Kiss Me Back

by Sidney Halston

“Nick and Matt won’t fire you because you’re deaf.”

  “You don’t know that.” She looks slightly panicked, her voice loud now. She reaches over and grips my hand hard. “You promised.”

  “Hey, hey. I won’t say anything. I swear to you. But just keep that in mind; Nick and Matt are good guys. They won’t fire you. You know they want you to work at Duality, right?” I saw her name on the list earlier today. For some reason it’s the only name I could easily make out on the daunting list they gave me.

  “Yeah, I know. But still, I prefer that no one knows. I’ve gotten by without needing anyone’s help and without anyone knowing. I’d rather keep it that way.”

  “I promise.” She nods and releases my hand. “How is it that no one knows?”

  “You didn’t,” she points out matter-of-factly. And she’s right. “In a club where everyone is yelling over the loud music…I’m sure most people can’t hear. It’s easy to blend in.”

  “I can see that. Okay. But shit, still, it must be hard.”

  “Not as hard as you’d think.” She smiles at me and I’m struck by how beautiful she is. I love her smile, it’s so natural. She’s so natural. She looks eighteen, but I know that she’s at least twenty-one since everyone who works at the club has to be above the legal drinking age.

  “How old are you?” I ask abruptly.

  “Don’t you know to never ask a woman that?” I know she’s teasing by the way she arches an eyebrow and the smile stays on her face. I’m glad she’s still sitting here with me in a good mood, considering the heavy topic.

  “True.” I take her hand in mine again. “But I’d still like to know.”

  “Twenty-four. You? I’ve been wondering.” I notice that she’s using full sentences now. Her volume goes from very low to loud mid-sentence and then low again, as if she’s testing out her voice and tuning the sound like a musical instrument.

  Shit, I’ve been so worried about her being legal that I didn’t stop and think she might find me too old. “Thirty-three. Too old for you.”

  “That’s true,” she agrees with a grin. But she doesn’t pull her hand away from mine and I find myself running my fingers through hers, touching the inside of her wrist as she gets comfortable on my couch. She’s so small and dainty, which makes me marvel even more at how she’s gone through so much in her life and come out of it so strong. Lola is quite the fierce fighter.

  “Tell me more.” I’m a man thirsty for information about her. She’s so intriguing and resilient and I just want to know as much as I can. “You told me you had a second job.”

  “Yep.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  “Tuesdays at around six,” she quips and we both look over to the big digital clock by my television and laugh. “But it’s okay. This is nice.”

  It is nice. So much so that I don’t want our time to end.

  “Do you want to have dinner? I can grill us some steaks downstairs. It stopped raining. We don’t have to go anywhere.”

  “Okay. Yes. That sounds nice.

  A grin takes over my face. I think she’s forgiven me for standing her up, which is another conversation we should probably have. Certainly, she’s going to want to ask about my brother since I brought it up earlier. But right now she’s not bringing it up, and I’m not going to either. I’m just glad she’s here and she’s talking to me. I’m enjoying getting to know her. She’s easy to talk to now that I know her a little bit better. I know that there’s a lot more to her. A helluva lot more. But, at least I’ve chipped that armor enough to understand why she’s wearing it to begin with. “Why don’t you make yourself at home, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  I look through the refrigerator and pull out all the ingredients I need. Thank God I made a quick run to the grocery store this morning, otherwise I’d have nothing to feed her. “So Duality, huh? It’s wild. I think it’s going to be a game-changer. It’s huge. Double the size of Panic,” I say from the kitchen as I begin to make a salad.

  Silence.

  I look over my shoulder. She’s walking around my small living room, her small delicate hand running over a shelf as she gazes at the one picture I have on the shelf. “Who’s this?” she asks.

  Then I realize she hasn’t heard anything I just said. This is going to take some getting used to but I’m willing to try. She keeps her eyes locked on me as I speak. “That’s my brother.”

  I see her mouth form an O shape in surprise. She already knows that he’s the reason I stood her up but I’m sure she has questions. No time like the present, I suppose. So I just dive right in. “Why don’t you come here so I can tell you about him while I get our food ready?”

  She comes into the kitchen and leans against the counter, close to where I’m working. I can smell her vanilla perfume and I can see some of her freckles from this proximity and I realize I’m staring when she says, “You can work. It’s okay.” She tips her chin toward the lettuce. “I’d help but then I wouldn’t be able to see your mouth.”

  “No. It’s fine. Stay right where you are.” I slant my head just enough to be able to keep preparing the food but also so she can read my lips. “Okay?”

  She smiles and nods.

  “Okay, so Ronnie. He was my younger brother. Not by much, only fourteen months younger than me. He got all the brains in the Fox family.” My brother was brilliant. From the time he said his first word it was obvious he was something special. “Got a full ride to MIT and everything.” I feel the lump in my throat that always appears when I think about Ronnie. I don’t talk about him often. I look up because I feel her eyes boring holes into me but I know she’s not staring at me, she’s “listening” to me. But when you have to look someone in the eyes the entire time you’re talking, it’s hard to lie or hold back. There’s no way of hiding anything from this woman. Ironic, isn’t it? Her eyes are so intent on my mouth I can’t help but say things I wouldn’t normally share with anyone. “That’s…the day I stood you up was the anniversary of his death. It’s a tough day for me.” It should’ve been my dad, I think, but I don’t repeat those words out loud.

  She reaches a hand out and gently squeezes my wrist, her eyes never leaving mine. “I’m sorry, Fox. Truly.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who needs to apologize.” I clear my throat. “I was having a bad day and drank too much and fell asleep. I was late to work and I fucked up with you, so the day just kept getting worse. I really messed up, Lola. I have no excuse except to say that I’m not the kind of guy who gets drunk and stands up beautiful women.” That gets me a sweet smile. “It was stupid and I fucked up big time. I hope you can forgive me and we can start over.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “So you forgive me, Lola?”

  She shrugs and smiles. “Everyone deserves a second chance, right?” She repeats the words I said to her earlier and I feel a huge load off my shoulders.

  “Were you close?”

  “Me and my brother? Yeah, we were.”

  “I imagine it must be the worst thing to lose a brother.”

  It is the worst thing. There are days the anger consumes me, and there are days the sadness drowns me. Not many people in this world know you like a brother does and Ronnie, he was the best.

  “Do you have other family? Parents?”

  “My father is still alive but we don’t talk. My mother passed away a long time ago.”

  “Your brother’s death must be hard on your dad too.”

  I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know. My father’s an asshole. We don’t get along.” I think about his last drunken phone call and just as quick as the memory flashes in my head, I kick it right out.

  I’m waiting for her to ask me questions or to say something—that just never feels sincere or…right. Nothing makes my brother’s dea
th right. I hate talking about it, so I never do. I stand there waiting for a few long moments before I realize she’s done. She’s not digging further and she’s not asking questions. This woman never seems to do what I expect her to do. I turn around and start prepping the food.

  “I’m sorry things got so heavy,” she says.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No. You’re not okay.”

  “I will be though,” I tell her truthfully.

  There’s just too much silence. Normally, if I’m alone in my home, I’ll put on the TV or music. Now, there’s another person here with me, yet there’s more silence than ever and it makes me feel uncomfortable for some reason. I have this need to fill the void with conversation. I’ve always been that way.

  She brushes her hand on my wrist and smiles. “How long have you lived here? I love this area,” she says, changing the subject to something safer.

  “Two years. It’s small but it’s mine and it’s a good area, good neighbors. Can’t complain.”

  There’s a constant need in me to impress people and it’s no different with Lola. I know she’s looking at all the stuff I purchased from a page in a catalog—from the couch to the lamp, I bought it all exactly the way it looked in the picture. It cost me a fortune but it’s all quality furniture and I’ve been told it’s beautiful by women, and men have been floored by my enormous television and gadgets.

  “It doesn’t seem that small. It seems like the perfect size for a single man. And I see you have all the prerequisite toys necessary for a thirtysomething’s bachelor pad.” She points to my television.

  “What can I say.” I shrug.

  “Men and their toys, right?”

  “Exactly.” I look over my shoulder. “You like it?”

  “Your TV?”

  “The TV, the house, everything?” Why did I ask her that? Does it matter whether she likes it or not?

  “Yeah, of course, I mean, it’s so…” She extends her hands and tries to find the right word. “Luxurious” is the word I’m thinking she’s about to say. Instead she says, “White. It’s very white.”

  “White?”

  “I mean, I like white. It’s clean and smooth and modern.”

  I laugh and think of how she always wears that raggedy boho purse with all the colors. Even her DNA was made with a pop of color. Her blue eyes that stand out so vibrantly against her milky white skin and black hair.

  “You hate it.”

  “No!” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “No! I don’t hate it.”

  “It’s not your style.”

  She makes the cutest face I’ve ever seen, bringing a shoulder up and scrunching her face, and before I know what I’m doing I grab the back of her head and pull her lips to mine and kiss her. It’s fast and surprising.

  But perfect.

  Lola

  He kissed me!

  He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t hesitate. He just kissed me. And now, he’s chopping a tomato as if he didn’t just rock my entire world. It wasn’t an earth-shattering kiss. It was just a quick peck but it was soft and sweet and my heart is beating out of my chest.

  “You want some wine?” he asks.

  My head is still spinning and I don’t even realize I’m touching my lips until he pulls my hand away from my mouth. “You’re in your head.” I am in my head. “Stop thinking so much.”

  I nod stupidly.

  “Wine?” he repeats.

  “Beer?”

  “Absolutely,” he replies. He grabs two beers, opens one, hands it to me and takes the other one for himself.

  I take a huge gulp and then trying to think of something to say, I blurt out, “I like your tattoos.” He has so many tattoos. From what I can see, they span most of his neck and arms and I assume that there are more hidden under his clothes.

  He puts down the knife and closes his fists, then turns them to me so that I can see his knuckles. I put down my beer and take his wrists and pull them closer so that I can read them. One fist says 1988 and the other 1998. Under it, it says SINK on one and SWIM on the other.

  Interesting. I wonder what they mean, but I don’t want to pry.

  “Those are your favorite tattoos?”

  “No, those aren’t my favorite. Those are the dates that my mom and brother died.”

  “I’m so sorry, Fox. Why did you show me those, then?”

  “Because those are the ones most people ask about. My favorite is this.”

  He unbuttons his collar and pulls his shirt down a bit, exposing his right pectoral muscle where there is an intricate pair of wings tattooed with the words THOSE WHO ARE GONE ARE NEVER TRULY FORGOTTEN weaved into the feathers.

  Unable to resist, I lean closer and tentatively brush my fingers along the black ink. “Wow,” I whisper, then I look up at him. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  We’re so close, my fingers are still on his skin and I can smell his minty breath and faint scent of his expensive cologne. I want him to kiss me again but this time I want more than just a peck. I want to be prepared and I want to kiss him back.

  He breaks the connection first by taking a small step away and buttoning up his shirt but then I see a flash of color when his sleeve rides up and I grab his forearm and flip it over. This time I laugh in earnest. “Some tats are meaningful and some are not,” he says. And I keep chuckling at the minimalist tattoo of Pac-Man. He pulls up the sleeve from his other arm and flips it over and shows me Ms. Pac-Man.

  “Cute,” I say. “Really cute, Fox.”

  “You really are,” he says with a wink, and my face heats up and I playfully push him away.

  Fox

  When I was small, maybe six or seven, we found a kitten and my mom let us keep it. It was shy and skittish and would tiptoe its way into our rooms. Mostly it would hide, but when it began to get used to us, it would slowly and cautiously walk to us, inching its way closer and closer until it finally got right next to us and eventually it’d fall asleep in our laps. It took weeks and weeks for it to finally relax. My mom ironically named her Tiger. Lola reminds me of Tiger.

  She’s sitting on the counter, her legs swinging up and down. Looking way too young and way too innocent for me. She’s adorably cute and sweet yet also feisty. But I know if she’s feeling vulnerable or raw she gets prickly and closed-off.

  “Grab your beer and that bowl and follow me.”

  I lead her toward the back of my apartment where there are stairs going down to the big courtyard with a communal barbecue in the center, as well as a pool.

  Lola’s holding the beer and the salad I made as she walks behind me down the stairs. I point to one of the two tables underneath an awning and she places our stuff on it while I prep the grill. Someone must’ve recently used it because it’s already warm, so I don’t have to wait too long before placing the two steaks on it. When I’m done, I go sit across from her.

  She’s sipping her beer, looking serene. “You never got around to telling me about your other job.”

  Her smile is huge and I can tell she loves it. “I work at an animal clinic. Mostly I work in the back grooming them.”

  “You like animals?”

  “Love them.” Her eyes beam. “They don’t speak, so for me, it’s the perfect scenario.”

  “Do you have any pets?”

  She shakes her head no. “My landlord doesn’t allow pets. One day,” she says dreamily.

  “One day,” I repeat. I hold out my beer and we clink them together.

  “So why two jobs? Must be exhausting.”

  “I’ve been saving for the last two years to finish my master’s degree. I have one semester left and I’m doing it as part of a program with the World Deaf Education Project. They only accept five interns
a year and I’m one of them. It’s a huge deal. I’ve been practicing my LSE since I was accepted but I don’t have anyone to practice with, so it’s kind of hard. Anyway, the program includes room and board but I still have to pay for the credits from the university, which are crazy expensive but I’m on a payment plan. I just made my second to last payment last week. One more to go. Eek!” When she’s done her smile is so big it takes over her entire face and she takes a sip of her beer. “Shit, was I really loud?” She says it softly.

  “No!” I reach for her hand. “No, not at all. It’s just that I’ve never heard you talk that much. I’m just shocked is all.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m excited.”

  “I see that. And LSE is?”

  “Spanish Sign Language. I know American Sign Language, ASL, but in Ecuador they speak Spanish Sign, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” I say and take my own gulp of beer. Shit, this woman’s smart. She’s getting her master’s degree and knows two different kinds of sign languages. I barely graduated from high school.

  “And what exactly is in Ecuador?”

  “Underprivileged children who can’t communicate with anyone. They won’t have any future if they can’t talk or sign.”

  “Did you…did you have a lot of trouble communicating when you lost your hearing? Is it okay for me to ask this? I’m not sure what the protocol is. Although I think I’ve broken all politically correct protocols already.”

  She waves off the remark with a smile. “It’s okay, Fox. I’d rather you ask than assume or feel uncomfortable. Ask me anything.”

  “Deaf? Or hearing impaired?”

  “I’m okay either way. The deaf community, however, usually prefers hearing impaired. And yes, I had a lot of trouble when I first lost my hearing. I felt ostracized by everyone.” Her voice fluctuates in volume as she speaks, going from high pitches to too low, as if she’s catching herself. But it doesn’t bother me at all. I can tell she doesn’t lose control often and I’m glad she feels comfortable enough to do it with me. It’s sweet.

  “How about you? Bouncer at the coolest nightclub. Was that your dream job?”