Chapter 17
Lincoln
The classroom at the Center for Sight and Hearing is different from what I expected—clean walls, open windows, and a big U-shaped table that makes it impossible to hide in the back.
Ten of us sit around it: parents, teachers, a couple of teenagers, and me.
The lone guy in work boots and a faded Scorpions hoodie, trying not to look completely out of place.
The instructor, a short woman with kind eyes and a quick smile, starts by writing A–Z on the whiteboard.
“We’ll review letters first,” she signs and says aloud, moving her hands fluidly. “Then we’ll move to family words.”
I already know most of the alphabet. Or I thought I did. The first few letters—A, B, C—come easy now. My fingers remember the rhythm from the time spent watching YouTube videos. But when she calls out random letters, my brain scrambles to keep up.
The more she calls them out, the faster I get. The shapes start to make sense, muscle memory kicking in.
By the time she finishes the alphabet review, my hands ache, but my pride’s alive. I can finally keep pace without needing to peek at the chart taped to the wall.
“Good work,” she says, eyes scanning the room. “Let’s move on to family terms.”
We go through mother, father, sister, brother.
Simple enough. Open five-hand to the chin for mother, same shape to the forehead for father.
Brother starts with a quick flick from the forehead, like tipping a cap, then both hands stack in L-shapes, fingers pointing out.
Sister’s almost the same—thumb from the chin, like tying a bonnet string, then the same stacked motion.
My fingers stumble again, but I catch up quicker this time. Every word adds a new piece to a puzzle I didn’t realize I wanted to finish so badly.
Halfway through granddaughter, my wrist cramps. I shake it out, flexing my fingers.
I’ve wired houses in hundred-degree heat with my knuckles bleeding. I can handle this.
The instructor pauses, scanning the group. “Any questions before we wrap up for today?”
My hand goes up before I can think better of it.
She points at me with a grin. “Yes?”
“Uh,” I start, feeling all eyes shift my way. “How do you sign… ‘Will you go to dinner with me?’”
A few people chuckle. The instructor’s smile widens, amused but kind. “Someone’s feeling brave.”
She repeats the sentence out loud as she signs it—each motion clean and deliberate.
Will you—she gestures forward, palm up. Go—two fingers walking through the air. Dinner—the sign for eat followed by night, one arm curved like the horizon, the other hand lowering over it like the sun going down. With me—index fingers side by side, drawing inward toward her chest.
I mirror her, watching closely, replaying every movement until it clicks.
“Good,” she says. “Now again. Slower.”
I try once more. Still clumsy, but recognizable.
When she nods, the class lets out a small round of applause and laughs quietly.
“Nice work,” she says with a wink. “Someone’s dedicated.”
I grin, rubbing the back of my neck. If only they knew who I was practicing for.
There are no other questions. My brain feels fried, so I grab my jacket and step into the hallway. I head out to the parking lot, slide into the driver’s seat, and just sit there a minute, watching the night settle around me.
Finally, I open my phone.
Me: How are you?
It takes a few minutes, but her reply pops up.
Bayleigh: Fine.
I frown. Fine never means fine for anyone. I’ve talked to enough customers, fans, and others to know that.
Me: Just fine?
A long pause. Then—
Bayleigh: Sorry. I’m just upset…I got into it with Benton.
My stomach sinks.
Me: Because of me?
Bayleigh: Because of you and Milton. Benton saw me helping him at the charity event. He can’t let this stupid rivalry go with your brother. He’s being an asshole.
I stare at the screen, jaw tightening. She helps someone, and this is the thanks she gets?
Me: Can I help?
Bayleigh: No. I just need to cool down.
Bayleigh: I slapped him.
My brows shoot up.
Me: Wow. That bad, huh?
Bayleigh: He brought up my scent match.
For a second, I just stare at the words. It feels like someone sucker-punched me. She’s got a scent match out there? Some guy who’s supposed to be hers. My chest goes tight, breath catching in my throat.
Why hasn’t she mentioned it before? And if she’s already matched…what the hell have we been doing?
Something in me won’t stop asking more about him. Where is he? And why the hell is she humoring this thing with me?
Me: I didn’t know you’d met your scent match…
Bayleigh: I did. Met him freshman year of college. He rejected me because I’m deaf. Well… he knew I was deaf, but he rejected me after I spoke. He rejected me in front of everyone.
I freeze, reading it twice. She spoke. And he humiliated her.
I feel stupid for not realizing she could, but I know better than to bring it up. The last thing she needs is pity.
I press my thumb hard into the steering wheel, anger sparking hot and fast.
What kind of bastard looks at a woman like her—-smart, kind, beautiful—-and throws her away because of something she can’t change?
Because she’s different?
Me: What an asshole.
Bayleigh: Agreed.
There’s a lull, one of those heavy silences that sits on your chest. Then another message blinks through.
Bayleigh: So, tell me…what’s your plan, Lincoln? You learn ASL, sign a few words, and then what?
I stare at it for a second before typing back.
Me: Then I take you on a proper date. I thought I made it clear that I’m interested. I want to court you.
It’s the truth, bare and simple. No games.
The typing bubble flickers. Stops. Flickers again.
Bayleigh: And if you meet your scent match?
The question sits there, mocking me. I could lie, make it easy. But I don’t want easy.
Me: I wouldn’t care. I want you.
The bubble appears, then, disappears again. Finally, one last message appears.
Bayleigh: It’s not that simple. Rejecting your scent match or being rejected is painful, and it doesn’t just go away. The pain stayed with me, made me sick to my stomach, and heats would have been unbearable if I hadn’t suppressed them.
Me: What did you do to make it better?
Bayleigh: After a year or so my mom took me to the clinic, and I had them sever the match. It’s like it never happened to my body, but my mind and heart remember.
Me: Then that’s what I’ll do. If I ever meet my scent match I’ll immediately have it severed. The pain will be worth it if it means I get to keep you.
Bayleigh: Goodnight Lincoln.
I stare at the message until the screen fades to black. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, itching to type something else, anything to make her stay. But I don’t. I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and drag my hands over my face.
I’m in over my head. And for once, I don’t give a damn.
By the time I get home, it’s past nine. I grab a bottle of water and head upstairs. My body’s tired, but my mind won’t stop running.
Bayleigh’s words replay over and over: He rejected me because I’m deaf.
What kind of man does that?
I stop in the hallway mirror, catch my reflection, and sigh. My eyes are bloodshot, but my hands itch for movement. So I lift them.
A.
B.
C.
I move through the alphabet without needing the video. My motions are still rough, but they’re mine now. When I get to Z, I keep going—family words, wh words.
Who. What.
I mouth each one as I sign it, trying to match the rhythm I remember from class. When I hit who, I laugh—it still feels ridiculous, like bad charades.
The memory slips in anyway: the ASL instructor laughing across the classroom, shaking her head. Not like that, she’d said, touching her chin and wiggling her brows to demonstrate. Then she’d pointed at my face—
Your eyebrows, she’d said. You look like you’re hooting like an owl. Be more expressive. Let them see it’s a question.
In the mirror, I adjust, exaggerating the expression the way she showed me. It clicks a little more this time. I grin back at my reflection when I get it right.
I adjust, exaggerate the expression, and grin, knowing it’s right this time.
It clicks—how much of this language isn’t just hands, but face, body, intent. A whole system that says everything without sound.
And I want to learn all of it.
Every single piece of her world.
Where. When. Why.
I sign them again, slower. Not perfect, but better.
For the first time, I can almost picture it: me sitting across from her, signing clumsy words that she actually understands. No interpreter. No barrier. Just her and me.
And then the thought, the memory of my admission, hits hard—if my scent match showed up tomorrow, I wouldn’t care.
Not even a little.
If a shot or pill existed to cut that bond clean, I’d take it right now. Hell, I’d inject it myself if it meant I got to keep getting to know her.
She’s it. Not because she’s my match. Because she feels like the right one.
And yeah, she’s insecure, cautious, scared—and I get it. To anyone else, that might be frustrating. To me, it just makes me want to fight harder. Not for her attention. For her trust. For the version of her that still thinks she’s worth less, because one asshole couldn’t see what she’s made of.
I lower my hands and stare at my reflection again.
“Whatever it takes,” I whisper. “I’m not letting you think you’re unworthy ever again.”
The mirror doesn’t answer, but I see the look in my own eyes, the one I get before a fight I know I can’t walk away from.
Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe she’ll push me away again tomorrow. But she’s worth it. Every shaky sign, every late-night text, every risk of pissing off her brother.
I switch off the light and head for bed, phone still silent beside me. My hands ache, my chest aches worse, but I fall asleep smiling, anyway.
Because for the first time in years, I’m fighting for something that isn’t about pride or the adrenaline rush or proving myself.
I’m fighting for her.