Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  “Marcus wanted to incorporate a dance into it this year,” Felipe says, hopping down from the stage and coming to give me a sweaty hug.

  I glance at Marcus who just shakes his head. I know Felipe is the more theatrical person. He likes to show off to his friends that: a) he and Marcus are still together (they don’t count Fridays) and b) that all the haters should be jealous of their insanely good looks and talent.

  Felipe is not the humblest person in the world, but that’s just part of his charm. He doesn’t mean it in a hurtful way. Besides, my Pe has been through hell in his life. It wasn’t always easy being a queen in the Bible Belt—his explanation, not mine. But I’m sure it wasn’t. Just like it hasn’t always been easy being an immigrant in a foreign country. You will always have struggles, but Felipe says it’s those struggles that define us. I guess that’s why Pe and I bonded so quickly. We were both outcasts who needed a tribe. I’m his tribe despite his sweaty, stinking body dampening my clothes.

  “Ew. No more hugs for you, nasty. You smell like onions drowned in Merlot.”

  Felipe’s body vibrates against mine, and I squeeze him one last time before shoving him away.

  “You never answered my question, mami.” His brows waggle up and down, and it looks absolutely ridiculous.

  “No, I didn’t come on the copier,” I say bluntly. “And Mr. Broody was… better.” I give Pe a one-shoulder shrug. I’d like to keep how much better to myself, but Pe won’t let it go. I’m telling you, if you think I’m bad, wait until you see him. “He’s been eating lunch with me and Oliver every day.”

  I knew the minute he gasped and clutched his heart, my afternoon shower would be delayed.

  “Girl! Come sit right now and tell me everything!” See what I mean? I told you he wouldn’t let it go. “You never told me he was eating lunch with you!” Before I can put a stop to this, Felipe has pulled me onto one of the sofas and pins me down by throwing his long-ass legs over my thighs.

  “Nothing happens,” I say, feeling oddly protective of my time with Tim. “It’s just small talk, that’s all.”

  Felipe’s eyes go all squinty. “No one cares about small talk, Milah. Is. He. Single?”

  Now Felipe is sounding like Gretchen. I make my eyes go all wide and nod to Marcus, silently telling Pe that now, right before their anniversary, is not the time to be asking me if my coworker is single.

  “Not for me, loser. For you!” he clarifies, holding up two of his fingers and ticking each question off. “Is he a citizen? And will he marry you?”

  As crazy as Felipe is, I have to admit, I may have thought about it. But it’s so crazy and out of this world that I quickly shrugged off the notion. Tim might be single, but it’s clear he’s only interested in working his eight hours and going home.

  “I get the vibe he isn’t in the market for a girlfriend, let alone a wife.”

  Felipe has lost focus and is staring off, watching Marcus pour drinks behind the bar. “You should ask him to come to the show tomorrow night,” he says absently.

  A deep, tired sigh bursts from my lips. It really has been a long day. “That’s sweet, Pe, but remember I told you, Tim is deaf. I doubt he’ll want to come to the show.”

  Finally, my comment breaks Felipe’s trance. He turns, facing me. “Just because he’s deaf, Mami, doesn’t mean he can’t feel the music. Music isn’t about the sound but about the feeling.”

  Wow. Pe is deep today and also sounds a lot like Ms. Peak. Maybe he and Tim will get along after all.

  “Besides, music can be interpreted, right?”

  I let his words roll around in my head for a while. “Yeah, you can interpret music. I saw it once, but I’ve never done it.”

  Pe, seeing Marcus with drinks in his hand and a come hither look on his face, springs from the sofa. “That’s why we have the internet, doll. Look it up. Prepare. And secure yourself a husband.”

  With that parting remark, Felipe is up the stairs, crooning his sweet nothings in Marcus’s ear. They are so cute sometimes—when they aren’t fighting.

  Stretching out, I get comfortable on the couch since I now have it all to myself. Felipe is right—not about finding a husband—but about the music being felt, not heard. I don’t even know if Tim would be interested in the concert. But we’re friends now, I think, and friends invite each other to shows. Well… I don’t know. I’ll sleep on it. I don’t know that I could even interpret properly where he would be able to feel anything. Ugh! I have no idea why I’m even considering this. Felipe was just—my phone dings in my hand and I swipe to unlock it.

  Pe: Don’t overthink it. I’m never wrong.

  The next morning, Tim is already in the classroom when I arrive.

  “Hi,” I say awkwardly, with this stupid little finger wave. I forget to even sign, that’s how much of a mess I am seeing him perched on the top of my desk, drumming his fingers between his spread thighs—thighs that are straining against his… jeans. Fuck! It’s Friday, and I forgot. How did I forget? I never forget a jeans Friday. And Tim’s only been here for… I don’t know, two hot seconds, and he remembers it’s jean day?

  Ugh. Milah, you’re losing it, girl. This man is making you crazy.

  Well, all the men in my life make me crazy. Felipe is probably teaching classes at night for them or something.

  Tim’s head raises slowly as he flashes me this smile that says so many things. Things like: I want you under me or, you know, sitting on my face. How about let’s get these clothes off of you and spend first period in the supply closet? Okay, so his expression doesn’t say any of those things. What it really says is: I just woke up looking delicious and I’m very aware what it does to you.

  And I think that is straight-up bullshit. Why do guys look so hot getting up in the morning? It took me over an hour just to not look like the local troll under the bridge.

  “Good morning,” Tim says, all sleepy and raspy and—gah! What is going on with my stomach? The sound of his voice is just magical. Magical? Really? I’ve resorted to magical? This is bad, really bad.

  Moving through the rows of desks, I shake off the fog, returning his “Good morning” with one of my own before pulling out my desk chair and flopping down, which is probably worse than standing in front of him. Now, my view is of one round and very well maintained ass. That’s right, you read that correctly. Tim’s ass is in my face. His ass that looks so incredibly tight that I just can’t even do the ladylike thing and look away. It is one phenomenal ass, so I see why my self-control is struggling. And with it right here—at ground level, right here in front of my face—yeah, do your thing eyes, I’m not judging. Even though a picture might be nice for proof to Marcus that Felipe does not have the best ass in the male population. I thought he did, too, when Marcus pointed it out, but now that I see Tim’s ass, I’m thinking Felipe needs demoting to second place.

  I open my mouth, debating on mentioning that his ass is blocking my sightline, when I realize he’s not facing me and he won’t be able to read my lips until he turns around. I tap his back, and he takes another few seconds, drumming those long fingers against the faux wood of my desk before turning around with this fuck-me grin.

  Deep breath, girl. Do not sweat in front of this man.

  It’s like Tim knows he’s fucking sexy and he’s taunting me with every twitch of his gorgeous face. Okay, really, Milah? He could be a really nice guy and have no motivation but to give his coworker a pleasant smile. I’m sure his smile is not to be interpreted that he wants to rip your clothes from your body and bang you right here on last week’s quizzes. So what if he’s smiling at you, Milah? People smile at other people. It’s no big deal. Drag yourself out of the gutter.

  I return Tim’s smile with a nice, I am your coworker smile and pull my hands to the front, praying he doesn’t shoot down what I have to say. It really would be a terrible way to start the morning. I’m hoping he’s going to flash me that stupid-hot smile that shows his teeth and says, “Sure, Milah. I would love t
o come. You’re super-hot, and I’d like to bend you over the barstool afterward until we both end up sweaty and spent on the floor.” Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t want to end up on the bar floor. It’s really gross. The point is: It’d be really nice to have one of those enlightening stretches over a barstool. I’m kidding. I think it’d be just super awesome to see Tim’s body in raw form. I’m sure it’s epic.

  “So, um, it’s Friday.” Oh my stars in heaven. Of course he knows it’s Friday, Milah. Everybody knows it’s Friday because everyone has on jeans. Except you! Ugh. I shake off the mist of hotness this man is creating around me, making me all awkward. “So,” I start again, “I thought, since we’re coworkers and, you know, a team for the rest of the year—” Still sounding stupid, Milah. Come on! You can speak three languages! Why can’t you form educated sentences to this man? Because he’s hot, okay? And when he stares at your lips, caressing the movement with his eyes, it flares some shit up. Shit like tingling that has no business in the workplace.

  “Oh my God.” I sigh. “I’m fucking this all up.”

  Truly. I should just let it go. Tim and I don’t have to be pals. We just need to be cordial. Inviting him to Felipe’s is a bad idea. A colossal bad—holy hell! Was that a—“Are you laughing at me?”

  I really don’t care that he’s laughing at my blubbering. All I care about is that he keeps doing it. Have you ever heard a song that gave you goose bumps? I shit you not, I just got chills when he laughed all soft, husky, and melodically masculine as that big hand scrubbed across his face as if he tried to mask the sound. He probably should mask it. A little louder and Gretchen might hear, and if she gets an earful of that—there will be no stopping her from barging in here to witness it firsthand

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles from behind his hand, his eyes dancing with laughter. He’s not sorry. Not even a little bit. His voice is rich and thick when he sobers. “Why are you so nervous?”

  I scoff. “I’m not nervous.”

  A lone brow raises.

  “I’m not nervous. I’m overcaffeinated.”

  The corner of his mouth tips up, a tiny twitch threatening to burst into a smile. It’s not cute. It’s orgasm worthy and the main reason why I look away, lifting the hair off the back of my neck, eyeing the poster of Costa Rica on the wall. Abuelita would be so proud that I’ve represented my country in this classroom. Why is he still staring at me?

  Maybe because he’s waiting for you to finish your super-awkward question?

  Ahh!

  “Anyway, my friend, Felipe—”

  “Just ask me the question, Milah.”

  Oh mercy. He used that voice again. You know the one I told you about? The one when he uses my name and it tickles my ovaries? Yeah, that one. The one where he whispers my name as if it’s heated and intimate—and it’s just my name. When Abuelita says my name, my body doesn’t go all crazy and seizure-ish inside. No, it doesn’t warm me like when I would lay topless on our back deck, the warm breeze a feather kiss against my skin, the sun a blanket of warmth. Yeah, check please. This girl needs an M&M and a cold shower.

  Just ask him the question.

  “Sometimes the teachers do stuff together away from school. Like, you know, getting to know each other and all that. Like team bonding! We do that a lot around here.” And I hate every minute of them. Trust falls and building the best paperclip tower is not what I call great bonding activities.

  “Team bonding? You want to bond with me?” His lips twitch. Ha ha. He’s hilarious. And sexy because the way he said, ‘You want to bond with me?’ sounded like he interpreted that statement way more sexually than I meant it. Not to say that I would be opposed to his type of team bonding.

  “Well….” I swallow harshly, only slightly imagining what that type of bonding session would be like. “Look, I just want to be friends. We’re working together for the rest of the year, and I don’t want things to be strained between us. I’m not a Thursday night happy hour person like a lot of the teachers here. My friend, Felipe, owns Magic Michelle’s—” I narrow my eyes at his grin. “—which is not a strip club nor my secondary place of employment.”

  Is he amused? Is that why his smile seems tight? Is he holding back a laugh? Ugh. Whatever. I am doing a nice thing, and after today, I’m never doing it again. I don’t care what Pe says. One friend is enough.

  “So, your friend owns Magic Michelle’s.” He lets that grin loose, and I have to look away until he adds, “Which is what, if not a strip club?”

  “It’s a piano bar!” I say, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “And sometimes we do karaoke when it’s just the regulars.”

  Tim’s face turns serious. “You frequent the bar often?” Is that concern I detect in the tic of his jaw? Surely not.

  I wave him off. “Duh. Did you not take me there yesterday?” My eyes narrow to slits. This man and his assumption of me being a stripper. Let’s clear that up now. “I live above the bar with Felipe.”

  No, that definitely wasn’t concern. The muscle in his jaw is still ticking. Maybe it’s a nervous tic? Like when your eyelid twitches? No? Is that just me?

  “Felipe is your boyfriend?”

  This time, it’s me who laughs all loud and crazy. He thinks—another fit of laughter takes me before I can finally pull myself together. “Felipe is not my boyfriend. In fact, the reason I’m inviting you to this little nightmare is because he and his boyfriend, Marcus, are celebrating their third year together. This party is how they celebrate.”

  I lean back in my chair and cock my head to the side. “You can invite your family if you want. Felipe likes a big audience.”

  And I figured if Tim was unsure, having his boys might help. He hasn’t been super social at school, but he’s getting better. And he’s the most social when he has the little girl. And I’ve also seen him smiling at his phone while he texts. I’m betting that I’ve yet to get to know the real Tim.

  “You live above Magic Michelle’s?” he asks, slightly curious. “You don’t work there?”

  For the love of baby animals. “No! I don’t work there!” Although I asked Felipe if I could a couple weeks ago, but that’s not important.

  Tim grins, clearly only asking to get a reaction. I roll my eyes and smooth down my skirt. “I just figured we could talk and maybe get to know one another—casually.”

  “So like a date?”

  I dart up. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. This is not a date. I just thought we could talk and listen to Pe sing.” Is that sweat beading on my neck? I reach back. Oh my gosh, it totally is.

  “You know I’m deaf, right?”

  I don’t care that he’s smiling or that he looks better than a bowl full of mint M&M’s. His smart-ass comment is not appreciated.

  I straighten, holding my head up high. “I’m aware of your hearing loss, Mr. Lambros.” Yeah, I went formal. This is not a date, and this is not a joke about his deafness. I wasn’t trying to be insensitive about his condition. I just thought… “I can interpret the music.” I shrug, a faint blush creeping up my cheeks. I might have watched a few videos since Pe mentioned it.

  “You can interpret it?” That eyebrow questions me again.

  “What are you? A parrot?” I give him my best annoyed look. “Yes, I can interpret it. Unless you hate Céline Dion and music?”

  He mouths Céline instead of repeating her name. Such a smart-ass… but he nods, as if this whole ridiculous conversation amused him.

  “All right, boss. Let’s bond.”

  Radio host: I understand that. I don’t think I could ever give up music either. How are you coping since you are unable to hear? And for you fans that are listening, mine and Penelope’s conversation is closed-captioned, so that’s why there is a slight pause between my questions and her answers.

  Penelope: I’ll be honest and say that I haven’t been coping well.

  Radio host: Tell me more about that. What are some of the lifestyle changes that you’ve had to make in light of this n
ew obstacle?

  Penelope: Well, I suppose one of the biggest obstacles has been communicating with my son.

  “She knows you’re deaf, right?”

  I almost didn’t ask them to come. Simply because I knew I would spend several minutes fielding questions about being invited to Magic Michelle’s by Milah. Who is she? Why did Mason have to pick me up from the bar yesterday? Am I banging a stripper? You know, the usual with this crew.

  “Are you serious?” Hayes asks, zooming in on the image lighting up his phone. “Magic Michelle’s isn’t a strip club?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know,” comes Cade’s answer from his desk, his signing perfect. “I would have thought you’d scoured every possible strip club in town by now.”

  I agree. I’m shocked he doesn’t know. Hayes was a club frequenter when he was single. That’s how he met Bianca. Well, that’s not quite accurate, but that’s a long story.

  Hayes looks pensive and genuinely concerned that’s he’s losing his talent of locating single hangouts. But after a moment, he shrugs, adding, “Who knew? I could have sworn it was a strip joint. Even the sign looks stripper-y.”

  He’s right, the sign does look stripper-like. The bright pink lettering looked girly and erotic, but maybe that’s just our dicks talking. The only time I remember seeing it was when I first saw Milah, her hands full of coffee, attempting to get inside her car. I had thought she was a stripper. And yesterday, when I dropped her off, I still wasn’t sure. My guess was that she was a secret stripper or she had some family or boyfriend there. Needless to say, I was much relieved to know Felipe was her friend and not a club-owning boyfriend.

  My mind—and my dick too—goes back to Milah and her awkwardness this morning. Her nervousness was so cute. At first I thought she was going to tell me something terrible. Something like Principal Moorehouse deciding that I’m not a great fit here or that Milah is tired of being nice to me when I keep shutting her down with minimal conversation. But once she blurted out all the team building nonsense and getting to know one another, I immediately relaxed. Sort of. Does she really want to get to know me? I haven’t been the best of company.