I bet you get your dad a tie every year, I say, rolling my eyes.
What’s wrong with a tie? All dads love ties.
Basic, I sign, grinning at him. You’re basic.
We reach the front of the queue and Rhys orders for us, choosing the Christmas blend for himself and my usual vanilla hot chocolate for me. We head out into the cold, still no clearer on what shop we’re going to first or even who we’re buying a present for, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
Signing is a bit more difficult with a cup in one hand, but we manage. Rhys is laughing as he signs; he’s telling me a story about the Christmas he and his brother got their mother the same bath set. We’re surrounded by people but I’m looking at no one but Rhys, the two of us completely in our own bubble – a warm, happy bubble. I’m having an entire conversation and I’m not saying a word. Is anyone looking at us? Probably. I don’t even care.
We’re walking at an angle to each other so we can walk and talk, navigating our surroundings with glances. Rhys is slightly in front of me, walking backwards, and it is this fact, plus the aforementioned bubble, that causes Rhys to walk right out into the road, straight into the path of an oncoming Royal Mail van. The van is far enough away that most people would be able to get out of the way at the first sound of a horn, but Rhys doesn’t hear the horn.
I lunge out into the road and grab hold of Rhys, pulling him out of the way with seconds to spare before the blur of red, the blare of a horn being pounded in fury and a fist waving out of an open window. I take all of this in for less than a second before the bicycle hits us both.
Firstly – ow. The front wheel careens into Rhys’s leg and then over my left foot, the handlebars hitting the space just below my ribs.
Secondly – shit. We manage not to fall, Rhys’s hands grabbing on to my forearms, righting us both. His cup of coffee has gone flying into the road, spraying us, the road and the bike with lukewarm liquid.
‘What the fuck?!’ the cyclist roars. He’s managed to stop his bike with his feet and I don’t think he or his bike are even slightly dented, but still he is reaching up and ripping off his cycling goggles – yes, really – to yell at us. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Watch where you’re going!’
Everyone is staring at us. I am definitely not in a bubble any more. But near-death-experience adrenalin apparently beats anxiety, because I have my voice and I use it to yell right back. ‘He’s deaf!’
‘That’s why you should fucking look!’ The cyclist climbs back on to his bike and presses his feet into the pedals. ‘Fucking kids,’ he throws over his shoulder as he begins to ride away. ‘Fucking deaf fucking kids.’
Rhys steps back up on to the pavement and I follow silently. The shock of the last minute has made my hands start tingling. I let out a breath. Rhys isn’t looking at me; he’s examining his hands, taking his time over them, studying the streak of wheel mud across his fingers.
I touch his shoulder and he looks up slowly. You OK?
He shrugs.
I attempt a shaky grin. You’re welcome.
He frowns. What?
I just saved your life, I point out. Better a bicycle than a van, right?
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unusually unreadable. He pushes his fingers into his pockets and shrugs again.
Are you OK? I ask again.
A flash of irritation crosses his face, so alien I almost don’t recognize it for what it is. He clenches his hand into a fist and moves it up and down, which is the sign for yes. But the way he’s making the motion, it’s more like he’s saying YES, for God’s sake, shut up.
I bite my lip, wrong-footed, unsure what to do or say. I hesitate, then reach up and sweep my fingers across his cheek, wiping off droplets of coffee. He closes his eyes, takes a hold of my fingers and kisses them. Before he lets go he sighs slowly, opening his eyes, then smiles.
Sorry.
You don’t need to be sorry, I reply, surprised. It was an accident.
He shakes his head. My fault. Wasn’t looking.
Neither was I. We’re both stupid. I smile, hoping the tension in his face will ease.
You – he begins, then stops.
Go on.
You wouldn’t have been in the road. That was me not looking. I always look.
‘Rhys,’ I say, because it’s one of those moments where I need to say his name and I haven’t yet learned how to fill the same impulse with BSL. We were both not looking.
He presses his lips together. No. I always look. If you weren’t here, I would have been looking. He suddenly squeezes both his hands into fists, as if he’s keeping the words in, stopping something else coming out.
I feel my eyes widen. What does that mean? The words have kickstarted my heart – it’s cantering in panic in my chest.
He shakes his head again. Nothing. I’m sorry. I want to keep you safe.