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I always pay my debts. When people realize I’m deaf and insist on giving me free stuff, I go back and settle the tab.
It’s who I am.
Are we keeping the same story?
He nods.
What’s the name of the show?
He types it and I cringe. It’s the biggest network TV morning show, not just in the city but in the entire state.
I thought we were doing a casual interview, but if it’s that grand of a statement, should I run upstairs and wear something different?
His eyes slide over my outfit in this slow, sensual way that makes my heart thrum between my ears and throat. I take stock of the alarming symptoms. Fluttering pulse. Flushing cheeks. An insane need to avert my gaze.
I think… Richard Sullivan is making me shy.
And I’m not shy at all. Growing up, I participated in talent shows every year, humiliating myself with poorly timed baton dances and poetry readings. Not to mention my ill-advised karate routine, now memorialized in a home video that will haunt me for life.
Ilovedstanding in the spotlight, even as a kid.
As an adult, I’m used to being admired. Gawked at. Scrutinized by a camera.
Shy? Shywhere?
And yet, in front of Richard Sullivan, my nerves twist into knots. The way he watches me isn’t normal. Those eyes consume me like I’m intoxicating. The raw admiration, the way he doesn’t bother to hide it, feels equal parts exhilarating and imposing.
To hide my growing awkwardness, I add,
I can wear something more conservative.
He shakes his head before typing:
Wear what you want. I pay my lawyers enough to bail me out if I get into a fight.
I don’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully, I don’t have to because Sullivan’s watch flashes and he points his attention to the car.
That reminds me. There’s someone I want you to meet.
Curious, I follow him to the town car. Inside the vehicle sits a pretty little girl with blonde hair and frosty blue eyes.
I wave hello.
She scowls.
Sullivan says something to her and the scowl gets even darker. He gestures for me to get in and I do. He closes the door behind me and climbs in on the other side so the little girl is in the middle seat.
Her hiked shoulders, scrunched nose, and the little scoot to get away from me all point to her disapproval. I try to ease the tension by creating a new note on my phone and showing her the screen.
You must be Sullivan’s niece. Hi, I’m Yaya.
She glances at the note and then says something to her uncle. With her face turned away, I can’t even try to lipread. However, that quick and guilty look Sullivan gives me right before his eyebrows tighten is enough of a clue.
She’s not a fan.
First impressions really do matter and I aim to make the best ones.
Except for the one I made with Richard Sullivan, of course. His impression was of an unhinged woman who goes around smashing expensive cars with baseball bats.