Tone Deaf(62)

She nods and carefully picks at a couple strings, and I smile as I recognize the notes she wrote to go along with the lyrics in my notebook.

“It sounds a lot better with your adjustments,” I sign. “I’ve been playing what you wrote all morning.”

She blushes a little at that, but a smile upturns her lips. “So do you think after all these years of working on it, your song might actually turn out perfect?”

“No,” I sign. “But if you help me write it, I think our song might turn out perfect.”

Ali’s smile grows, but then she looks up from the guitar and stares me right in the eye. Her lips tighten into a thoughtful expression, and she looks just as intense as she was when we had that serious discussion yesterday. I shift back a little, unsure where this conversation is going.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she signs.

“You promise to help me finish the song, and then I’ll kiss you again?”

She scoffs at my suggestion. “Not quite. You answer one question of mine totally truthfully, and then I’ll help you with the song.”

“That’s not fair.

“Welcome to life.”

I don’t like it when she talks like that, all bitter and realistic. Ali is the type of girl who deserves to live in a fairy tale world full of happily-ever-afters. The fact that she never got that—that instead she’s been struggling through hell—makes my chest ache. I peck her on the cheek and sign, “Fine. It’s a deal.”

She smirks triumphantly, but the expression quickly melts into a hesitant frown. She brushes her fingers along my jaw, then drops her hand and trails it along the scar on my chest. Even though my shirt separates our skin, a trail of heat follows her fingertips.

“Tell me about your family,” she says.

I pull away from her, but she keeps her gaze steadily on mine, her hazel eyes concerned and curious. I swallow hard and hesitantly sign, “That’s not a question.”

She sighs. “Must we get into specifics?”

“We made a deal. I’m supposed to answer a question.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes and asks, “Would you please tell me about your family?”

“No.”

She cocks her head a little. “What?”

“I said no,” I sign, switching back to ASL to make sure she gets the message. “There, I answered.”

Her lips purse into a tight little frown. “That’s not fair.”

I pick her up off my lap, depositing her next to me on the couch. Anxiety crawls over my skin, and I don’t want to be near anyone, not even Ali. I stand up and repeat what she signed before. “Welcome to life.”

I head into the kitchen, needing some ice water to cool me down. My blood feels like it’s suddenly boiling, and I’m breathing too fast, and I need to escape these feelings. Scratch that—I need to escape the past. And talking about it is not going to help.

As I reach for a glass in the cupboard, a small hand snatches mine out of the air. Ali tugs me around to face her, and as I stare down, I’m once again amazed at how such a tiny girl can have so much power over me.

Ali pulls me close to her, until there’s just enough room between us for our hands to sign. “It’s okay,” she signs. “I don’t care what you tell me. I’ll be okay with it.”

She smiles up at me softly, and I’m pretty sure this is the moment when I’m supposed to break down and admit every horrific detail of my past. But I’ve never been very good at the whole “supposed to” thing, so I just step away from her and snatch a cup from the shelf.

I grab some ice out of the freezer, and I’m about to drop it into the cup when Ali says, “I told you about my past. Now you tell me about yours.”

The ice starts to freeze my hand, but I just tighten my grip on it, taking in the pain. It’s so familiar that it’s almost comforting. “It doesn’t work that way, Ali,” I mutter, turning my head just enough for her to read my lips.

“Then how does it work?”

The pain becomes too much, so I let the ice cubes fall one by one, watching them hit the bottom before I reply. “It works like this: you stop asking questions about my life, and leave me the hell alone.”

There’s a long pause, and then I feel her arms wrap around my waist, and her warm breath whisper in my ear, “But I don’t want to leave, and I don’t think you want to be alone. Not really.”

I’m pretty sure her arms are the only thing keeping me standing. I turn around and grab her hand, firmly entwining our fingers. Brushing a strand of hair from her face, I lean close to her and say, “My story isn’t pretty, Ali.”

She stares up at me, her eyes open wide, asking me to tell her more. I groan and let my head fall back. Memories claw at my brain, and I just want to collapse somewhere and close my eyes, to block it all out. I dump my cup in the sink and lead Ali to my bedroom. I tug her onto the bed, and she lies down, letting me wrap her in my arms and press close to her. Her sweet scent calms me, and I breathe in deeply, reminding myself that even if I don’t have her forever, I have her now.

We stay there for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms. I soak in her presence; I’ve never felt this close to someone. Her warm breaths heat my neck, and gradually they slow, until I’m sure she’ll fall asleep. But her eyes stay open and locked on mine, still waiting for an answer to a question I never discuss.