1
Fallon
The only thing standing between me and my morning cup of coffee is my roommate’s bare ass.
All I want—all I need, really— is a scalding cup of caffeinated glory. It’s the magic elixir that turns my sassy self into a charming, well-mannered young lady.
Okay, that might require two cups.
Or possibly two hundred.
But it doesn’t look like I’m getting any cups this morning.
Sure, I could tell Kendra to move. I could tap her on the shin and sign for her to scoot over a few inches. But I don’t want butt coffee.
Plus, her boyfriend’s face is trapped between her thighs like he’s searching for treasure that’s buried behind her spleen, so she might be too distracted to read my words.
Huffing and rolling my eyes, I grab my bag and leave our apartment, mentally calculating if I have enough time to swing by Drip and still make it to my grandparents’ house in Bellfield without being late.
I hit every red light—because of course I do—so,coffee is officially out of the question. It’s not like Gran and Grandad won’t serve coffee at brunch. The long oak table in their formal dining room will be filled with all the beverages, pastries, and breakfast foods a girl could ask for.
Jim and Carol Nolan are overachievers that way. They smother my family with attention, especially since my mom and dad’s divorce a few years ago. When my mom was finding her footing after two decades of living under my father’s controlling thumb, Gran and Grandad swooped in and gave us all the support and love we needed.
I’m grateful, I swear.
The only trouble is that these days they focus all that love and attention on me and it’s a little overwhelming.
I can’t blame them, I guess. A few months ago, my brother, Booker, moved out to Santa Fe to start his AHL career. Two weeks after that, Mom and my little sister, Emersyn, moved to California so Em could train at an elite facility and make her dreams of Olympic ice dancing come true.
Since I’m the only chick left in the nest, I get enough attention for four people.
But one thing I won’t get is a pass for being late, which means a crooked parking job in their circular driveway and a mad dash to the porch. I reach out to press the button by the door, waving into the camera above it. A second later, the doorknob twists and I’m ushered inside.
Grandad winks at me as he taps his watch. His once coal-black hair is now more salt than pepper and his hands are a little slower than they used to be. When Gran rounds the corner, I play along as he explains that he was showing me the new sprinkler system on the front lawn.
Gran wraps me in a hug and then scolds Grandad for keeping me outside for too long. He shoots me another wink, and I smile in return. We walk from the entrywayinto the sitting room, which is set for tea. I’m not too worried, though. Grandad will sneak me a cup of the high-test java we both crave. Just as I’m about to take my seat on the overstuffed ivory sofa, I realize it’s occupied.
By a man.
He’s about my age, maybe Booker’s, and he has the clean-shaven, aggressively combed look of half the boys who graduated with me from Rockvale Christian Academy two years ago, though I don’t think I actually know him. He just fits a mold I know a little too well.
His crisp white shirt hangs on his lean frame, and the yellow tie around his neck reminds me of oily movie-theater-style butter as it drips over the side of a half-popped kernel of corn.
The seat-stealer smiles up at me, reaching his hand out for a limp shake. You know that moment in movies and books where the heroine first meets the hero? She’s the waitress at a diner and he’s the handsome newcomer who just got sat in her section. She hands over his burger and fries, and when she does, their fingers share the slightest touch, but it feels more like a lightning strike or a jolt of electricity.
This is not that.
Seat-stealer slips his pale, bony hand into mine, and I don’t feel any tingle. The only thing I’m feeling is a burning desire to find some hand sanitizer, and I’m not even a germaphobe. I leave that hang up to my friend Maggie most days, but something about our guest tells me the extra precaution is necessary.
I grew up with my brother and his three closest friends. We played outside every chance we got, and we didn’t come inside until the neighborhood street lamps signaled our curfew. I’m no stranger to sweat, and I don’t mind a little whiff of the great outdoors. Nothing about this guyscreams adventure, though. He has the sterile look of a man whose most daring move is dog-earing the pages of his Bible instead of using his bookmark.
Gran turns away from the tea set to observe the meet-awkward occurring in her parlor. Her ash blond hair is perfectly styled and her demure makeup expertly applied. She seems unfazed which means I’ve finally gotten a poker face or—more likely— that she’s choosing to focus on Seat-stealer’s wide grin rather than my grimace.
“Fallon,” she says, signing as she speaks and looks at me. “I see you’ve met Thomas. He’s joining us for brunch today.”
Thomas looks utterly confused. “Isn’t she Deaf?” he asks, pointing in my direction.
“Yes, Thomas,” Gran acknowledges awkwardly, continuing to sign and speak. “Fallon is Deaf, but she typically wears hearing aids and she reads lips. You can sign to her, of course, using the signs I taught you, but you can also talk to her as you typically would. Just make sure she can see your lips.”
