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He repeats Robbie’s name and asks, ‘Who?’

I spell his name, then give his more common sign name. I don’t use the one his brothers gave him, which is objectively hilarious, and I fight back a laugh as I remember the look on Rhett’s face when he saw it for the first time. Obviously, it’s not something Robbie uses on campus.

Zev’s brow rises. ‘Do I know him?’

‘Probably not.’

The Deaf community is like family, and we all kind of know each other except when we don’t. And it’s not that Robbie’s antisocial. It’s more that he’s a giant nerd who prefers the company of his books to literally anything else.

‘So this interpreter…you want to fuck him.’

I don’t answer because I’m not sure. I mean, yeah, I’ve been fantasizing about him all day, but it’s more of a hate thing. Really. It is.

‘Is the only problem with him that he’s hearing?’

I pull a face. ‘No. He’salsoan asshole.’ I wriggle my toes to make sure I’ll be able to walk. He’d worked my legs first, and they’re still a little weak. ‘He came by the food truck and ordered some sandwiches.’

‘Wow, what adick. He gave you money for food from your food truck? The audacity!’

I roll my eyes. ‘He was an asshole to me while I was trying to deal with some customers.’ Which okay, that’s not entirely true, but I’m sticking to my personal version of events to save my sanity.

Zev looks surprised, and I don’t blame him. Interpreters are usually not assholes to us. They’re our allies and friends. And considering Robbie works with Rhett almost exclusively, it tells me he’s probably a really good guy.

I don’t know why I’m feeling like this.

‘What happened?’

‘Some girls were giving me shit about my sign menu, and he tried to step in and interpret for them.’

Zev blinks at me, waiting for more, but damn it, does there need to be more?

‘They need to use the menu!’ My hands slap hard. Angry.

He rolls his eyes. ‘Pride more important than money? What will your mortgage think?’

I shove him because he has a point, and I hate it. ‘I’m leaving.’

This time, he doesn’t stop me. I give the other guys at the gym a head nod. The co-owner…I think his name is Thom…he grins at me. If I were into hearing gym himbos, he’d be the first one I’d go after, sign-impaired or not. He’s sweet, and he’s been trying to pick up a few ASL phrases here and there from Zev.

But I don’t have time for him. I breeze past the desk and do a quick balls-and-pits shower before throwing on my clothes and grabbing my bag. The one good thing about the food truck is setting my own hours. The bad thing is that I’ve decided, like a dipshit, to bake my own bread exclusively, which means my days always start at three in the fucking morning, and it’s one more reason I’m regretting life.

But I don’t regret this. I love what I do. I love the little world I’ve created. I just wish I had someone to share it with.

Otto elbows me and taps the counter beside his loaf of bread. It’s a little wonky, but it’ll do. I’ve been guiding him through a sourdough starter, and it’s finally usable. ‘Ready?’

I slip my hand under his and nod my fist. We have our own version of tactile sign between us. It’s ASL, home signs, and a lot of touching faces and hands in order to make sure he can understand me fluently. It’s only been a few years since he lost total light perception, but it feels like we’ve been doing this most of our lives.

I walk his hands through shaping the loaf and then the cuts across the top. He’s done that before when he decided to master baguettes, so all that’s left is to throw it in the dutch oven. And I will die on the hill that sourdough in the dutch oven is far superior to any other type of baked loaf.

It’s pretty straightforward, so I wait for him to be done, and then we put the lid on, and I set the timer on his belt. He doesn’t use a phone. All his communication is through his braille refresher and email. He tried some of the more modern tech on the market, but he hated it, and who am I to argue?

If he’s happy, I’m happy.

Max is the one who came up with the kitchen devices, and he created a little utility belt for Otto to wear.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he signs, not quite facing me, but close enough I can see his hands.

I tap him twice on the shoulder forlet’s go. His cane’s by the back door, and I know we’re going to check on the damn bees. I’m a little afraid of being stung to death, and I don’t trust Otto when he waxes poetic about how gentle they are. I’m not ready to go, and I really don’t want to have a death by bees.