Chapter 5 #2
It was pure chaos year-round, filled to the brim with tourists. Even the oldest monuments turned into a cash grab. In the suburbs of Paris, it’s different. It’s still—which is the only way I understand what hearing people mean when they talk about the weight of silence.
My world is almost always totally silent. Even with hearing aids, it’s muffled and soft. But I feel everything. So when the world stops moving quickly, it’s like a weight comes off me.
I want that now. I need it. I’m craving it in ways I can’t properly describe. And I’m ready.
I decide not to fuck around with a cab, though, and instead order a hire car on my app. There’s one in the line that flashes his lights at me, so I roll my suitcase over and shove it in the seat beside me, climbing in.
I barely trust my voice in English, and I won’t attempt French. Not with the way they speak half in the back of the throat and half at the tip of the tongue, so I pull up my notes and begin typing. My written French is probably appalling, but I’ve been brushing up since my dad gave me the job.
Me: I’m Deaf. Going to the address on the app. If you need something please wave at me.
The driver blinks at it, says something I can’t lipread, then shrugs and pulls out at a speed that makes me wonder if I’m going to survive the journey.
Luckily, he can’t maintain it. The traffic is worse than the I5 on a Friday afternoon, and we’re at a gridlock the moment he pulls out onto the main road.
But I can at least sit back and relax and wait to leave the city behind. Tomorrow, I’ll unpack all the boxes I shipped over. On Thursday, I’ll head to the market to shop. Friday, I’ll make my way into the office to introduce myself and figure out how I’m going to lead the team.
But tonight…tonight, I’m going to crawl into the bed that’s hopefully made, pull the sheets up over my face, turn on a video I don’t want to admit I have saved, jerk off, and pray to god that it’s enough for me to let all of this stress go and sleep.
I don’t have a lot of hope, of course. That’s not my strong suit. But with this many miles between me and a past I don’t feel like dwelling in, I’m at least willing to try.
I’m half-asleep when I notice the car start to slow, and I wake with a tiny gasp in the back of my throat as the driver turns down an old, familiar road. My eyes are a little fuzzy, but that’s not why I barely recognize any of the houses.
The last time I was there with my dad, the neighborhood was still dotted with historic relics—old stone cottages with big wrought-iron gates and overgrown gardens.
Now, everything’s been renovated and rebuilt from the ground up.
This could be any middle-class neighborhood in the Pacific Northwest with their sleek cars and trimmed lawns and painted stucco.
Ours is the only one that stands outside of time.
My gaze catches on the gate as we pull up.
It’s halfway open because I don’t have a key, so the driver pulls up right alongside and gives me a nod and says something I once again can’t understand.
Maybe he’s offering to help me with my bags, but I only have the one, and I really don’t want a stranger walking with me anywhere.
I have childhood memories here of when I was under the protective gaze of my father.
It’s different now, being on my own. Sometimes I don’t even know what being an adult is supposed to feel like—except for this deep loneliness and the constant awareness that there’s no one to turn to and no one to fix my problems when everything falls apart.
But maybe that’s all being an adult really means.
I make sure I pay the driver before sliding past the gate, and I can feel the creaking as it swings shut. It slams loud enough to startle me even without hearing aids in, and I grimace before turning to face the garden.
It’s been maintained—sort of. The arch along the pathway that leads to the front door is still overgrown, but someone’s come to trim back the vines, and off to the side, it looks like someone’s been maintaining a little vegetable patch.
For a second, I think there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to be doing any of that, but then I picture myself in little shorts and a sunhat, kneeling in the dirt, getting my hands dirty, and suddenly, I don’t hate it.
Suddenly, it sounds like the most peaceful thing in the world.
I shake that thought away and walk to the front door, punching in the code. It’s a weird bit of modern technology in the face of a stone wall and concrete floors, but when the dead bolt clicks under my fingers, I push inside.
The cleaning service has definitely been here. Everything is shiny, and I can smell the lingering scent of lemon cleaner in the air.
The door opens right to the kitchen, and there’s a covered cheeseboard and a fresh baguette waiting for me on the counter. The kitchen table is tiny but scrubbed clean, and when I open the fridge, I see something that looks like a tiny roast and a small bowl of unwashed vegetables.
I guess I won’t be starving so long as I’m willing to cook.
Though I also think I won’t be doing much besides sitting in bed and tearing into that baguette with my bare hands like a barbarian before falling asleep in crumbs.
Letting my bag knock against the kitchen counter, I do a quick little tour. There’s not much to see. Three small bedrooms and a narrow hallway. My dad loved reminding us he grew up in a tiny bedroom with three brothers crammed into one bed.
But he’s not here to tell me this, and the relics of his childhood are gone, replaced by modern furniture and floral comforters.
He usually rents this place out for expats on temporary visas, but I catch little signs of his presence in tiny, square-framed photos of him and my uncles tucked away on cabinet tops, and bookshelves with LSF dictionaries and study guides, and a copy of The Boxcar Children translated into French.
My dad used to read those to me when I was little.
I can remember the expressions on his face and the classifiers he used to make the story come alive.
It was so much easier back then. So much softer. Life hadn’t quite developed all its sharp corners and jagged edges.
I’m in no mood to be this melancholy though. I’m exhausted, my back is sore, and my head is aching. I’m starving and need to eat and hibernate like a bear getting ready for winter.
I peer into the bathroom—a claw-foot tub with a ring shower curtain and a showerhead that comes down from the ceiling. It’s not as nice as mine back home, but it’ll do.
The biggest bedroom has a soft mattress, and when I flop over on it, I get a whiff of lavender laundry powder. It’s oddly soothing. I breathe in, feeling a slight breeze from a cracked window, and realize that for better or worse, this is my life now.
At least for as long as the office here needs me.
It’s strange to realize that everyone back home will move on without me. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone except Robbie. I just sent a few texts from the airport, which reminds me…
I pull out my phone and tap open the text message folder that I’ve been ignoring since I landed. As expected, it’s full.
Denver: You’re a dick. Have fun, eat cheese, send pics.
Robbie: * middle-finger emoji*
Quinn: Viva la Revolution!
Theo: French dick! * drooling emoji*
Then, in another thread is a text I wrote. A text left unsent to Dex.
Me: Sorry can’t come. Flight to France early in morning…
My thumb hovers over the little triangle, tempting me to send it now, but instead I highlight the text and hit Delete. It’s gone.
As if last night never happened at all.
With a sigh, I tap the Instagram logo and my feed bursts to life.
The first few videos show songs in ASL. I’ve attempted to train my algorithm away from those signing students and their weird attempts at interpreting rap, but it seems impossible at this point.
So, I scroll and scroll. There’s a video of Thom doing squats in one, and although I hate him, I can at least appreciate that peach-perfect ass as he bends and lifts.
At least, until I scroll down once more and am confronted with a photo of him and Robbie kissing.
My stomach roils, and I swipe away quickly, unthinking.
Suddenly, my thumb stops, and my heart threatens to as well, because there he is.
On my screen.
Dex.
He has a dimple when he smiles, like his brother, except it’s only in one cheek, not both. He’s grinning wide enough for me to see his crooked eyeteeth, which I fucking love. His lips are thick and pink, and goddamn, I want to bite them, lick them.
But his eyes, I swear to god, are glowing in the light.
It’s a video, but he’s not speaking, so there aren’t captions. I turn up the volume all the way and press it to my ear so I can catch a hint of some kind of club music. Of course this guy would work out to EDM.
And yet it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Instead, I pull the phone away from my head and watch him for too long—a loop of him doing bicep curls over and over until my dick is hard.
God help me.
I scroll down a little lower and see comments. He’s replying to them. Each and every one. I tell myself not to open them, but I’m nothing if not a glutton for punishment.
Most of them are just reactions to his very obvious thirst trap. But then there’s one that goes on longer than just one reply. It goes on for six. Her icon shows a pretty woman with long dark hair, and when I click on it, her profile is private, but her bio says fitness, so of course he’s replying.
Of course he’s into it. Why wouldn’t he be?
She’s perfect.
He tells her that in the last comment, and she leaves a blushing emoji.
Now I have a boner, but I’m fucking pissed and hurt and…
you know what, fuck it. It doesn’t matter.
Dex is nothing to me. He’s just some hearing guy.
The brother of my ex-hookup’s new boyfriend.
He knows like six phrases of ASL, and okay, maybe he gets my dick going like no guy I’ve ever been with, but that doesn’t matter.
He mostly likes women. I was probably just some drunken experiment. I mean, I’d lost my mind at the club, anyway. I still don’t know what I was thinking following him home. Or into the shower at the gym. Or showing up at his house last night, horny and practically gagging for it.
Jesus, I need therapy. Or an exorcist.
Or three years away from the source of all my problems.
By the time I go back, I won’t even remember his name.
I bury my face into the pillow, feeling sleep tugging at my edges despite the fact that I’m still hard, starving for food, and it’s not even sunset. But screw it. I have no real obligations until next week. I can lie here for a while, ignore my boner, and rot.
I wake up slowly, my eyes blinking. It’s still dark out, and I realize when I look at my phone, it’s far too early. I’m all fucked-up from the time change. This is going to be a hellish few days while I adjust.
Even worse, my dick is still hard.
It seems pissed that I fell asleep with Dex on my mind—the man I’m supposed to forget about—and did nothing about it. Something warm wells up in my belly, and I shift onto my back, running the heel of my palm down my hard length. My hips arch up, and I try to stop myself from making a bad decision.
But it seems my dick has overruled my mind.
I grab my phone and pull up the video I was supposed to delete. The one of me sucking his cock, my eyes watering, my lips spread wide.
Without thinking, I slide my hand down my pants and turn the volume up all the way. That allows me to hear the faint rumble of Dex’s moans.
Fuck, he sounds amazing.
My fist tightens around my cock, and I start to stroke it, my eyes taking everything in. The way his abs flex, the V of his hips, the sheen of his cock as I bob my head back and forth, taking every inch of him.
I’d lost my mind that night. Following him home, getting on my knees, but a secret part of me doesn’t regret it.
Maybe I knew this would happen. Maybe that’s why I asked him to record it, so I could look back on my time with him. But then I followed him into the shower and got on my knees again.
I knew then that it would be a bad habit. An addiction.
I gasp when I see his cum sliding out of my mouth. My tongue peeking out as I lick at my lips. I can almost taste him again.
I want to choke on his dick while he forces me to take him.
My balls draw up, and my orgasm rushes through me. Breath leaves my lungs, and I fall back against the pillow, trying to not pass out.
When I regain some sort of consciousness, I realize my hand is sticky from my cum, and my pants are fucked, so I kick them off, using them to wipe my hand clean before shutting off my phone and tossing it aside. I won’t be looking at that again. In fact, I’m going to delete it.
I reach for my phone again, but it falls to the ground. God damn it. Scooting over to the edge of the bed, I stare down at it before leaning forward. I reach for it, but in the process, I lose my balance, toppling to the ground.
My arm hits the floor, and I let out a grunt of annoyance and pain. Fucking Dex. This is all his fault, I think as I swipe my phone from the floor and roll onto my back.
But as I try to delete the video, I notice my phone screen is broken.
Fucking hell.
I place it on my chest and let out a silent scream before deflating entirely.
It’s not a big deal. I can get my phone fixed, and when I do, I’ll delete that video entirely.
And if I haven’t deleted it by the time I finally fly home, then I’m a loser who loses.