Her lips purse into a tight little frown. “That’s not fair.”
I pick her up off my lap, depositing her next to me on the couch. Anxiety crawls over my skin, and I don’t want to be near anyone, not even Ali. I stand up and repeat what she signed before. “Welcome to life.”
I head into the kitchen, needing some ice water to cool me down. My blood feels like it’s suddenly boiling, and I’m breathing too fast, and I need to escape these feelings. Scratch that—I need to escape the past. And talking about it is not going to help.
As I reach for a glass in the cupboard, a small hand snatches mine out of the air. Ali tugs me around to face her, and as I stare down, I’m once again amazed at how such a tiny girl can have so much power over me.
Ali pulls me close to her, until there’s just enough room between us for our hands to sign. “It’s okay,” she signs. “I don’t care what you tell me. I’ll be okay with it.”
She smiles up at me softly, and I’m pretty sure this is the moment when I’m supposed to break down and admit every horrific detail of my past. But I’ve never been very good at the whole “supposed to” thing, so I just step away from her and snatch a cup from the shelf.
I grab some ice out of the freezer, and I’m about to drop it into the cup when Ali says, “I told you about my past. Now you tell me about yours.”
The ice starts to freeze my hand, but I just tighten my grip on it, taking in the pain. It’s so familiar that it’s almost comforting. “It doesn’t work that way, Ali,” I mutter, turning my head just enough for her to read my lips.
“Then how does it work?”
The pain becomes too much, so I let the ice cubes fall one by one, watching them hit the bottom before I reply. “It works like this: you stop asking questions about my life, and leave me the hell alone.”
There’s a long pause, and then I feel her arms wrap around my waist, and her warm breath whisper in my ear, “But I don’t want to leave, and I don’t think you want to be alone. Not really.”
I’m pretty sure her arms are the only thing keeping me standing. I turn around and grab her hand, firmly entwining our fingers. Brushing a strand of hair from her face, I lean close to her and say, “My story isn’t pretty, Ali.”
She stares up at me, her eyes open wide, asking me to tell her more. I groan and let my head fall back. Memories claw at my brain, and I just want to collapse somewhere and close my eyes, to block it all out. I dump my cup in the sink and lead Ali to my bedroom. I tug her onto the bed, and she lies down, letting me wrap her in my arms and press close to her. Her sweet scent calms me, and I breathe in deeply, reminding myself that even if I don’t have her forever, I have her now.
We stay there for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms. I soak in her presence; I’ve never felt this close to someone. Her warm breaths heat my neck, and gradually they slow, until I’m sure she’ll fall asleep. But her eyes stay open and locked on mine, still waiting for an answer to a question I never discuss.
I untangle my hands from hers and slowly sign, “My dad killed my mom when I was ten.”
I wait for her to recoil and run away, but all she does is reach up and brush her fingers against my cheek. Her touch is firmer than usual, like she’s trying to brush the memory straight out of my head, and I close my eyes, appreciating the contact more than I thought possible. There are no sparks like before, but there’s warmth in her touch that fights off the cold chills I always get when I think about this.
“So you grew up in the foster system?” she guesses.
“No. I wish I had, but no.”
Her gaze turns inquisitive, and I hesitantly go on. “He didn’t physically kill her. I mean, he wasn’t the one to give her the pills. But she had psych issues, and she was suicidal. Instead of helping her, my dad drove her off the edge.”
“So you blame him for her death.”
I nod. “Of course.”
She doesn’t judge me, or tell me I’m wrong, or try to change my mind. She just holds me closer, wrapping her arms around me so tight that I don’t think I could leave if I tried. But, strangely, I don’t want to leave. Somehow, it feels right to tell her all this, like our relationship wouldn’t be real if she didn’t know the truth about me and my past.
My vision blurs, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s from tears. This is the second time she’s made me cry since I met her, but this time, I don’t feel ashamed. She wipes away one of my tears, just like I did for her. “Tell me everything,” she says.
I swallow hard. “Both my parents were deaf. I learned to speak English because my mom insisted on it, but as soon as she died, my dad wouldn’t let me talk around him. He always resented having a kid who could hear, so he insisted I use sign language.