“Sign name?”
“It’s a special sign to identify someone,” Indy says, her hands continuing to move for her dad in the most beautifully elegant way. “That way we don’t need to spell out our entire names every time we speak. Not everyone has a sign name. My dad chooses who gets them and what their sign is.” She balls her hand, but her pinky stays straight up then rubs her hand in a small circle over her heart. “’I’ for Indigo and my dad says I’m his whole heart.” She repeats her sign name. “Indy.”
Her mom speaks up. “And I’m Abigale.” She uses her hand, forming the letter “A” and tapping it to her head. “Because Indy’s father first noticed my blonde hair.”
“He typically doesn’t give a sign name right away, but he did with my mom.” Indy smiles thoughtfully, her hands moving. “They’ve been together for almost thirty years, and I think he knew she was going to be in his life from their first meeting. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
A nostalgic smile lifts on Tim’s mouth, nodding to agree with his daughter.
Indy, the romantic. Of course, she would assume that, but watching her parents on the computer screen, I’m not sure that I can argue. They seem utterly in love even after all this time, and it’s no wonder my roommate has these idealistic notions of romance. She grew up watching this.
But most people aren’t like that. Most people can’t be trusted with your heart, and I’d assume she quickly learned that after losing the life she built with her ex.
We chat for a few more minutes, all three of the Ivers speaking a language I didn’t realize was so intricate and beautiful to watch until now, getting to see it in action. The way they make each other smile or laugh with simple movements of their hands. I find myself envious that I can’t participate, and instantly wish I knew more than the basics so Indy’s dad could speak directly to me without his daughter having to translate.
Once Abigale ensures I have her number in case of emergencies, Indy hangs up the call.
“They seem great.”
She smiles. “They’re the best. I miss them.”
“It’s only you? They didn’t have any other kids?”
“They couldn’t. It was a small miracle they got pregnant once. My mom had fertility issues.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Indy brushes me off. “They got one perfect child out of the deal.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum suspiciously, attempting to keep my wandering eye off her long legs and pajama shorts. “Did you just wake up?”
“Yes.” She yawns with a stretch, her hands in the air. “How was practice?”
The short answer? Terrible.
I’ve never had so many turnovers in a two-hour span, never missed so many free throws in a single practice. And it’s all because I couldn’t stop thinking of what might have happened if I knocked on Indy’s closed bedroom door last night instead of going to my own.
After hesitating with my hands on her doorframe, my chest moving with heavy breaths, and the overwhelming desire to end our night doing something that would be anything but pretend, I did the right thing and turned around. I went back to my own bedroom, back to my own shower where I took care of myself as I have for the last couple of years.
“It was fine.”
She stands, circling the kitchen island to my side and I automatically round in the opposite direction, needing to maintain distance when all I want to do is touch her.
“Have you always known how to speak like that?”
“ASL?” she asks. “I guess so. At home we’ve always signed. My dad was born deaf, and my mom learned the language when they met.”
“How would…” I hesitate uncomfortably. “How would an adult learn the language?”
Her head snaps around to me. “You want to learn how to sign?”
Oh fuck. Those glossy brown eyes are back. Indy, the romantic. “I want to be able to speak to your dad without you having to translate. That way I can let him know when his daughter is being a pain in my ass.”
A quick, non-feminine laugh bubbles out of her. It’s lovely.
“There are classes you could take. Or I could help teach you if you’d like.”
She doesn’t make eye contact, as if she’s new to the topic. As if no one else in her life has ever asked her how they could learn to better communicate with her family.
Indy opens the fridge, quickly shifting the subject. “Are you hungry? I can make you some—” She takes her pink coffee cup out of the refrigerator and holds it up to me. “What is this?”
“I uh…” I rub my hand on the back of my neck. “I made you coffee before I left for practice and put it in the fridge to cool so it wouldn’t get watered down when you added ice.”
Her head drops to the side. “Ryan, that’s really sweet. Thank you.”
I look away from the girl who probably assumes this is some grand romantic gesture. “It was nothing.”
She rifles through the fridge, her blonde braid cascading down her back. Those bare feet and long legs distracting me once again.
“Where’s the regular bacon?” she asks.
“I haven’t been ordering it. I’ve just been getting the vegetarian stuff.”
She looks over her shoulder at me for an explanation.
“I think it tastes pretty good. No need to order both.”
Another thoughtful smile pulls at her lips.
Dammit. I know she’s going to think this is deeper than it is. She’s going to romanticize me buying fucking breakfast meats because that’s who she is, but it’s nothing. Really.
I just want the fridge to be stocked with things she can eat. I want her to feel at home here because it’s her home too.
The realization rams into my chest.
I want her here. I want her to want to be here.
Fuck, when did that happen?
12
RYAN
“We had too many turnovers in the third and we couldn’t recover. That’s something we’re going to work on in practice this week.”
At least thirty hands shoot up, but I can barely make out the reporters’ faces thanks to the blinding camera lights.
“That’s enough questions for tonight,” our media coordinator announces in the post-game press conference.
I stand, fixing my suit and offering my most diplomatic wave and smile after making sure my answers were perfectly poised for the media. “Thank you, everyone.”
The buzz of chatter is behind me as I make my way back down the tunnel to the locker room. The rest of the team is gone. Only Coach and I had to stay back to be drilled with questions about why we played like shit on our home court. I had my worst game of the season and since I lead my team with the way I play, we collectively played like garbage.