Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  I cut him a look. I don’t appreciate the breakdown. “She was the main part, and you know it.”

  His lips purse for a moment. “Okay, she was. But you have got to stop with the tunnel vision. Everything in your life was based around your mom. You made life decisions based on her actions.”

  I go to interrupt him, but he holds up a finger, silently telling me “not now.”

  “And now, after finding a job and playing again, you’re ready to throw it all away based on the actions of someone else. Look, I know you love her, and I hope somehow things work out for you guys, but should they not, you still have to look out for you. This is your life, Tim. You’ve wasted the last four years by not living it. You don’t get another shot at this. Live for your mother. Prove your father wrong. Show the world that being deaf doesn’t define you.”

  His chest expands as if his words are so full of passion that he’s winded.

  “You have so much potential, and you piss it away because she didn’t come to you. That was Penelope’s decision, not yours. You are entitled to a life. A good one. You have a good life, Tim. One that many people would die for, and you what? Want to flip it off and walk away because it didn’t go exactly how you wanted it? Join the club! No one’s life is perfect. Everyone struggles and has challenges. You aren’t that fucking special.”

  I snicker at the last comment, and it breaks his rant.

  “Look,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “you’ve nearly turned me into a smoker dealing with your ass. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited to see if you would figure out all of this on your own. And you did.”

  I raise a brow.

  “With a little nudge in the right direction,” he adds. “The point is, life is hard. If it were easy, we’d have no failed marriages, no tears, and no need for chocolate and tissues. But it’s not. Life is messy and unpredictable. You were given a bad hand, but that doesn’t mean all the cards in your deck are bad. Don’t let one complication destroy what you’ve built with Milah. You owe it to yourself—to your mother—to try and make the best out of the life you were given.”

  Exhaling, I soak up all Dr. Parker’s words. He’s right. I do take the coward’s way out. It terrified me to try and fail. It terrified me that I would lose hope like she did and turn out the same way.

  “You’re right,” I tell him.

  “I know I am. I’ve been telling you this for years.” Always a smart-ass. But I grin, knowing exactly what I’m going to do.

  “Thank you for forgoing the strip club tonight,” I tease. “I needed another headache and a guilt trip to perk me back up.”

  “I didn’t guilt trip you,” he says honestly. “I told you what I needed to say years ago.”

  “I wouldn’t have listened to you years ago.”

  It’s the truth. I probably would have left his office and never came back with the rant he just gave me. “But I hear you now.”

  Dr. Parker, armed with a victorious smile, exits my car.

  “And, Phillip” —his first name—“tell Dr. Callahan I’m ready.”

  Because I am.

  I’m finally ready.

  Magic Michelle’s is in full swing by the time I arrive and spot Felipe at the bar.

  “Is she upstairs?” I ask him, sliding onto a barstool.

  He wavers a minute before giving me a stern look. “It depends. Are you going to make her cry again?”

  Exhaling, I look at Milah’s bestie, a man that hasn’t judged me at all since meeting his roommate. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I was angry. Cal asking her to—” I can’t even say the words without going into another rage. “I was wrong to blame her.”

  Felipe’s face scrunches. “Fuck no you weren’t. I would’ve bent that girl over my knee. She should have told you. I’m not saying you weren’t a dick. You were.” I nod. I deserve that. “I’m just saying, you both need to talk, but I can’t allow you to make her cry.” He rubs a spot on his crop top. “It does this weird thing to my heart.” I chuckle because Felipe is just that ridiculous.

  “I promise, I won’t make her cry.” I even do a cross over my heart, so he knows I’m serious.

  “Okay,” he concedes. “She’s in her room with José. When she’s done with him, you can go up.”

  “José?” I slide the belt out of the belt loops of my pants. “I think I will take your advice and put her over my knee.” I’m already two steps away from the bar when Felipe throws his head back, his body shaking with unfiltered laughter.

  “Tell her she owes me.”

  I’ll tell her all right. Right after I fuck her senseless.

  I reach her door in record time. “Open the fucking door, Milah!” Banging as hard as I fucking can, I try the handle too. “One!” I count. “Two!”

  The door swooshes open before I can get to three. Standing barefoot, in nothing but my T-shirt that I put over her head at the fall festival, is my pain-in-the-ass girlfriend. “What are you doing here?” She eyes the belt in my hand.

  “Who’s José?” I ignore her question, pushing her farther back into her living room.

  “How do you know about José?” And before she can let her question soak in, understanding dawns. “Fucking Felipe and his games.” She nods her head to the coffee table where a liquor bottle sits. “Tim, meet José. He’s my Dr. Parker.”

  I scrunch my nose and rake a hand up through her shirt. “I don’t want to talk about Dr. Parker,” I growl. “I want to talk about why you didn’t tell me that your job was cut.”

  She tries to shrug out of my hold, but I yank her back. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

  I can feel her chest expanding with each breath of air as I lean in closer, right by her ear. “Did you think I would let that happen? That I would let you go?”

  She pushes me back so I can see her face—her very flushed face. “You don’t have a choice. My visa is conditional of my employment.”

  “You can work at the foundation.” It never occurred to me what would happen to my job, but right now, I don’t give a fuck.

  “What would I do at the foundation?” Her eyes roll, and I almost take Felipe’s advice and flip her over.

  “We can find you something.” She’s not leaving. She’s too valuable to this community—to the kids at the school. To me.

  “No. I’m not taking a handout.”

  “Oh, but you would consider marrying Cal?” I don’t mean for the words to come out clipped, but they do, and she doesn’t miss a chance to retaliate.

  “I was never considering marrying Cal! Never! I asked Felipe!”

  Her confession stops me. “You asked Felipe? Why didn’t you just ask me? I would do it.” I move closer, wrapping her tiny body in my arms. “I would marry you, Milah. I would do anything to keep you here.”

  Her body spasms under my grasp, and she pulls away. “I don’t want you to marry me because you want to keep dating me. I want you to marry me because you want to. I know we haven’t been together that long and we both have issues. I do love you, and I know you love me. But we don’t have to do this now. We can work it out. Some couples have been together for years through long distance.”

  “I don’t want to do long distance,” I tell her, working the words past the knot in my throat. My mother and I were long distance. I’m not doing that again.

  A tear slips down her face as she nods. “Okay.”

  “I promised Felipe I wouldn’t make you cry,” I say, swiping the lone tear with the pad of my thumb.

  “You didn’t. I made myself cry. I should have told you from the beginning, and now….” She turns back to the coffee table. “I need José.”

  “Fuck José. You get me.” I scoop up the woman who went out of her way to comfort me when I was overwhelmed, carry her to her room, and lay her down in her perfectly made bed.

  “I can make you forget better than José,” I whisper into the dim light. “But I don’t want to.” I remove the shirt from her body. “I want you to remember everything.�
��

  Neither of us turn on the light because there’s nothing left to say. She’s not leaving me, and that’s final.

  Soulful and enchanting, the sounds of the guitar’s acoustics drift onto my skin like a warm blanket. The music isn’t something I’ve heard before, but I would know that angelic playing anywhere. I slip on Tim’s discarded shirt and rub my hand over the indention where he’d been hours ago, holding me in his arms as I cried. We didn’t talk much after he declared that I wasn’t going anywhere. And I didn’t argue. I only made love to him like it was our last time.

  I don’t want to leave him. Somehow, through all the arguments and headaches, I fell in love with this man. It wasn’t because he was broken—that was a terribly shitty thing for him to say. It was because I fell in love with his strength. This man has been through so much in his life that I can’t even begin to imagine what that would have felt like. I don’t know that I could have faced what he did and be so resilient. Tim, whether he believes it or not, is inspiring. Not just for me, but for Oliver and anyone else who hears his story.

  I slip on my house shoes—yes, they have a heel—and follow the sweet lullaby down the stairs to Magic Michelle’s. Chills break out along my arms as my feet lead me closer to the source. I pause as my breath catches at the new sound. A soft voice, raspy and broken, carries up the staircase.

  “When the wind blows the cradle will rock…” The distinctive sound shoots straight through my chest. He really is singing a lullaby. His fingers strum the guitar as he sings into his phone, which is propped up on the piano. I can’t tell whose face is staring back at him, but I don’t really need to. I know he’s singing to Aspen.

  I slip off my shoes so they don’t clomp down the stairs. Later, I will think back on this moment and at least tell my loco self not to toss them in the dirt-filled planter before I tiptoe down the stairs, just so he could destroy my ovaries by singing the little girl a bedtime story.

  “Good night, princess. Uncle Tim will see you in the morning.”

  See? This is the kind of shit I’m talking about. This right here is why I can’t leave. I want to have this man’s babies. Who does that? Who FaceTimes his brother’s child and sings her a song before bedtime because he couldn’t do it in person? A rare unicorn. That’s who.

  The bottom of the stairs is darker than it was in the loft. Everything in me tells me he wanted it this way. Sometimes it’s easier to hide greatness in the cloak of darkness. But let’s be real here, this is Felipe’s bar. There is a distinct possibility that tumblers and who-knows-what else are lying around waiting for me to trip over. So, as a compromise, I feel around backstage and come up with a table candle and a lighter. After a few tries, I have it lit and emerge from backstage, which stops Tim cold.

  “Please don’t stop,” I whisper, checking to see if he’s still on the phone. He could have hung up while I was getting this candle. He doesn’t answer, and I wonder if he can read my lips in the flickering light. But after a beat, he takes a deep breath, his fingers taking their previous position on the guitar. And then he begins to sing. Soft and delicate. Ethereal. And I find myself eating up the space between us as if I can’t wait another second to watch his face as he throws his head back and mourns something so beautiful… so raw… so full of passion, that tears streak down my cheek.

  This isn’t the lullaby he was singing to Aspen. This is the fire that burns bright, deep within his soul, that very few have witnessed. This is Tim showing me the real him. The song is so soulful and exquisite… I’ve never heard anything like it.

  Moving closer to the piano where he’s seated on its bench, I set the candle down.

  “I didn’t realize you could play the guitar,” I say almost shyly. The melody drifts off, and Tim’s ocher eyes open and he speaks softer than he sang. “Come here.”

  Two words.

  It’s not a question.

  I nod, watching his throat work as his fingers pick the strings of the guitar effortlessly.

  My feet are heavy and weighted as I step into him and wait for more instructions.

  But rather than speak again, Tim fingers the hem of my—his—shirt, dropping the beautiful melody with a violent scratching sound. His long finger hesitates at my abdomen, slipping underneath the fabric and following the line of my hip bone. Patient. Torturous. But I think that’s exactly how he wants it.

  He wants me to crave another touch.

  Another rasp of his voice.

  Another sentence. Anything.

  And, well, I’m not picky, so I’ll take anything.

  “I—” My awkward word is cut off with a yank of my hip, propelling me into his chest, the guitar the only barrier between us. Both of his hands go around my waist, settling me, and I don’t dare speak again when his lips hover over mine like he might kiss me.

  “Shh…,” he whispers instead. Immediately, I feel the weight of sadness settle around us. This is my goodbye song. I force a nod and a fake smile like I understand when he lets one hand go and raises the guitar, setting it on the floor next to him, leaving his lap open.

  “Turn around,” he orders.

  I only hesitate for a moment. I’m a glutton for punishment, but let’s be honest, I want as much of him as I can take with me. Even if it’s only a memory.

  He raises his brow, noting the hesitation. But then those dark eyebrows turn down into something more seductive before his hands grip my hips, flip me around, and plant me on his lap faster than I can react properly—like with a moan or something sexier than basically a squeal and a gulp.

  I wiggle into a more comfortable position, but muscles bigger than my thighs tighten around me with a barely there whisper. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Oh, I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking about wiggling my ass up his thighs until it reaches the dick in his boxers.

  But I don’t get the chance.

  Tim’s hand slides slow and soft up my hips, along my ribs, cresting over my jaw until it stops at the front of my throat. I swallow—not from fear, but because if I don’t, I might drool down his hand. Yeah, he’s that damn sexy.

  “Relax,” he coos in my ear, sending about a dozen tingles down my spine.

  Exhaling, I relax into his hold and let him pull me back into his hard chest.

  Ah, yes, this is much better.

  His hand hovers at my throat for a moment as if it pains him to put it there. He sucks in a choppy breath, rubbing his palm along my neck only once before dropping to my thighs. With slow strokes, he inches my legs open wider, revealing the heat between them.

  “Don’t move,” he tells me.

  Yeah, I think he can count on that. These legs only want to shut around his face or his hips. I don’t care which at this point. Screw the soreness. I nod weakly and watch as his glorious hands remove themselves and reach around for his guitar, laying it across me.

  Uh. What? You have got to be freaking kidding me.

  Seriously? He’s just going to resume playing now that he has me contained?

  Uh, no, sir. Where is my foreplay? Or, hell, he can just breathe on me a little more. I am pretty sure I can come from that. We’re literally down to days together. I don’t want to play music. I want to go back up to bed and cherish having him all to myself for a little while longer.

  Twisting around, I try to flash Tim my what the ever-loving fuck are you doing look, when he grabs my hand and positions my fingers along the strings and adds pressure to the ones he wants me to hold down.

  This is ridiculous. I love music, but when I’m spread-eagled in a chair… in this man’s lap… his hot breath against the back of my neck… his dick digging into my ass, the last thing I’m in the mood to do is play some music.

  I’m emotional dammit.

  “Be still,” he grumbles.

  Be still.

  Be. Freaking. Still. Milah.

  American men are crazy. Sexy as hell… but crazy. I want to keep him, though. I’m not saying I don’t.

  “S
top thinking,” he whispers, before adding his own hand to the guitar, strumming the lower part of the strings while I hold down the upper bar strings—I don’t know what they’re called—playing the chords like the good little girl I am.

  Really, I’m hoping this takes a turn, so for now, I’m behaving and doing what he asks. We had a rough day and will, ultimately, have a rough tomorrow. And the following week I will get on a plane, never to see him or Pe again.

  The melody picks up, and the sound of our playing drifts throughout the bar. I’m silent until I feel his free hand at my waist. His soft fingers trail up my thigh, slipping under the thin fabric of my shirt.

  “Touch me, please,” I beg, but he doesn’t hear me. Instead his fingers drag along my inner thigh until the torture sends my head back, resting on his bare chest. He kisses the top of my head and then moves to the side of neck, kissing as he goes.

  “Sing for me,” he whispers, his voice hungry. I swallow and tip my chin as an okay. I’m not familiar with the song he’s playing, but I doubt he cares what I sing, as long as I do. I start out in a hum, finding my pitch and deciding to stick with Céline, singing the song that started it all. Tim never stops strumming the guitar, but after a while, the pad of his finger finds my center and the melody begins to match my words.

  I twist so I can see his face. “How did you know what I was singing?” Could he really hear the vibrations from my back enough to find the tune?

  “Because I know you,” he says simply. He moves my hand from the guitar and slips it out from between us and places it on the ground. “And because I feel you.” He lifts me effortlessly, and I help by turning around to face him. “I feel you here,” he whispers, placing my hand on his heart.

  Aww, hell. I am going to work at Magic Michelle’s. No way am I going to leave this man.

  Leaning in, I hold his gaze. “I love you.”

  A tear falls between us, and his eyes track it before he looks at me and growls. “I’m going with you.”

  “What?” He’s lost his mind. “What are you saying?”