Chapter 14
Lincoln
The cab of my truck smells like dust and the ham sandwich I’m halfway through. I’m parked a few streets over from the site, thirty minutes to kill before I’ve gotta head back.
My phone’s propped up on the dash, YouTube open.
A woman on the screen smiles too brightly. “Let’s start with the ASL alphabet.”
I wipe my hand on a napkin, hold it up, and follow along.
“A.” I shape my fist, thumb to the side.
Easy.
“B.” Fingers straight, thumb tucked. I have to flex my hand to get it right.
“C.” Curve.
Okay, still alive.
By “F” I’ve already screwed it up twice.
“Shit,” I mutter, trying to get my fingers to cooperate. They don’t. They never have. My hands are built for wire, tools, and hauling cable, not delicate shapes that actually mean something.
I pause the video. Unpause. Try again.
“A. B. C. D…”
My “E” looks like a claw. I fix it. Kind of.
People walk past in the lot. One guy glances over, sees me signing badly at my phone. If he thinks I’m losing it, he minds his own business. Or it could be he thinks I’m throwing some kind of gang symbols.
I hit restart.
The sun beats in through the windshield, warming my forearms. Sweat sticks my shirt to my back. My sandwich sits with a few bites left beside me now.
Every time I get the letters half-decent, I see her.
Bayleigh on that lower-bowl seat. Hands moving, quick and sure. Her brows pinched when she’s focused. The way she’d light up when she laughed at Riptides. The studious way she watched my mouth when I talked, like she was meeting me more than halfway.
I want to meet her the rest of the way.
I fumble “G.” My fingers won’t sit right.
“Come on,” I mutter. “It’s one letter. Get your shit together.”
I try again.
Still wrong.
I exhale and drop my head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling. The engine ticks quietly as it cools. Somewhere across the lot, a nail gun fires in steady bursts.
My phone screen dims. No new messages. No text from her yet today.
I’m not proud of how often I’ve checked.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Either go back to work like a normal person or stop half-assing this.”
I pick up the phone again.
Instead of restarting the video, I flip to the browser and type:
ASL classes near me.
Scroll. Scroll.
There it is.
Beginner ASL – 8 Week Course
Center for Sight and Hearing
Mondays, 6–8 pm. $75.
I stare at it for a second, thumb hovering.
It’s fast. It’s extra. It’s… a lot.
But the idea of every word between us going through someone else makes something in my chest go tight. James seems like a good guy, but I don’t want to always talk to him to talk to her.
I want to tell her things myself. Ask questions. Hear her answer in the way she knows how to speak.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap Register.
Name. Email. Card info. Done.
A confirmation email pings my inbox three seconds later.
I stare at it.
I actually did it.
The corners of my mouth tug up.
My phone buzzes again, and for once it’s not spam.
Bayleigh: You working hard or hardly working?
I huff out a laugh.
Me: Attempting to be a responsible adult.
Bayleigh: Gross.
Me: I know. Thinking of changing my ways.
Bayleigh: That so?
I glance at the new email notification again—ASL CLASS CONFIRMED—and something in me settles.
Me: Maybe.
She sends a GIF of someone dramatically rolling their eyes.
Bayleigh: Let me guess. Korbin ranting about Benton again?
Me: Always.
Bayleigh: Sounds exhausting.
Me: You have no idea.
My fingers hover.
I don’t tell her about the class. Not yet. I want to show her. Not announce it like some grand gesture. Just… be better next time I see her.
Bayleigh: Gotta run. Benton’s trying to “fix” my laundry system.
Me: Stay strong.
Bayleigh: Pray for him.
Me: Always.
A laughing emoji. Then nothing.
I’m still smiling like an idiot.
I lock my phone and stare out the windshield for a second. Construction dust swirls in the air. A guy shouts for someone to grab more conduit. A truck backs up with that obnoxious beep.
My life’s always been simple: work hard, watch Korbin’s back, keep things moving. No complications. No roots. No promises.
And now here I am, sitting in a work truck on my lunch break, practicing an alphabet with my clumsy hands because a deaf omega with copper hair smiled at me like I wasn’t a problem to solve.
“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “All in, then.”
I reopen the video. Hold my hand up.
“A.”
“B.”
“C.”
Slower. Smoother.
It’s still not pretty, but it’s better.
I mess up “H.” Swear. Fix it.
Keep going.
When my break’s almost over, I kill the video, tuck my phone into my pocket, and climb out of the truck. The heat hits me full-force, bright and blinding, the gravel crunching under my boots. I grab my tools from the back and start toward the building.
There’s this weird warmth sitting low in my chest. Not panic. Not dread.
Something else.
Feels a hell of a lot like wanting something that actually matters.
As I head back to the job, I murmur under my breath, running through the signs I can’t quite see but still trying to commit to my memory, anyway.
“A, B, C, D…”
I screw up the next one and laugh to myself.
I’ll get it. Even if it takes all damn year.
By the time I get home, my hands ache from a full day on the job. Same shit, different house. I shower until the water runs lukewarm, then stand there another minute, just breathing. My body’s tired, but my head’s wired.
I towel off, pull on sweats, and end up in front of the bathroom mirror with my phone balanced on the counter, ASL tutorial paused halfway through. The letters stare back at me—those simple shapes I couldn’t get right a few hours ago.
I lift my hand.
A.
B.
C.
My movements are slower now, smoother. They feel right. I don’t even need to glance at the screen anymore. My fingers remember before my brain catches up.
By the time I hit “Z,” I’m grinning at my reflection like an idiot. I can actually spell now. Not fast, not graceful—but I can do it.
I lean on the sink, flexing my knuckles. “Guess you’re not completely hopeless,” I mutter.
The next video starts automatically—numbers.
Easy, I think.
Except it’s not.
Apparently, “three” in ASL isn’t the same as holding up three fingers like a kindergartner. It’s thumb, index, middle. Not pointer, middle, ring. I try it, fingers refusing to cooperate at first. I stare at my hand, laughing under my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Still, I try again.
One. Two. Three.
It feels ridiculous, but there’s something grounding about it. Something real.
Four. Five. Six.
When I hit ten, I stop the video. My hands are shaking a little—not from strain, just energy and maybe a little pride.
I meet my own eyes in the mirror and smirk. “She’s gonna love this,” I say quietly, even though she’s not here to see it.
The thought of Bayleigh reading my lips, the way her whole face softens when she smiles—it hits me right in the chest. I want to be able to talk to her without her being the one to put in all the effort. To tell her she makes the world fade from my head for a while. To tell her I can sign her name.
I run through the alphabet one more time before bed, tracing invisible letters in the air. Then I do the numbers again. Thumb, index, middle—three.
Yeah. Got it.
By the time I crawl into bed, my hands still ache, but my chest feels light.
Maybe this is stupid. Maybe I’m setting myself up for a fight I can’t win.
But if learning her language means I have a chance at understanding her world?
I’ll take it. Every damn sign.