Rhys shrugs. ‘Not really.’ Something about the way he says this makes me think it’s not a topic he’s comfortable discussing. ‘There are interpreters, sometimes.’
‘I guess it’s the kind of thing you learn if you need to,’ Karam says. ‘It’s not like learning French. I mean, we’ll all go to France at some point, right? But you only need BSL if you . . . need BSL.’
I worry that he’s talking too much for Rhys to follow, but when I look at my boyfriend – my boyfriend – he is moving his head in a bit-of-yes/bit-of-no motion.
‘I think more people should learn it,’ he says.
‘Me too,’ I pipe up.
‘It must be quite isolating,’ Karam says. He talks with the ease of someone who has never been made to think what he has to say is unimportant. ‘Being so cut off from the world.’
I see a frown pass over Rhys’s face, but he covers it with another smile. ‘The hearing world,’ he says. ‘But there’s a deaf world, too.’
‘And Rhys can talk and read lips,’ I say. ‘So he’s not isolated.’
‘How come you can speak it?’ Karam asks me. ‘Sign language, I mean. You can hear just fine, right?’
‘I was a selective mute,’ I say, going for the simplest explanation.
‘Oh right, yeah,’ Karam nods. ‘Tem said.’ He smiles at Rhys, friendly but slightly patronizing. It’s the classic doctor look you get before they tell you to be more careful roller skating next time. ‘Lucky for you, right?’
‘What’s that?’ Rhys asks. I’m not sure if he’s asking Karam to repeat himself because he didn’t catch it, or if he’s saying he doesn’t understand what he means. It occurs to me that this is probably deliberate, and it makes me fall a little bit in love with him even more.
‘Finding a girl who speaks your language,’ Karam says. He grins. ‘So to speak. It must make things easier.’ He glances back to me. ‘And you too, actually. Not having to talk out loud so much?’
I’m saved from having to reply to this by Ron Weasley, Indiana Jones and my very own Panda Tem, who walk into the kitchen arguing about gnomes.
‘Hello!’ Tem yells, throwing her arms around me.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say. I stretch carefully round her and take the cup from her hand, sliding it out of her reach on the kitchen table. ‘Want some water?’
‘Water? Ew, no. I’m totally fine.’ She lets me go and moves beside Karam. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ Karam says, an amused smile flickering on his face. He reaches up and twists one of her curls around his finger. ‘You doing OK?’
She nods happily.
‘Want to go see what’s going on outside?’ he asks.
Tem glances at me. Even in her drunk state she thinks of me, and this is exactly why I am so lucky to have her as my friend. I nod a little at her and she beams.
‘OK!’ she says to Karam, taking his hand. ‘Let’s go.’
When they’ve gone, I turn back to Rhys. I’m not quite sure what to say.
People say stupid things all the time, Rhys says, as if he can read my mind. Don’t worry about it.
But I worry about everything.
Is he right, though?
Right about what?
Is that why you like me? Why we like each other? Because we can communicate easier?
Rhys smiles, his mouth widening and curving, his teeth flashing white. That’s how we met. It’s not why we like each other.
What’s the difference?
I realize after I’ve asked it that it’s probably not the best, nor the most flattering, question for a girlfriend to ask her new boyfriend, but anxiety has twisted my thoughts in that way it does, making me phrase things differently and inappropriately. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, anxiety. You worry so much about being wrong in a certain way that you screw it up anyway.
But Rhys just laughs a little, his constant smile affectionate, and touches his fingers lightly to my cheek. I don’t feel like this about everyone I ‘communicate’ with. It’s got nothing to do with why I like you.
Why do you like me, then? My need for reassurance has overtaken everything.
Rhys holds one hand in the air and circles the other beside it, then leans the second hand back sharply. It’s like he’s reeling something in. I blink at him. He grins. Someone’s fishing.
I can’t help it; I laugh, and the horrible swirling feeling in my stomach eases, just slightly.
There are lots of reasons, he adds. He takes a strand of my hair in between his fingers and rubs it gently. Too many to mention.
I take a step forward and lean my head against his chest. He puts his arms obligingly round my shoulders and squeezes gently, rocking us a little from side to side like we’re dancing to music that – because we are us – doesn’t need to exist. I let out my breath slowly through my mouth, counting the beats, feeling my heart calm.
How to look after your very drunk friend
Step 1: Find her in the bathroom, slumped against the towel rack.
Step 2: Ask her if she needs to be sick. Try not to get offended when she yells that she’s NOT DRUNK, GOD, STEFFI!
Step 3: Tell her it’s fine when she apologizes, bursts into tears and then falls asleep on your shoulder.