Page 186

Seriously.

Fuck. That. Guy.

ChapterThree

Rhett

I’m pretty sure Robbie’s about to either kill me or fire me, but I can’t stop pacing. It was a shitty morning, and it’s an even shittier afternoon. A freshman’s mother found out about his two Deaf teachers—and that the classes are being taught in ASL with an interpreter—and she’s filed a complaint.

It’s not going to go anywhere, of course. Firstly, the parents have virtually no say in anything now that their kids are adults, and secondly, the college has been dealing with these obnoxious helicopter parents who haven’t learned to cut the cord on their adult children since the program started, and we’ve had every complaint dismissed so far. The teachers here are secure in their jobs, and so is the interpreter department.

But I can’t help the low-level thrum of anxiety I feel every time our positions are even slightly threatened. If Robbie loses his job, I lose mine, and I cannot go back to what I was doing. I will not survive it. I worked my ass off for the position I have now, and I don’t want to have to start all over again somewhere else.

As much as I complain, and as much as I feel lost sometimes, the truth remains that I’m where I need to be.

‘Relax,’ Robbie signs lazily from behind his computer.

I give him a look, and he rolls his eyes, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. I hover-sit for a moment, then shoot right back up. It’s no use. We’re going to be called into a meeting later this afternoon with the dean, and while I’m about ninety-eight percent certain they’re going to tell us to ignore this woman who’s been sending harassing emails for forty-eight hours, there’s that two percent that’s afraid they’re going to get tired of dealing with us and shut it down.

‘Why aren’t you more worried about this?’ I ask.

He sighs and leans his elbows on his desk. It makes his signs a little sloppy, but he’s always been easy to read, which comes with having ASL as his birth language. ‘Because what’s the point? They’re not going to shut us down because one weirdo mother with an ableist stick up her ass and an Oedipal relationship with her son has a complaint about how his education is delivered to him. And if they do decide to shut us down, then it’s not her. That means they were waiting for a reason, and it’s going to happen whether we like it or not.’

I hate when he’s reasonable. ‘If that happens, I’m quitting for good. I’m going to buy a cabin in the woods and grow my own food and…I don’t know, learn to hunt.’

He snorts loudly. ‘Maybe you can turn it into a reality show.’

Yeah, I hate him.

He sees the stress on my face is very real, and his demeanor shifts into his dad mode, which he doesn’t use on me often. ‘Do me a favor.’

‘Anything.’ And I mean that. Anything to distract me.

‘Go get us some lunch from the food truck.’

Okay, anything but that. The ridiculously hot Deaf Chef is more likely to spit in my food than make it with any kind of love. But hell, I don’t have to eat it. And if I tell him it’s for Robbie, he might leave it alone.

Besides, getting yelled at and berated by him sounds a hell of a lot better than dealing with this little problem. ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t care,’ he signs, and his gaze turns back to his computer. I know he can still see my signs in his periphery, but I can tell I’ve been dismissed. He’s not hungry either. He just wants me out of his face, and that’s fair enough.

I want myself out of my face as well.

I take my time as I exit his office, and I hit the stairs instead of taking the elevator. It’s a slow descent, and I linger in the entryway, watching the line of students who are still trying to convince admissions to change their schedules without taking an Incomplete in spite of the fact that it’s past midterms. It’s one of my favorite ways to people-watch. But today, I don’t have the head or the heart for it.

I make my way outside toward the little roundabout where I can see the Deaf Chef truck parked. It smells just as good as it did the other day, and in spite of the fact that it feels like I swallowed a boulder, my stomach rumbles.

Today, there’s no line, but it’s also well past lunch. I can see the guy in there—Mellie—puttering around through the back window, and I watch him for a beat. He’s as attractive as he was the other day. Maybe even more. He’s got sunglasses pushing his ginger waves back from his forehead, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that’s working hard, straining over his meaty biceps.

I can also see he’s wearing those massive, expensive headphones over his ears and bobbing along to a beat I’m pretty sure he can’t hear, can only feel. I can see it in the rhythm of his dancing. It’s something I observed after going to Deaf raves. Hearing people move to a melody. Deaf people dance to a beat.

I will die on the hill that they make better dancers, and I’m just waiting on the world to give that community the chance they deserve in places like TV shows and Broadway.

But that’s neither here nor there. I’m pretty sure Mellie’s not interested in becoming famous. He seems fairly content with his food truck and his life here in town. I don’t blame him. I used to travel for work before I got this job, and nowhere felt more like home than when I finally planted seeds so roots could grow.

I can only hope now that they’re allowed to flourish.

Squaring my shoulders, I walk around to the front of the truck and stop when I see a small table on the side with a hand-drawn sign and a small stack of plastic boxes with clear lids. The sign reads:Fresh Honeycomb. Local.