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ChapterTwo

Mellie

Bring your food truck to campus, he said. It’ll begreat, he said. People there know ASL, and there are several Deaf teachers, he said.

A half-truth. ThereareDeaf teachers, and there are also both hearing and Certified Deaf interpreters on campus. But the bulk of the student body is hearing and balk at my ordering menu. Some of them behave as if being asked to use my ASL menu is as bad as if I were asking them to kick a puppy.

And some of them—okay, let’s be real, most of them—look around for someone to do the work for them. Today was no different, except there was an interpreter in the line, and he attempted to step in like somehow I needed him to get involved. I may be Deaf, but I’m not incapable. I’ve been dealing with hearing people my entire life. I can manage just fine.

Dickhead.

My rage knew no bounds, and I still wasn’t calm about it by the time I closed up, so I headed down to the gym to work off my frustration. And now, with my biceps literally shaking from strain, I am regretting every decision I’ve ever made up to this point.

This is one of those moments I wish I didn’t have to look my friend in the face, but if I lose concentration, I’m going to drop the weights and decapitate myself. Or, at the very least, crush my larynx, which is not exactly how I want to spend my evening.

Although maybe I can meet a hot doctor out of it. He’d be rich, and sexy, and…

No. Focus. This is not how I want to die. I like my head very much. It’s very useful.

Zev is straddling me, leaning down over bent knees, grinning in my face as he counts me down. ‘Eight. Seven. Six.’

I hate him even more now, his hand hovering over my face, his fingers showing me how many more I have left. My arms are burning. This was a terrible idea. I should have just drowned my anger in cheap vodka or a couple of special, adult-only Sour Patch Kids I’ve been saving for an occasion like this.

‘Five. Four. Three.’

Two-one fuck you.

He sees those thoughts on my face and knows I’ve given up, grasping the bar and easing the weights to the side. They hit the ground with a dull thud I can feel in my back as it’s still pressed to the floor. I can’t move.

The workout has killed me.

RIP, Mellie. It’s been a good run.

Zev drops down and offers me a hand, helping me sit. My arms feel like limp noodles, and I swear the water bottle is a thousand pounds as I lift it to my lips. It has that too-sweet, fake sugar flavor mix-in that clings to the sides of my tongue, but I gulp it down because it’s full of electrolytes and potassium, and I know I’ll regret it later if I don’t.

‘Feel better?’ he asks.

I don’t answer because Zev’s solution to all life’s problems is to work out until you can’t see straight. He’s the ultimate gym bro and doesn’t even care that he has to work out with and work next to a bunch of hearies—who mostly try their best, but still, they annoy me. Then again, Zev comes from a mixed hearing-Deaf family, so he’s used to it. He speaks when he wants to, signs when he doesn’t.

He’s got one foot in both worlds, and he seems well-adjusted. I haven’t known him very long. He and his brothers moved to town two years back, and we met by accident when I was struggling with a cashier at Sunflower Marke. It had been a bad day, and I just wanted my goddamn everything bagel cream cheese dip, but it wasn’t ringing up, and the woman was refusing to look at my phone when I was typing to her, asking if she wanted me to grab another container.

This happens occasionally, and usually I’m more patient, but fuck, I was hungry and angry and in a terrible mood. I was pushed past my limits that day.

Zev swooped in right before I was set to explode and interpreted for me so I could get my damn dip, and while I normally hate people intervening on my behalf before I ask whether they’re Deaf or hearing, he deserved a thank-you because I couldn’t shake the craving, and I would be damned if I didn’t leave the store without my fix.

We went for boba after, and the next thing I knew, we were friends.

And now, I’m at his fuck-face gym, killing myself to get rid of these angry feelings, which isn’t working at all. Now, I’m angry, sweaty, and still thinking about the incident and those obnoxious little campus brats who thought they were too good to use my language.

And then,hepops up.

The hot-as-fuck, infuriating interpreter who hadn’t learned his lesson about minding his own business when he wasn’t being asked to get involved. To be fair, he did realize his mistake quickly, and while my first instinct was to forgive people for something small, something about him wouldn’t allow me to let this go.

I wanted to pin him to the ground and wipe the smile off his mouth. With my mouth. Softly. Then, less softly. With my teeth and tongue.

I wanted to make himbeg.

Fuck.