Live Out Loud

by Marie Meyer

  Harper looks at me, raising her eyebrows, waiting for my answer. I shake off my lusty urges and focus on the paper. Only shellfish. And why shouldn’t I be allergic to peanuts? I raise an eyebrow, smirking.

  She motions for the pen and I drop it into her waiting palm. Oh, good! Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are my favorite food! It would be tragic if I didn’t get to share them with you. What’s your favorite?

  I lift my head and stare into her sea glass–green eyes. Her words cut deep, touching a place no one has ever been—a place I keep sealed off. In all these years, no woman has ever told me her favorite food. Favorite positions, yes. But not food. That would be too domestic, too personal. Although, I never cared enough to ask. When it comes to my past liaisons, there was never much talking, period. It’s easier to fuck, then to let someone get to know me. Just as the old adage says, “Like father, like son.” The risk of becoming my father is too great. With a one-night stand, no one gets hurt. There are no expectations other than a good time. So, what am I doing letting Harper get close to me? I pick up my beer and drain it. Harper is a cool chick, why would I lead her into a relationship knowing how it will inevitably end—my parents aren’t stellar relationship role models, and I’m a fucking moron for getting involved with this woman.

  Tossing back the last swallow of her cranberry martini, Harper sets the glass on the table and taps her index finger on the napkin, next to her question, just as our waiter appears at the table.

  “Can I get you two anything else?” he asks, shifting his gaze from Harper to me, and back again.

  Harper shakes her head and smiles.

  “No dessert?” I offer, trying my damnedest to get my head focused on positive thoughts.

  She shakes her head again and signs, “Too much. I’m full.” I’m glad she mouths the words, or I’d be lost. Although, I like watching her sign, her movements are so fluid; it’s mesmerizing.

  “All right then, I’ll get your check.” The waiter shuffles the menus he’s holding and turns to leave.

  Harper smiles and picks up with our conversation, splaying the fingers of her right hand outward, a slight bend in her middle finger, tapping it on her chin. She points to the napkin. Lowering my gaze, I reread what she’d written last: What’s your favorite? I set the ballpoint to the paper and scribble down the first thing that pops into my head, Chicken and dumplings. When I was a kid, I used to ask my mom for chicken and dumplings every year on my birthday. I turned seven the last time she’d made them. I hate talking about this shit. I’ve got to change the subject.

  Harper pulls the pen from my grip and slides the napkin toward her. What’s your family like? Any brothers or sisters? Laying the pen on the napkin, she pushes them back to me.

  Fucked up. I think it, I don’t write it. For the first time tonight, I notice how loud the restaurant has gotten. Wall-to-wall people. Everyone vying for airtime, trying to make their words louder than the band rocking on stage. If Harper and I had been talking, we would be shouting. It amazes me how quiet our conversation has been, like we’re the only two people in the room. But with that one question, the world comes crashing back in—reality, louder than feedback on a live mic, and just as painful.

  What is there to say about my parents? Everything started off normal, then one day my dad gambled away his life savings, started drinking, and used my mom and me as punching bags? She doesn’t want to hear that shit. No siblings. My parents are separated. Mom’s great. Dad’s an ass. What about yours? Short and simple. I toss the question back to her, hoping she has it better in the parent department.

  “Sorry,” she signs, just as her phone flashes. Picking it up, she glances at the screen and rolls her eyes. It’s subtle, but I catch the hint of annoyance. I wonder who pissed her off. Setting the phone facedown, she turns her attention back to me, along with a smile.

  All evening, I’ve studied her smiles: big ones, small ones, and those in between. I may not be able to hear her voice, or speak her language, but I know when she squints her eyes, and fine lines appear at the outer corners, accompanied by a full-on, toothy grin, she’s bubbling over with excitement, or happiness. Or when she’s embarrassed, her smile is faint and she rolls her eyes before averting them, looking downward as she tucks her head into her left shoulder, trying to hide. I’m a quick study when it comes to Harper King. And, when she signs “Sorry,” her features soften and fall. All telltale lines of joy disappear from her face, and I know she really is sorry. Not a passive “sorry,” the kind you’d give an acquaintance, but a heartfelt, meaningful sentiment saved for someone you care about. But, in between all of her smiles, there’s the look I saw when she read her text message.

  Pen still in hand, I yank the napkin back and add another sentence. Everything all right? It’s cool if you need to text someone back.

  She takes the pen from my grasp, her fingers sending sparks of electricity through my body when she touches me. I watch as her hand gracefully forms each letter, curling it into the next. When she’s finished, she turns the napkin around and pushes it toward me.

  I don’t have any brothers or sisters, either. My parents and I have a complicated relationship. They live back east, in New Hampshire. I live here. Less drama. My mom’s texting, but she can wait.

  After reading her words, I look up. She presses her lips together and shrugs. Like me, she just scratched the surface, not giving away too much, but just enough. It seems we’ve found kindred spirits in each other when it comes to our families. I make a fist and repeat her motion, signing, “Sorry.”

  Harper’s thin-lipped smile grows, the creases at the corner of her eyes fan out, and she nods in approval, pointing to my hand before giving me a thumbs-up.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” I get the words out faster when I speak, steering our conversation away from all the family talk. I do not want to talk about my fucking dad.

  Harper pulls her eyebrows up and nods, giving me the go-ahead.

  “Have you always been deaf?” I hope she doesn’t think I’m a dick for asking.

  Bending her head over the napkin, she writes fast. I was almost three when I lost my hearing. Meningitis. I was really sick. My parents said I almost died. I was so little when it happened, I don’t remember being able to hear. Just vague memories of being so sick. I was in a lot of pain.

  Shit. How am I supposed to respond to that? I take up the pen, buying myself an extra second to come up with a response that doesn’t make me sound like the world’s biggest prick. I’m sorry. I scrawl, for lack of a better reply.

  Harper waves away my comment, and the expression on her face doesn’t scream “offended.” No reason to be sorry. Being deaf is all I know. It’s my normal. Can’t miss something that I don’t remember having, right? She shrugs.

  She is right. There really is no such thing as normal—only the sum of an individual’s perspective and experience. I rub my cheek, scratching the stubble on my chin, soaking in my philosophical revelation. I should be writing this shit down, there’s a song in there somewhere.

  Harper holds up her index finger and quickly jots something else down. Now it’s my turn to ask something personal—she lifts her head, wagging her eyebrows—where did the name “Thorin” come from? It’s so different.

  Her hand is wrapped around the pen and I pluck it free, like it was stuck in an inkwell. My grandpa—Mom’s dad—was a huge Tolkien fan. He passed away before I was born, but my mom honored his love of Middle-earth and named me after Thorin Oakenshield, the king of the dwarves. It could have been worse. You could be on a date with Bilbo or Frodo. I look at her, cringing. Everyone calls me Thor, though.

  Harper laughs silently, shoulders shaking. Brushing her index finger twice on the tip of her nose, I read, “Funny!” on her lips. With her right hand, she tucks her thumb between her index and middle fingers, deftly moving them into four different positions, while mouthing my name.

  I’ve been entranced by her signing all night, but damn if that wasn’t
the sexiest. My name on her lips…and in her hands. My dick twitches as dirty thoughts invade my head…other parts of me are eager to meet her mouth and hands.

  “Mind if we get out of here?” I say, “There’s some place I’d like to show you.” I know it’s late, but I want more time with her, alone. It’s a bad, fucking idea to go down this path, I don’t even come close enough to being good enough for her, but selfishly, I can’t let go.

  Harper nods and picks up the pen again. I’d like that. What’s the place? She turns the napkin.

  Somewhere I go when I need quiet, I write. Smiling, I rub a nervous hand over my chin. Town and Country Pools: it’s abandoned, secluded, and been my hideout for years. The one place I can go to disappear from the world for a while.

  Once I settle the bill, Harper lays the napkin from her lap, on the table, and shoulders her purse. I come around the table and slip my arm around her waist. We make our way through the heavy crowd.

  As I put my palm to the door, ready to push it open, I remember the napkin with our conversation. Tapping Harper on the shoulder, I hold up one finger and say, “Forgot something. Be right back.” Before I know if she understood, I turn and jog back to our table, dodging servers and customers, hoping the table hasn’t been bussed.

  It’s still a mess, the napkin with our conversation lying next to Harper’s plate. Picking it up, I fold it into a small square and slide it into my pocket. I can’t explain it, but the thought of our first real conversation ending up in a landfill doesn’t sit right with me.

  I pat my pocket and make my way back to Harper, ready to share with her the one place I’ve never shared with anyone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thor

  The full moon casts a whitewashed glare over the cracked pool deck just beyond the chain-link fence. It’s noisy tonight, the chirps and croaks of horny frogs and crickets vie for the title of Loudest Mating Call.

  I peel back a small section of fencing where the aluminum has rusted out. Holding it open, I wave Harper through. She cringes, shaking her head. “It’s okay,” I say and immediately regret it. “Shit,” I curse under my breath. I’m a fucking idiot. During dinner Harper mentioned that it’s downright impossible to lipread in the dark, and here I am making her do just that.

  Letting the torn fence fall back into place, I stand up straight and pull my phone out of my back pocket. I type quickly and turn my phone around to show her the note. It’s okay. I come here all the time. There’s never anyone around.

  Harper reads the message and tugs my phone from my hands to reply. Are you sure?

  I nod, grinning light and easy. A need deep inside screams for me to ease her tension; I don’t want her to be anxious or worried when she’s with me.

  Reaching for the torn fence, I pull it back and coax her closer. Harper slides her feet a couple inches in my direction, close enough for me to slip my hand on her lower back just as she bends down to fit through the hole.

  Her body is warm against my palm and I’m not even touching skin…but damn do I want to. She drove me fucking crazy all through dinner—in the best possible way. Just watching the way her fingers moved when she signed…the way her mouth shaped words…the patch of skin on her neck, right beneath her earlobe…the dusting of freckles covering her visible skin. My thoughts moved from R rated to NC-17, fingers itching to find out if she has freckles anywhere else.

  Easy, Thor, I warn myself. For now, I’ll be content with having my hand on her back. Freckle exploration will have to wait until later…hopefully.

  Once Harper is through, I follow behind, careful not to get caught on the ragged ends of the fence. Done that a time or two—gashes and ripped clothes, not cool. Standing up straight, I take in my private sanctuary. Fallen leaves skitter over the ground, their dried edges scratching over the concrete before the wind tosses them into the neglected depths of the empty swimming pool.

  So many people talk about their muse as an ethereal being, whispering beautiful words or lines of music into their ear. Not me. This decrepit, abandoned swimming pool has been the source of my creative outlet for years. I love this place, and will be sad as fuck when it’s finally leveled for the new subdivision that’s slated to be built on the property.

  Harper turns around and looks at me, trying to hide her trepidation behind a thin-lipped smile. My chest seizes, making it hard to breathe. I can’t take my eyes off her, not that I want to. Bleached moonlight shines on her wild, coppery hair. One defiant curl has managed to break free from the confines of her left ear, tapping an irregular beat against her chin every time it catches the breeze. God, she’s beautiful. The urge to shove my fingers into all those curls, pull her face to mine, and taste that smile is overwhelming. I want to kiss away all her fear and anxiety, prove to her that she’s safe with me.

  Instead, I reach for her hand, slipping my fingers between hers, reminding myself to take it slow. I want…no, I need more time with this woman. There has to be a second date. I can’t fuck anything up.

  With a gentle tug on Harper’s arm, I tip my head to the right and lead her through the maze of the weed-infested pool deck. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve been here, and with all the rain we’ve had, the weeds sprouting through the cracks are thriving.

  We skirt around a waist-high thornbush and round the corner toward the deeper pool—my favorite hiding place in the world. I’ve never come here with anyone…never even told anyone this place exists. Now Harper’s in on my secret.

  I let go of her hand and hold up a finger saying, “Wait here, okay?” I hope the moonlight is bright enough for her to read my lips.

  She nods, understanding, and I let out of sigh of relief. I don’t want her to think I’m being rude or inconsiderate…I need that second date. A small chuckle escapes my lips. I can’t recall ever wanting to impress a chick as much as I want to impress Harper. Who the fuck am I?

  I turn around, reaching for the pool’s rickety ladder and swing my leg over, stepping onto the first rung. Three rungs down, I wave Harper over, gesturing for her to follow my lead.

  With wide eyes and biting her bottom lip, she grabs the handles, and very timidly, lowers her body onto the ladder. I wish I knew what she was thinking. Was it a bad idea to bring her here? Fuck, I hope this isn’t the worst date of her life.

  Sighing, I place my hands at her waist and guide her downward. Our bodies are pressed close, my front to her back. I try my best not to think about how perfectly she fits against me and how gorgeous she smells—the faint scent of the outdoors clings to her hair along with something soft and flowery. I pull in another deep breath, my eyes slipping closed for a second, committing her scent to memory.

  With both of us situated on the ladder, I take another slow step, holding on to Harper with my right hand and the ladder in my left. The rusty metal wobbles and groans under our combined weight and Harper starts shaking. “I’ve got you.” I lean in closer, wrapping my arm all the way around her. She pulls in a sharp breath and doesn’t let it out. Shit. Did I scare her? I don’t let go, keeping a strong hold on to her, until she exhales. You’re safe with me, Harper. I hope she knows that…feels that. I will the thoughts from my head into hers as we take the next two rungs.

  My boot hits the last rung. Slowly, I pull my arm from around Harper, and jump the last two feet. Harper glances over her shoulder, a look of terror on her face. I reach up, rubbing a comforting circle on her back before putting my hands at her sides. At my touch, her face softens and she exhales. “Almost there,” I say. I doubt she can see my lips, but she relaxes anyway.

  One foot after the other, she lowers herself downward. When her feet tap down on the last rung, I tighten my grip on her waist and pull her backward, snaking my arms around her. Trusting me, she lets go of the ladder and falls gracefully, her body sliding against mine on the way down. Lust rips through me like a bolt of lightning, zapping every nerve ending in my body. I want her in all the ways I know I shouldn’t.

  Harper’s feet touc
h the ground and she turns in my arms, resting her hands on my chest, looking up at my face. She pulls in a breath, and I swear, the world comes to a fucking halt.

  Staring, unblinking, her lips part, and all I can think about is how much I want to taste her pretty little mouth. I refuse to surrender my hold, she feels too good in my arms. Perfect. The way my guitar feels when I strap it on, like a part of me had been missing, and then suddenly, it isn’t.

  Harper exhales, her warm breath fanning out over my face, still smelling like her cranberry martini from dinner. I know she’d taste just as sweet as the fruity drink, and that sends all the blood in my body rushing southward. I lean in, dying to feel her lips on mine…and with the slightest pressure on my chest, Harper gives a shy push and steps out of my grip.

  Fuck. Doesn’t she want me to kiss her? Maybe she isn’t as into me as I’m into her.

  I ball my hand in a fist and move it in clockwise circles on my chest. “Sorry.” This is becoming a handy sign to know, I have a feeling I’m going to be using it a lot.

  Like she did when I signed at dinner, her face lights up, mouth splitting into a crooked megawatt-smile. The urge to kiss her hasn’t gone away, it’s worse now, and I fucking love that I put that smile on her face.

  Reaching for me, Harper touches my fist, stilling my circular motion with her palm. Ever so slightly, she moves her index finger along the top of my thumb, sliding it to the side of my hand so that my thumb rests at the side of my fist, not the front. When she’s happy with the placement of my fingers, she nods, pleased.

  Pulling my hand away, I study her handiwork, committing the small adjustment to memory for next time.

  Harper tugs her phone out of her back pocket and leans in close to the screen, typing quickly. When she finishes, she turns it around for me to see. You have nothing to be sorry about.