she looks young and innocent. That is until she traps the corner of that bee-stung lip between her teeth.
I lift my shoulders quickly. What? I mouth.
Willa leans in closer and pokes my chest. I reel, frowning from my body to her hand. Her familiar scowl is back. When she pokes me again, this time I swat her away. “When were you planning on admitting you showed up to my game?”
I open my mouth, then shut it, turning toward my phone. What’s the big deal? I was just curious to see what all the hype was about.
Her face freezes as she reads my message. Picking up her phone, she types, And what’s the verdict?
My thumbs hover. I should shut this down right now. Say something bland and disinterested, nothing of the smack-talking banter that we constantly volley. But instead, my thumbs type, You’ll do.
A smile brightens her profile before she schools her face. Typing quickly, she then turns over her phone as Aiden starts the lecture.
My phone buzzes. Asshole lumberjack. I could see your plaid from three miles away. Thanks for coming.
The rest of the class, I studiously avoid her, our attention ahead as we scribble notes while Aiden lectures. It’s hard to concentrate, thinking about how my name sounded, the memory of her voice. More than once, I bite my cheek, pinch my skin. Anything to bring back my focus. Spending my thoughts on Willa, our interactions and verbal sparring, paying her attention and backhanded compliments, is playing with fire.
But maybe just this once it would be worth it to get burned.
My hands shake. I stir the meatballs one more time, then toss the noodles in butter and parsley. My heart’s somewhere down in my stomach, banging around and ruining my appetite. I’ll be lucky if I don’t barf the moment Willa walks in the door.
It’s become a bit of a habit, to have dinner while we work on the final. Often, I arrive right after Willa’s out of the shower from practice. She’s always starving, so she shoves a protein bar in her mouth while whipping up something quick. A few times I’ve helped her to speed up meal prep, but we bickered so badly while we did it, she demoted me to setting the table. She’s cooked every time and last week my mother’s voice started lecturing me in my head, asking where her feminist son had gotten to, that he was comfortable letting a full-time female student athlete feed his fifteen-credit, lazy ass, twice a week.
