Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ROME
Three years later…
Despite being in France for what feels like forever, I never lost the American urge to work obscenely long hours without compensation. By five, everyone is long gone, but I like it when I’m by myself. It helps me think.
I’m no longer lost trying to navigate LSF—it was easy enough to gain conversational fluency since it’s so similar to ASL, but I still don’t feel entirely at home here. I love it, of course.
I love the food, the cobbled streets, and the quieter corners where the locals eat, drink, smoke, and shop. I love being able to take the train into the country and sit in a rental for a long weekend where I have zero obligation to do anything except exist.
Not that I’ve done a lot of those. Paris itself is lacking in accessibility tech, so the contracts my dad managed to get together had me starting from the ground up.
Installing the software for captions was easy.
Working with interpreting agencies to find people willing to take on jobs with the relay services was harder.
Half the people I dealt with didn’t see the point in including that type of tech unless there was already a Deaf person working there, which didn’t happen often. The unemployment rate was high, and the willingness for companies to branch out was embarrassingly low.
So yeah, I was busy. Too busy for a lot of things, though maybe not too busy to occasionally stalk my friends back at home since I was so fucking alone.
Quinn and Theo came to visit the first summer I was there.
They stayed with me for three weeks, and I took them to a couple of clubs for Bastille Day weekend.
We got wasted on bottles of mystery liquor and danced to the beat of several bands playing music so loud that I could feel it through my feet, even on the stone streets.
But as they snagged dates to take back to their hotel rooms, I felt the pressing weight of my own loneliness. It wasn’t like I didn’t have the chance to pull someone. That part was easy.
But letting myself be backed into a corner and kissed by a man who looked nothing like the one I wanted made me so fucking angry I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Dex was still ruining my love life without even being here.
And eventually, my line of visitors fizzled into nothing.
For a short while, I started to freak out that maybe this was it. I rarely heard from my dad, and people stopped texting me all the time, asking me how I was. Work was never-ending, and there was no light at the end of any tunnel I’d gone into.
But this morning, I got a message from my dad that I had a feeling was going to change everything.
Dad: Need to talk business. Zoom this afternoon when everyone goes home. Would like to see your face.
Now, sitting at my desk, I’m staring at the computer screen, waiting for him to join the Zoom call. His name—Gabriel Moreau—is staring back at me. I lean back, glancing out the window at the café across the street. There are several people lounging back, having a beer, chatting about nothing.
I can see their lips moving, but I still haven’t managed to get a good grip on lipreading French, which is annoying as shit. They’re probably talking about their wonderful sex lives while I’ve been here with two boring, basic half hookups under my belt and way too much time with my left hand.
Before I can give in to the urge to pull up my phone and scroll social media, the screen flickers, and then my dad’s face appears.
He looks older. It’s such a weird thing to notice, but it seems to happen faster and faster each year.
His hair is greyer in the front, and there are new wrinkles on his forehead.
Then again, he’s always looked a little old. Or, at least, tired. My mom died years ago—before I could really remember her. He moved to the States with his sister when I was six months old and started up his company there to support the two of us.
I grew up with photos and stories, but my dad played the parts of both parents to a Deaf child, which I knew was hard on him. He was always the only dad in parenting sign classes. The only dad who showed up for school events, or field trips, or to chaperone dances.
We were close—a team of me and him and no one else for a long, long time. It feels weird to have been so far away from him for such a long stretch.
He smiles at me, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed at all. He signs my name—his own unique way of greeting me. It’s something he’s done since I was a kid, even if my name sign has changed three times over the years.
‘You look good.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘You mean tired.’
I shrug. He does look tired, but he looks happier now that he’s semi-retired. ‘Tell me what’s going on. Your message seemed serious.’
His shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. ‘I’m selling our international shares to a new company.’
I blink at him, too shocked to respond.
‘I want to downsize, and the offer I got will be more than enough for your inheritance.’
‘I don’t care about inheritance.’
He laughs. ‘Maybe not now, but you will.’
I swallow heavily. ‘Am I being fired?’
His eyes go wide. ‘What! No! Ridiculous. This just means I want you to come home and head up the office here. Local. Easy.’
Something shifts in my chest. Home. Like, home home. Like where everyone I left behind is. I swallow, but my mouth feels weirdly dry. ‘Okay.’
‘You look upset. You meet someone? Don’t want leave?’
I burst into laughter. I can’t help it. I seemed to have mentally fucked myself into celibacy after the disaster with Thom and Robbie, and then meeting and screwing Thom’s brother…
‘No. No one. Not worth my time.’
He studies me for a long time. His well-trained eyes have always worked against me. He spent years learning to be as observant as a Deaf person. I could be the world’s best actor, but he’d always know how and why to call me out.
‘Robbie?’
He uses Robbie’s less offensive sign name. The one Robbie uses with his students and professional acquaintances. It looks all wrong on his hands because Robbie has been in our lives for as long as I can remember, and I know he’s choosing not to use the silly one.
‘I’m over him.’
My dad stares at me, but this time, I’m actually telling the truth. Yes, I’m still a little bitter that I didn’t pull my head out of my ass and realize I was capable of falling in love before Robbie gave up on me and moved on, but he’s happy.
And because I loved him once, I’m happy for him. Thom hasn’t given up on ASL. He’s integrated into Robbie’s family and with our friends. Everyone tells me they’re voice-off at home. His heart is Deaf now.
That doesn’t mean I have to like him, but I can be at peace with it.
I turn my attention back to my dad. ‘I’m excited to come home.’ As I sign it, I realize it’s true. It must be showing on my face because his tense expression relaxes. ‘I need to find a place though. The people I’m renting my condo to have a lease through the end of the year.’
‘Your aunt Hélène will help.’
Makes sense. She does real estate and insurance, so she gets amazing deals. ‘Can’t wait to hug you.’
He laughs and shakes his head. He’s not used to me being sentimental, but it has been three years since I’ve seen them in person.
We’re not the most affectionate family. We show love in different ways.
It always put Robbie off because his family is a walking cuddle pile, and maybe that’s yet one more reason he and I would never be compatible.
‘When can I buy a ticket?’ I ask.
His grin widens. ‘As soon as you want to start packing. The office will shut down on Friday, and I’ll fly out next month to sign the papers. I can’t wait to see you.’
He’s said that more than once now, but there’s affection in his hands that’s almost tangible. ‘Me too. I’ll book my flight tonight and head in Saturday.’
‘Let me know what time to pick you up.’
It hits me that this is real. That this is happening.
That I now have days to pack up three years of my life.
Not that I really ever settled in. Not fully. But I have snap peas in my little garden, damn it. And carrots, which are not ready to be harvested. They’re going to be someone else’s problem, but they’ll also get the reward of all my hard work.
‘Okay.’
‘Sorry to drop this on you,’ he signs, pressing hard on his chest, his face telling me he means it. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’
‘I am. Trust.’
He doesn’t look like he believes me at this point. I don’t know if I believe myself at this point. I sit back and glance out the window again. My view is going to be very different soon—familiar and probably alien all at the same time.
I’ll be trading this big city for the tiny scrap of land near the coast and friends I thought I’d moved past.
‘Tell Hélène to email me apartment listings.’
He nods. ‘I love you.’ His hand looks big—large knuckles and more wrinkles than I was used to growing up.
I shoot him the three-fingered sign back: ILY. And then I end the call. The screen goes dark, and I glance around the desk before shoving a handful of expensive pens into my satchel. I don’t really care about taking anything else.
The next guy can keep my little origami collection—a busy-hands habit I picked up off YouTube when I was stuck in long meetings where my opinion wasn’t wanted or necessary.
They can keep all the coding books, and the little Tour Eiffel LEGO, and the tiny photo of the Champ de Mars, and the Arc de Triomphe figurine I was foolish enough to buy at one of the bouquinistes.
I don’t need reminders of this life.
Well, actually…
I snag the Arc de Triomphe one and shove it into my bag, then push away from my desk, turn my computer off, and head out the door for what might be the last time.
It’s late the night before my flight back home, and I’m full of cheese and a coffee-flavored custard thing my neighbor brought over.
She’s somewhere in her nineties and doesn’t speak a word of English or know any sort of sign, but she pantomimes well enough and brings me desserts and occasionally some fresh bread she baked herself.
I’m going to miss her. I wrote her a little note asking her to keep an eye on the garden until the new renters arrive, which I’ll give to her in the morning.
That evening, I end up pacing the garden, watching little glow worms inch their way around the plant leaves, looking like tiny LED lights.
The air is a little crisper than it has been in a while, with a hint of rain on the wind, and I take a moment to enjoy it before I force myself back inside to sleep.
It doesn’t come easy. I drift and dream that I’m running and tripping and falling, then wake up with a gasp in my lungs and my heart between my teeth.
Home, I think. I’m going home. But to what?
Rolling onto my stomach, I snag my phone off the nightstand and open my social media app. I hate myself for it only because I know exactly what I’m looking for. I unfollowed Dex two years and seven months ago when he posted a selfie of himself with a gorgeous, dark-haired woman at the gym.
Good for him. Good for fucking him. I hope they fall in love and get married and fuck in every spot that I fucked him in. I hope she pushes out a ton of little babies with her long lashes and his dimple.
I hope he forgets what it was like to kiss me so I can forget what it was like to kiss him.
He doesn’t show up on my feed, but being the glutton for punishment that I am, I type his account into the search bar. It doesn’t turn up anything.
My heart skips a beat, but it can’t be anything bad. He’s fine. He’s totally fine because someone would have told me if something happened to Thom’s brother. I scroll to his page instead, then to his followers’ list.
It is goddamn ridiculous that I’m doing this. I have such a fucking problem.
But there he is. Dex. He changed his name to DexDoesSquats, and without thinking about how much this is going to affect me, I tap on his name.
The first thing that pops up is a reel of him showing the proper posture for lunges. The video has captions, but I ignore the words on the screen and instead follow his full, lush lips as they move.
I can still feel the ghost of them on me. I can still taste him.
I swallow heavily and rock my half-hard dick into the sheets as I scroll to the next video. This one is about abs, or so I think.
Once again, I don’t bother reading. Just watch the way he lifts his shirt up and shows that overly defined V on his hips.
It’s fucking obscene.
I’m even harder now.
My hips move without me wanting them to, but it’s a need. A deeply buried, repressed need for him.
I hate it. I hate that I want him so badly when he’s moved on.
When he’s with someone else.
He pulls his shirt off and grabs some dumbbells. I can almost trace the beads of sweat moving down his chest with my tongue. I can almost feel the scrape of his roughly shaven jaw against mine.
I can still smell him.
My eyes screw shut, and I feel my release coat the inside of my boxers.
With an exasperated sigh, I fall face-first into the mattress, the phone still clutched in my hand.
When I finally pry an eyelid open, I stare at the screen and realize with horror that I accidentally liked his post.
I scramble to undo it, but I know the damage has been done. He’ll know I’ve been looking and perving on him and his videos.
I let out a muffled grunt into my pillow, hoping it doesn’t alarm my neighbor, and turn my phone off entirely.
I won’t turn it back on until I’m at the airport.
And I won’t open that app again.