by Rowan Shaw
I waited a few seconds and scratched the five o'clock shadow on my cheeks, pondering whether to speak my mind or not. I was about to type again when his message popped up.
Enzo: I'd like to hang out. You available this weekend? I thought maybe we could go to the Pépinière Park. For old times' sake.
I froze and cleared my throat. I could feel Marlène watching like a hawk. She was slowly getting on my nerves.
Me: You're gonna kiss me behind the bushes again?
I wasn't sure if it was okay to flirt, but it was easier to keep the jokes going than to swallow the stupid lump in my throat.
Enzo: Ah! No.
My spirits dropped. What the hell was I thinking flirting with him? My fingers hovered over the screen when the phone beeped again.
Enzo: I think we both know I went past first base a long time ago.
I stared without blinking.
Enzo: I'm not saying I want to sleep with you. It's just... Ugh, I don't know what I'm saying.
My eyes were still glued to the screen. For my own sanity, I decided to ignore what he'd written and move on.
Me: So when would you like to meet?
Enzo: Today good?
I tsked. In my peripheral vision, I saw Marlène take a sip of coffee and purse her lips, still staring daggers at me.
Me: I have to move out of my apartment.
Enzo took his time to reply. He was probably rethinking his decision. Just my luck!
Enzo: I can help.
Me: You don't have to.
I really wanted his company, though. I hoped he'd insist even if the situation promised to get seriously awkward. My high school ex helping me move out of my most recent ex's place. Could I feel like any more of a loser?
Enzo: I offered, and I maintain the offer. What's the address? What time?
Chapter 10
ENZO
When I knocked on the door of Florian's apartment, a tall brunette answered. She frowned the instant she laid her eyes on my face, her gaze landing on the deep scar carved into my cheek. I didn't even blink. I was used to people staring. Between the scar and the processor over my ear, they were always intrigued.
"Are you Enzo?" she asked.
I nodded without a word.
"Someone got your tongue or something?"
I didn't get to reply before her deep green eyes shifted toward my hearing aid and she started shouting, enunciating everything slowly. "Oh, sorry. I forgot you're deaf. Florian is downstairs. You can wait for him here."
I shook my head. Why couldn't people understand that yelling did nothing for me?
I gave a nod, not caring to explain to her that I could hear without her neighing like a horse. She stepped to the side, so I followed her into the hall leading to a large living room, where she sat on the couch. I shuddered when I noticed the sofa was made of leather, but I didn't want to be rude, so I took the seat she was offering in the armchair made of the same repulsive dead skin. I tried not to cringe when my jeans met the material, and I did my best not to touch it with my bare hands.
The place smelled of roses, and there was a pillow and blanket on the couch as if someone had slept there. I took a quick look around me, my gaze catching on a large portrait hanging above the TV. A deep blush burned my face. I wasn't into women, and I had no desire to see my host semi-naked either. I averted my eyes and took in the rest of the room with the tan walls, flower bouquets, and feminine touches.
"I'm Marlène," she shouted to catch my attention. "Can you hear me at all? Should I write it down for you?"
She pointed at a pen on the glass coffee table, and I stared at it. If a person couldn't hear, yelling didn't help.
"Do you know where Florian is moving?" I asked.
She squinted her eyes at me. "You can talk?"
"Yes."
"Florian said you were deaf," she snapped as if I should apologize.
"I am."
"Deaf people can't talk."
Every single time.
I gave a long sigh. "Some of us can."
She seemed skeptical and narrowed her eyes further as if gauging whether or not I was pulling her leg. "Are you reading my lips?"
"No, I can hear your voice. But yes, I can also read your lips."
Her eyebrows curved into a sharp V. "Are you making fun of me right now? Is this some sick joke? How can you hear my voice if you're deaf? And you speak perfectly. You don't even have an accent when you talk."
Back in the day, her rude comments would have horrified me, but this type of situation was so familiar now, I felt forced to brush it off. There were times when I got tired of trying to convince hearing people that my "handicap," as they liked to call it, was not a handicap at all. Being deaf didn't prevent me from enjoying a fulfilling life—with or without the implant. They saw deafness as a disability; I saw it as a gift. I noticed things others didn't because I often relied on my other senses. For example, Marlène's body language right now showed her profound hostility in spite of the fake smile she had plastered on her face. She was acting as if I had offended her somehow. I felt like asking if I should apologize for not fitting into the narrow box of her skewed views, but I settled for a kind response.
"I was born here in Nancy," I replied. "I've lived in France my entire life. Why would I have an accent?"
A muscle twitched in her jaw, but she didn't reply. I wasn't sure what I had said to offend her. Though I was used to bumping into walls of misperception, her attitude was misguided and irritating. I wondered if she was that grumpy with me only or if it was a trait of her character.
"I have a cochlear implant that allows me to hear in my left ear," I explained. "I cannot hear from my right ear. And if I remove my processor, I can't hear anything at all. The implant alone isn't enough to let me hear. Florian didn't lie. I am completely deaf."
She didn't seem convinced, but she moved on to another topic. "Florian hasn't told you where he's moving?"
I shook my head.
"He found himself some bitch to go live with."
The words slapped me in the face. I swallowed a cough.
"He's dating someone?" I asked. I thought he was single.
Considering Marlène's apathy, I assumed she was his ex, but he hadn't mentioned her at all during our conversation at the bar. In fact, he had avoided the subject of relationships entirely.
"I bet she's the one he cheated on me with. Although I thought he was screwing guys, so who knows?"
I blinked, wishing for Florian to show up. This discussion was getting seriously uncomfortable.
As if responding to my plea, a door slammed in the hall, and Marlène stared behind me, mouthing, "Speaking of the devil."
I turned around to see Florian standing at the entrance of the living room. He was wearing a gray tee-shirt over some torn jeans. My gaze crawled all over him in spite of myself. When he came to stand by my side, it was too late to pretend I hadn't been staring. Marlène must have caught on to the whole thing too because she glared at me.
I peeked at Florian from the corner of my eye and noticed the worried look on his face. His blue eyes flashed from behind his dark-framed glasses as he beheld Marlène, his nostrils twitching. His long nose was as straight as it used to be, resting above his full lips and strong, square jaw harboring two days' scruff. At six feet, he towered over my seat, and I couldn't help but notice how his body had filled out since high school, the muscles of his biceps flexing every time he moved.
"You ready?" he signed.
Marlène huffed in my peripheral vision. "Since when do you sign?" she asked.
Florian gave a tiny smirk. "I knew how to sign long before I met you."
"You never said."
"You never asked." He turned to me. "Let's go. I don't have many things to move. It shouldn't take long."
He took me to the foyer, where he opened a door to a bedroom that was feminine to a fault. The same rosy scent filtered through the air as I took in the light pink walls, which were covered with
a few paintings. The ornamented panel bed in the middle was covered with a bright magenta comforter. There was a mahogany nightstand table on each side, one of which was covered with a lamp, an alarm clock, and a black sleep mask. The other one was empty.
"I don't own much," Florian signed when his gaze followed mine. "Just a few boxes of books and some shelves. I took them apart already. I'm just glad Marlène didn't wreck all my stuff in her rage."
"Is Marlène your ex?" I signed back.
"Unfortunately."
Sadness filtered through his blue eyes. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed that their relationship was over, or if he was upset he had dated her at all.
"Are you dating the girl you're moving in with?" I asked tentatively, though I was fairly sure he told me he wasn't seeing anyone.
"What?" he exclaimed out loud, then signed, "No. She's just a coworker's friend. I'm only staying at her place until I find something else. The move is rather sudden. I barely had time to get back on my feet." He knitted his brow. "Why would you think I'm dating her? I just broke up with Marlène."
I didn't want to reply.
"Did Marlène tell you I was dating Amal?"
My nod didn't seem to please him at all.
"Just so we're clear, I walked in on Marlène fucking my best friend," he gestured quickly. I couldn't tell if he was signing to accommodate me or because he didn't want his ex to hear our conversation. "She's been talking shit about me ever since, and she's outed me to all my friends. She's making my life hell. Don't believe one word of that crap she's spreading about me."
I felt terrible. "I didn't know things were that bad for you."
Florian raked his hand through his blond hair. "Yeah, well, let's get out of here. The sooner, the better."
He pointed at two piles of boxes in a corner. "Some of them contain encyclopedias. They're pretty heavy."
I shrugged. "It's okay."
I moved toward the boxes, but Florian grabbed my shoulder. "I wanted to thank you for coming today. No one else would help me move after Marlène's been badmouthing me all over town."
I gave a sad smile. "You're welcome. You still owe me a walk to the Pépinière Park and an ice cream later, though."
"Pistachio?" Florian asked.
My eyes bugged out. "You remember that, too?"
Florian's gaze softened. "I remember everything."
Chapter 11
FLORIAN
I dropped the last box in my new room and pulled my phone out of my pocket when it vibrated against my thigh. After a tight-lipped smile at Enzo, I sighed upon reading the message.
Jacques: You never texted me back.
Me: I'm moving out today. I don't have time for this.
Jacques: Wanna grab some coffee later? Stanislas Square?
I grumbled a low curse. I didn't feel like meeting Jacques. He hadn't offered to help me move, and I wasn't in the mood for his questions about the people I might have fucked and how or why. I was enjoying my time alone with Enzo. No need to ruin a perfectly good day just because some so-called friend couldn't quench his thirst for nasty gossip about my sexuality. Unfortunately, unless I blocked his number, Jacques would be pestering me until he got his way.
I would be in Stanislas Square later anyway if I went to the park with Enzo, so I might as well get this done and over with. The sooner I was rid of Jacques, the better. Hopefully, he would move on with his life and stop treating me like the newest freak show in town. I looked at my watch.
Me: Can we meet at six? I'm moving right now. Then I'm catching up with a friend.
Jacques: Is he a gay friend?
Me: None of your damn business.
Jacques: Ah, I knew it! See you by the statue.
I rolled my eyes and dropped my phone on the bed. Jacques could be such a pain in the ass. I wasn't sure how I even became friends with him, but then I remembered I'd met him through Marlène. Of course! Only she would introduce such suckers into my life.
I looked around my new bedroom, thankful the place was already furnished. I didn't have enough extra revenue to afford furniture right now.
Amal had set up the room nicely, with a dark-framed queen bed covered by a marine-blue comforter, and an empty shelf next to the cherry desk. When I turned around, Enzo was staring at me. I opened my mouth to talk, but Amal walked into the room.
A short woman with naturally tanned skin, long black hair, and large glasses, Amal was a beautiful twenty-some year old with fleshy lips, ample hips, and a smile so gentle one couldn't help but beam back at her.
"Do you need anything?" she asked.
"I'm good. Thank you."
"You're sure? You guys look thirsty. I could bring you some water or something."
"Yes, please," Enzo replied.
Amal gave a nod and winked at him before walking out.
"So, do you want to unpack your boxes?" Enzo signed, a deep, inquisitive look on his face.
"Are you asking so you can snoop through my stuff?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Yes. How did you guess?"
I chuckled, shaking my head at his blunt honesty.
"It's been a long time. I'd like to know what you enjoy nowadays," he explained.
The door squeaked open, and Amal handed us two glasses of water, complete with a beautiful, warm smile. "Anything else?"
I shook my head. "Thank you."
She pointed at the shelf. "I took everything off so you could put whatever you wanted on it."
"You know this is only temporary, right? You didn't have to go to all that trouble." I didn't want to impose any more than I had to.
"I understand that, but I want you to feel at home. If you're going to help me pay the rent, it's only natural."
Well, that sure was a nice change from Marlène. "Thank you, Amal. I appreciate it."
She nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly before she exited the room.
"She's so sweet," Enzo signed after taking a sip of his water and leaving the glass on my nightstand table. "I might have to rethink my life and move in with her, too."
I laughed, feeling comfortable for the first time in months. "How about we unpack my books? Then we can go to the park. I need some fresh air."
Chapter 12
ENZO
"So you still love reading Zola, huh?" I asked when Florian and I crossed Stanislas Square to approach the golden gate of the Pépinière Park. The fountain by the entrance was turned on, its water spraying from the Amphitrite lead statue. It was warm out, but a light breeze carried scents of flowers and freshly cut grass.
"I read Zola when I'm mad at the system," he signed.
The sun shone through the blue sky so brightly, its rays reflected golden streaks in Florian's blond hair when the gust blew strands of it in his face. His plump lips expanded into a smile of perfect white teeth as he combed his hair back with his long fingers. While we walked along the path contouring around the gazebo, I couldn't stop staring at him.
With a side glance, he caught me gaping. "You're still up for some ice cream, right?" he signed.
I gave a nod and pondered the underlying sadness in his sharp blue eyes. The grief in his gaze clashed with the broad grin of his lips, to the point where I wondered if he was faking joy. Back in high school, Florian was the most energetic person I knew. He used to breathe life right into me any time we touched. But now, there was a darkness to him, a sullenness hiding deep inside.
There was a whole part of him I didn't know anymore, a gap in our history. I had no idea what had happened to him after the accident. I only knew he avoided me, never seeking contact again. A part of me needed to believe there was a valid reason for that.
"So what tours does your company offer?" I asked because I was spiraling down. Back at the club, our conversation had mostly revolved around our jobs, so I remembered him telling me he operated his own business and gave history tours of the city, but I still didn't know the details.
"We offer tours for many locations. People can come to
pre-organized tours or set up something private. We also give tours at night of haunted places. Our tours are in French, English, Spanish, and German."
"Would you take me sometime?"
Florian froze, then flashed a grin. "I'm pretty sure you know more history than me. I remember all the books you read in high school. But sure, that'd be fun."
We reached the ice cream booth, and I searched my back pocket for my wallet while the lady behind the counter gave a curt greeting. I was about to place my order when everything turned silent around me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The battery of my processor had probably just died, and I'd forgotten to bring a spare. I groaned to myself and asked for two scoops of pistachio ice cream and one scoop of coconut.
The woman nodded and asked me something, but I couldn't read her lips. She was mumbling, so I kindly asked her to repeat. Her eyes narrowed quickly. She repeated herself, but when I still couldn't understand, I was forced to turn toward Florian and sign, "My battery just died. I don't know what she's saying."
"She's asking if you would like anything else," he signed back with a tender smile.
I shook my head and bit on my nail.
Florian ordered his strawberry and vanilla ice cream. By that point, the woman was staring at me weirdly, though she didn't say anything. I searched the register's screen for the amount I should pay, but Florian grabbed my wrist. "I'm treating. You helped me move."
I didn't protest more than that.
When we left, he signed with one hand, the other one holding his cone. "Do they always react like that?"
"Like what?"
"The vendor...she didn't even make an effort. She got mad right away that you couldn't hear."
I shrugged. Some people had no patience.
Florian pursed his lips, then licked his ice cream. I tasted mine, but it was so cold, it nearly gave me a brain freeze. We discussed the vendor's attitude until we reached the park's gazebo. Some of the people passing by kept staring every time we signed. Their attitude seemed to annoy Florian, who glared at them.
"It's in their human nature, you know?" I said out loud.
