A Quiet Kind of Thunder(46)

I like your friends, I tell him.

He looks pleased. Really?

Yeah. They’re very friendly.

I told them to be nice. You’ll know they really like you when they start giving you a hard time. He rests the side of his forehead against the headrest, his eyes on me. Was it OK? I could tell you were a bit nervous.

I pause, trying to decide how best to respond. I thought I’d find it easier. The BSL.

He nods. Did we go a bit too fast? Sorry.

No, you were at normal speed. I’m just slower than I realized.

You’re brilliant.

I roll my eyes. No, seriously.

You are. You hear perfectly. Why would you need to speak BSL as well as us? They all think it’s awesome that you know as much as you do.

I want to say, I want to be part of your ‘us’, but how can I? Won’t it sound ridiculous? Do you think I’ll be as good as you one day?

He smiles at me, reaching out a finger and wiping a drop of water from my cheekbone. Depends how long you stick with me.

This time, I kiss him. And this time, it lasts a little longer. His hand travels down my back, curls around my waist, hesitates. His thumb eases under my shirt and touches bare skin. Electrical tendrils jolt into my bloodstream and dance through my veins.

The engine is still running and eventually we break apart so Rhys can drive me home. We spend the journey in silence, him paying extra careful attention to the dark, wet roads, me watching the rain running down the windows.

I wait until he’s pulled up outside my house to begin talking again. Do you miss Ives?

I can tell by the time he takes to respond that his answer is more complicated than a simple yes or no. Finally, he gives a slow half-nod. I miss my friends, but I’m not sad I left.

Why did you leave?

The rain drums down on the roof, steady and comforting. I wonder what sense of it Rhys gets, whether he can feel the drumming, or if it’s all dependent on sound.

I wanted a challenge. Rhys makes a face. No, not a challenge. I needed to push myself. I want to go to university but I worried that I’d got so used to Ives that I’d find it too hard. They make everything as easy as they can at Ives – which is great, of course. But they won’t do that at uni. At least, not in the same way. So I decided to go to a new sixth form, in a totally hearing school, to see how I dealt with it.

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything. I prompt, And?

And it’s been hard. He looks away from me, his face twisting slightly. His usual cheer has gone. I thought I’d handle it so much better.

I’m surprised. But you are handling it, I say. You’re handling it amazingly.

He shakes his head. No. I’m just really good at not showing when I’m not keeping up.

I’m sure they’d help if they knew you were struggling . . .

His head shakes again. No, I’m not struggling. It’s just harder than I thought. I think I took it for granted how deaf-aware everyone was at Ives. The staff and the students. It’s about more than just having someone interpreting the teacher during lessons.

Could you ask for more support?

They’re already doing as much as they can. They’ve run deaf-awareness training for the teachers and it’s helped a bit, but a lot of the time they just forget. It’s habit, you know? I can’t blame them. I wish . . . He stops himself, frowns and then shakes his head, looking away from me and out of the window at the rain.

I touch his hand so his gaze returns to me. What do you wish?

I wish I could do this on my own. That I didn’t need anything extra. I wish I could do it all by myself.

You are doing it yourself.

But even as I say this I know what he means, at least in a way. Maybe for me the equivalent is medication; I still can’t quite get over the feeling that it’s some kind of leg-up to get me where I want to be. A kickstart that I should feel lucky to have. It feels like a kind of cheating, almost, despite what my therapist says, which is that there is no such thing as cheating when you are trying to navigate a difficult world with the body and the tools we’ve been given. That we all have our methods, and life isn’t a video game. There are no cheats. ‘If there were,’ she added once, ‘I’d be out of a job, for one thing.’

I think you’re amazing, I say finally. Because I do, and also because everything I’ve just thought feels far too complicated to translate into sign language at this time of the evening.

He smiles. I think you’re amazing.

The rain continues to drum down. He takes my hand and kisses my fingers, his eyes on mine. I think about how him holding my hand like this is the BSL equivalent of putting a hand over someone’s mouth, but because we are us we are still communicating. It’s in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the softness of his touch. The question in the parting of his lips.

We kiss between the two front seats and it’s like a whole conversation of its own. His hands on my face and my back ask questions; I reply with the way I nod my head as we kiss. I feel so safe in this car, hidden from the world under the blanket of rain, Rhys in my head and my hands and my mouth. At one point his hand slides up under my shirt and I find myself arching my back in response. His fingers feel warm and perfect against my skin.

Some time later – who knows exactly how long – I walk into my house in a bubble of heat and joy. I barely notice Dad’s jocular attempts to ask me how my evening went, I just wave happily at him, pour myself a glass of water and go to my room. When I climb into bed, I think about everything that comes after kissing, all the places we have to go together. I wonder if he’s thinking about this too. I think about him thinking about me until my cheeks burn and my toes curl.