A Quiet Kind of Thunder(62)

Rhys is watching me, an anxious half-smile on his face. Rita’s head is resting on his knees, the traitor. He lifts the hand he’s been using to stroke her neck. Hi.

‘What are you doing here?’ I demand. I feel too wrong-footed, still too raw, to use BSL.

You wouldn’t answer my messages.

‘Because I don’t want to talk to you.’

He signs one word. Please. There’s such patient sincerity in his face. Damn him. Damn him and his constant perfection. Why can’t he get flustered, just once?

It occurs to me that maybe I’m flustered enough for both of us. ‘Does Dad know you’re here?’ I ask.

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. Of course. I didn’t break in.

‘Rhys,’ I say, then stop. My voice is all crackly. ‘Can’t you just let me be upset with you for a while?’

He frowns. I have. That’s why I waited until now. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me. But can you at least let me talk to you?

I shrug.

OK. He hesitates, then shifts along the bed so he’s sitting in the centre of it, facing me. Rita lets out an offended huff at losing his attention and sinks down on to the carpet. Listen. I’m sorry I was weird about you talking to that guy. And I’m sorry that I obviously didn’t explain why I was weird very well. Of course it’s great that you are getting better at talking. I want you to be happy. I just want to be part of that.

He pauses, clearly waiting for me to respond, but I keep my hands still in my lap, watching and waiting for more.

Maybe it’s my own thing that I’m worried I’m not part of it, or won’t be part of it. And I shouldn’t make you think it’s your fault. But I just wanted to be honest with you. He inclines his head slightly so our eyes meet. I’m sorry. His hand moves in a slow, deliberate circle around his heart. I’m sorry.

I look at his sweet, gentle face. His soft brown eyes trained on me, full of hope and promises. I try to think of how to reply.

I don’t ever want to let you down, he adds. I don’t want to disappoint you.

I shake my head. I don’t understand why you’d say that. Why would you disappoint me?

If I’m not enough. If I’m a burden.

‘A burden?’ I’m so shocked the words fall out. ‘What does that even mean, Rhys?’

I see him swallow. If you have to translate for me all the time. Or push me out of the way of postal vans.

‘For God’s sake,’ I snap, surprised at my own sudden rush of annoyance. ‘That was just an accident. It could have happened to anyone. Why does it bother you so much?’

Because I don’t want to lose you.

You’re not going to lose me. I don’t know how to handle this kind of conversation. I’ve always been the irrational one, the one with the neuroses. Is this how Tem feels when I go off on one of my why-don’t-you-get-a-better-friend-than-me ramblings? Look. I hesitate, trying to work out my own thoughts. Maybe we’re both still figuring things out. I don’t want to lose you either. What if you get tired of me? You have to translate for me if I’m in your world. This isn’t . . . I pause, trying to find the right signs. ‘This isn’t just a one-sided thing.’

Rhys shifts a little closer to me, our hands almost touching across the space between us. I’m sorry, he signs again. I’m sorry that I upset you earlier and I’m making things hard now. It’s because I like you so much. It’s new. I’ve never . . . I see him hesitate, then take a breath. I’ve never loved a girl before.

My heart gives an almighty, chest-breaking thump. I think I actually make a little squeaking noise. We both stare at each other.

After a long, excruciating pause, he tries again. Did you . . . did you get that?

I shake my head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at my lips. I don’t think I did. Can you say it again?

He points to himself. He puts two hands to his heart. He points to me. I love you.

I bridge the gap between us and kiss him, lifting myself on to his lap and winding my arms round his neck. He loves me. He loves me! We kiss until my breath runs out, and then he leans back a little and asks, Do you feel the same?

And of course I say, Yes! Yes, yes, yes. Because I do. I really, really do.

At some point during our major post-I-love-you kissing session, I realize something: my bedroom door is closed. And also: Rhys and I are kissing on my bed.

There are things you can do on a bed when the door is closed that you can’t when it’s left open. And once this thought has whispered through my mind, it’s all I can think about. Rhys’s hand is up under my T-shirt, his fingers stroking under the wire of my bra. The way he is kissing is intensifying, and it’s making every single tiny nerve in my body come alive.

My T-shirt winds up on the floor and that’s when his hand makes a slow, hesitant slide in the opposite direction. My skin heats up a thousand degrees. My heart starts to race. His hand reaches my hips and then stops. He breaks away, leans up on his elbow and looks at me. I love you, he signs with one hand. You’re beautiful. He hesitates, and I watch him lick his lips nervously. Can I touch you? he asks.

And I – shy, anxious Steffi Brons – nod. And not a tentative nod either, but a definitive one. A yes please! one.

Rhys moves his hand back down to my hip, pauses to look at me again for confirmation and then reaches between my legs. My jeans are still on, and he doesn’t make a move for the zip, just rests his hand there. And even that, alone, is like fire. We look at each other, both of us breathing hard, and he puts his lips to mine to kiss me again.