‘I’ll get it,’ Rhys says, frowning, touching my wrist. I look at him and see he’s holding his debit card between two fingers.
‘It’s covered,’ Daniel says. ‘No worries.’
Rhys looks at me, a frustrated crease in his forehead. I don’t want him to pay for your drink, he signs.
I can’t sign with the two glasses in my hand, so I just shake my head. I try and say, Don’t make a fuss, with my eyes.
‘You just look after this one,’ Daniel says, gesturing to me with a jovial, oblivious smile on his face.
Rhys still looks perturbed. For God’s sake. Bloody boys. ‘Come on,’ I say, injecting perkiness into my voice. ‘Thanks, Daniel,’ I add, smiling as I turn away.
We get back to the table and Rhys takes his pint glass from me, taking a swig without meeting my eyes. I watch him, wondering if he’s annoyed with me and, if so, exactly why. I put my Coke down on the table. What’s wrong?
Rhys looks at me, twists his lip between his teeth, then sets his glass down beside mine and pulls me in for a hug. I settle into it, resting my head against the steadiness of his chest. I feel him press a kiss to the side of my head.
When we break apart, we both sit on the same side of the table, on the bench that’s set into the wall. I curl my legs up on to the seat so I can face him. I think about telling him who Daniel is, but that would mean talking about Clark, and I just don’t want to do that. Even seeing Daniel and remembering the two of them as boys has made my heart feel chafed. So I don’t. What was all that about?
He doesn’t try to pretend he doesn’t know what I mean. Sorry if I was grumpy.
But why? I hesitate, then go ahead and ask anyway. Do you have a problem with me talking to other boys?
To my total relief, he laughs. An easy, genuine laugh. No, he says, definitive. He shakes his head, smiling. Sorry to make you think that. He pauses, his eyes lifting up as he thinks. I can tell he’s trying to decide how to express whatever it is he’s feeling. It is difficult to watch you talk, he signs finally.
I frown. What?
It makes me feel distant from you, he signs carefully. Like we are . . . separate.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say out loud. Frustration, and something a little like guilt, is building in my chest. Like maybe my subconscious knows exactly what he means, even if the rest of me hasn’t caught up yet.
When you talk to other people, you seem to forget I’m there.
I swallow. That’s not fair.
His face scrunches. I’m not blaming you. I’m just trying to tell you. How it feels for me. It was the same at the Halloween party.
I find talking really hard, I sign. I can feel my face starting to redden. You know that. How can you say this to me?
His signing starts to become faster and more desperate as he tries to explain himself. I know you do. That’s part of the problem.
Problem?
Not problem. That was the wrong word. But the thing is that you are getting better, Bronze. You already talk more now than you did just a couple of weeks ago. And I’m scared that . . . he stops.
Say it.
That there’ll be no place for me. That you won’t need me. I’ll always be deaf. I can’t learn to hear. We’ll be . . . uneven.
My hands are shaking. I take a sip of Coke and give up trying to use BSL right now. ‘Are you saying you think I only like you because you can’t hear and I can’t talk?’
No! he signs, in a way that makes me sure he means yes. That isn’t what I mean.
‘Because that’s really insulting.’ My voice is shaking too. ‘That’s a really hurtful thing to say to me.’
Rhys looks agonized. Bronze.
‘And for the record my not talking is a problem, but you being deaf isn’t,’ I continue. The words are coming out fast, way faster than if I was using BSL, and his eyes are now focused on my lips as I talk. His expression is tense and slightly panicked, and it’s a face I recognize from school when anyone is talking to him, and though I feel a reflexive guilt at making him lip-read, I can’t quite stop myself. ‘I know you can’t bloody learn to hear, I’m not a moron.’
I’m sorry.
‘Would you rather I was properly mute so we’d be “even”?’
No, that’s not what I meant.
‘I make you feel bad when I talk to people.’
He tries to take my hand. No. Bronze. No.
‘Thanks a lot.’ I’m too upset to stay here. I grab my bag and coat, hoping I don’t start crying in front of him. ‘I need to go.’
‘Steffi,’ he says. He looks devastated now. Don’t go. I’m sorry.
‘And for the record,’ I add, pulling my bag up over my shoulder, ‘Daniel was Clark’s friend. I talked to him because he knew my stepbrother.’ At the mention of Clark’s name, my voice cracks and the tears spill. Damn. ‘He knew Clark,’ I repeat, and I’m not even sure why.