Holding Her Hand (Reed Brothers Book 15)(35)

“Never.”

“Really?”

He shakes his head. “Never.” He winces. “I think that’s why they would prefer for me to date a deaf girl, since we would come from similar cultures.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Dating?”

“Well, today we had sex, so I’d say yes.” His cheeks flush. “Unless you don’t want to date.” He pretends to look offended. “Did you just use me for a booty call?” But I can tell that there’s a little part of him that wants a serious answer.

“I didn’t use you for a booty call,” I confirm.

He snaps his fingers and says, “Damn. I was going to brag to all the guys.”

He says nothing else for a moment, so I say, “I think we’re all more than the color of our skin or the color of our eyes. More than our hearing status. More than our culture. Do you think it would be easier if you made a family with someone who is deaf?”

“Maybe.” He rocks his head side to side. “I’m not sure.”

“Do you want a family? Kids?”

He nods. “I do. And I know you do.”

“I do.” I smile. “I always have.”

“What would you do if you couldn’t play music anymore?”

I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“What do you play?”

“Piano. Keyboard. Whatever.” I brush his question out of the air. I feel funny talking about music since he can’t relate to it. “Do you like music?”

“I don’t dislike it.” He shrugs.

“Were you ever jealous because Mick could hear?”

He chuckles. “No. But he was jealous that he wasn’t deaf.”

“Why?”

“He wanted assistive devices and speech therapy and all the special OT that I got as a kid. He grew up in a deaf household. He never felt like he quite fit in. Not to mention that he became the automatic interpreter for all of us when we needed to talk to a hearing person. I can still remember the time when my dad made Mick call the electric company about a bill. He stood there and signed everything Mick was supposed to say, and Mick told him the responses. Dad got angrier and angrier, and Dad started to curse. So Mick relayed it. It’s what you do when you translate. But then the person on the other end of the line got angry and hung up on him. Dad was livid.”

“Not with Mick?”

“With the world, for not making it easier for us to communicate.” He grabs my toe and yanks it playfully. “Sometimes it startles me that it’s so easy to communicate with you.”

“I feel the same way. Had I not met you over a tattoo, I might not have talked to you at all. I might have been afraid.”

“But then you asked me to lunch.” He grins. “And then you stole my cap. And then you made me want you by being so damn cute with the ransom notes.”

“That’s all it took? Damn, you’re easy.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you ready for a relationship?”

“Define ready.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then they fly open and he rushes with his hands. “I think about you all the time. I want to know everything about you. I want to hang out with your dad. I want to play strip poker with you. I want you to play the keyboard for me with really big speakers so I can feel the passion when you play.”

I wave a hand to stop him. “Why do you assume I have passion when I play?”

“Because you have this fire in you…”

I point to my chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You burn brightly.”

“I didn’t burn at all for a really long time.”

He looks at my wrist, picks it up, and presses his lips against the tender skin. “Tell me about the day you did this?”

I tug my arm back, but he holds tight, the pad of his thumb trailing from side to side across the scars. A shiver runs up my spine. My skin is really tender from the tattoos, but he’s gentle. “I’ve never told anyone about that.”

“You could start with me.” He puts his hands together like he’s praying. “Did it all start with a cold, dreary night?”

“No, it started with a bright, sunny day. I had been depressed for quite some time. Marta and Emilio were worried, so they made me go to a therapist. He gave me meds for depression, but I didn’t take them. I didn’t want to escape my grief or my loneliness.”

“You had five sisters and you were still lonely?”

“Yes. That’s the thing with depression. You can be in a crowd and still feel like you’re completely alone.”

I lay my head back against the pillow. His hand goes back to rubbing up and down my shin.

“I killed my parents, and I had a hard time getting over that. I’m still not over it.”

“You didn’t kill them.”

“I caused their deaths.”

“So, you didn’t go to therapy, and you didn’t take your meds…” He rolls his finger to prompt me to continue.

“So, I didn’t go to therapy and I didn’t take my meds and I felt like I was freefalling all the time, like there was nothing to hold onto. That day was particularly bad. It was the anniversary of their deaths.”