You are doing it yourself.
But even as I say this I know what he means, at least in a way. Maybe for me the equivalent is medication; I still can’t quite get over the feeling that it’s some kind of leg-up to get me where I want to be. A kickstart that I should feel lucky to have. It feels like a kind of cheating, almost, despite what my therapist says, which is that there is no such thing as cheating when you are trying to navigate a difficult world with the body and the tools we’ve been given. That we all have our methods, and life isn’t a video game. There are no cheats. ‘If there were,’ she added once, ‘I’d be out of a job, for one thing.’
I think you’re amazing, I say finally. Because I do, and also because everything I’ve just thought feels far too complicated to translate into sign language at this time of the evening.
He smiles. I think you’re amazing.
The rain continues to drum down. He takes my hand and kisses my fingers, his eyes on mine. I think about how him holding my hand like this is the BSL equivalent of putting a hand over someone’s mouth, but because we are us we are still communicating. It’s in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the softness of his touch. The question in the parting of his lips.
We kiss between the two front seats and it’s like a whole conversation of its own. His hands on my face and my back ask questions; I reply with the way I nod my head as we kiss. I feel so safe in this car, hidden from the world under the blanket of rain, Rhys in my head and my hands and my mouth. At one point his hand slides up under my shirt and I find myself arching my back in response. His fingers feel warm and perfect against my skin.
Some time later – who knows exactly how long – I walk into my house in a bubble of heat and joy. I barely notice Dad’s jocular attempts to ask me how my evening went, I just wave happily at him, pour myself a glass of water and go to my room. When I climb into bed, I think about everything that comes after kissing, all the places we have to go together. I wonder if he’s thinking about this too. I think about him thinking about me until my cheeks burn and my toes curl.
Before I fall asleep I check my phone and see a message waiting for me. The first two words make my heart leap into my throat.
Steffi:
I love kissing you. You taste like stars. xxx
I hug my phone to my chest, roll on to my back and beam at the ceiling.
The ten best things about having a boyfriend
1) Kissing. (It’s pretty great.)
2) Getting to learn sign language. (Note: may only apply to Rhys Gold.)
3) Sharing private jokes.
4) Coming up with your ship name together. (Rheffi )
5) . . . And your superhero/outlaws/explorers/pop duo name (Bronze & Gold, natch).
6) Learning silly little things about him that most people will never know. (Rhys still sometimes has nightmares about the Groke from the Moomins trying to eat him. Adorable.)
7) Frequent compliments, usually accompanied by 1) – Kissing.
8) Holding hands.
9) Having someone duty-bound to listen to your complaints/rants/rambling stories.
10) Kissing.
At work the following Saturday, Rhys’s mother Sandra arrives at the kennels near the end of my shift. I’m on litter-tray duty in the cattery – my least favourite job – and so it’s Ivan who comes to find me to tell me she’s there.
‘There’s a woman here to see you,’ he says. ‘She says she’d like to have a look at the rescue dogs? Sandra Gold.’
‘Oh!’ I say. I pause, looking down at the pile of litter trays I still have to clean.
‘It’s fine,’ Ivan says. ‘You’re off the hook this time. I’ve asked Michael to take over.’ As he speaks, Michael appears behind him, looking sulky.
‘Thanks!’ I say, peeling off my gloves, beaming at Michael. ‘I owe you.’
Michael mutters something that I ignore as I leave the cattery and follow the path round to the front office. Sandra is standing in the reception area, reading a leaflet.
‘Hi, Sandra,’ I say, pausing by the desk and then hovering a little awkwardly.
‘Hello, Steffi!’ she says, her smile warm. She puts the leaflet back on the pile and taps her hands together. ‘I’ve come to meet Lily.’
‘Who?’ I ask stupidly, then remember. ‘Oh!’ She means Lily the three-legged beagle that I’d mentioned way back at Rhys’s birthday dinner. ‘Lily’s already been adopted.’ Lily got scooped up within about a week of her arriving at St Francis. She was adorable.
Her face falls. ‘Oh. Oh dear.’
‘We have others,’ I say quickly. I try to gesture grandly with my hands, but it doesn’t quite work. ‘Let me give you the tour.’