Page 62 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Two

Mellie

B ring your food truck to campus, he said. It’ll be great , he said. People there know ASL, and there are several Deaf teachers, he said.

A half-truth. There are Deaf 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, he pops 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 him beg .

Fuck.

Zev waves his hand at me, then taps a Y on his chin. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me?’

I wave him off and roll my shoulders back. I’m not too sore, but I’m on the verge of going too long on weights, which would be a mistake because I can’t afford to take time off work for overdoing it. I do need my arms to communicate.

‘Family stuff?’

For the first time in months, it’s not them, thank God.

For the last little while, my family has been up in arms because my brother decided to move out.He’s in his thirties, so that wouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact that my brother is Deafblind. He’d been diagnosed with Ushers type 2 when he was seven—I was just old enough to remember my parents coming home from the doctor after Otto had run into the doorframe for the fifth time and given himself another black eye.

I watched as my mom collapsed on herself and wailed and wailed. It had been terrifying. Otto and I were too young to really get it. He understood the concept of blind but didn’t quite understand what was happening to him.

At least, not right away.

But then his vision got really bad. They had him in treatments and genetic testing and stem cell therapy in an attempt to at least stave off the vision loss.

But it hadn’t worked.

Otto was eighteen the day he woke up fully blind. He made his way into my room, crawled next to me on the bed, stuck his hand in mine, and just signed, ‘Gone.’

It was over. His vision was done. The cells were dead, and nothing was ever going to bring them back.

After that, my mom thought wrapping him in a metaphorical cocoon made of feathers and bubble wrap and foam was the only way to protect him. Otto fought back as best he could, but he was a pacifist and always had been.

He got tired though—because of course he got tired. He knew our neighborhood like the back of his hand. He had a system for dealing with people. Oftentimes, it was just them shouting at him until they were in the vocal range and decibel he could hear, but hey, it was something. He learned that he loved plants, and more than that, he learned he was good at growing them.

He also learned he was freakishly good at landscaping, and eventually, two of the guys in our group of friends offered him a job. My mom flipped. My older brothers attempted to stage an intervention.

In the end, we showed up with a moving van while everyone was at work and dropped Otto off at his new place.

It took three months for my mom to believe Otto wasn’t going to spontaneously die in a lawn mower accident or whatever she was afraid of. Then, it was another two months before she realized he was doing just fine with his disability funds and getting paid under the table from Max, so she was able to unclench.

A little.

She still made me vow on my grandfather’s grave that I would be there to look out for him. I agreed only to shut her up. Frankly, Otto is doing better than I am. Maybe not when it comes to dating and falling in love, but he’s just started taking care of bees, damn it. It’s like having thousands of little buzzing children, and what do I have besides bread loaves and tax bills?

Zev taps me on the temple, and I realize I’ve zoned out again. I should probably go visit Otto. He’ll talk some sense into me. Or, at the very least, drag me to see his bees, where I’ll get stung to death My Girl style, and then at least I’ll be out of my misery. Everyone else can deal with the trauma.

‘I need to take off.’

‘No, you don’t.’ Zev swings his leg over me and sits on my thighs. ‘What’s up?’

I roll my eyes and attempt to shove him, but he’s like a goddamn mountain. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Liar.’

I flop backward and throw my hands up. ‘Fine. I think I wanted to have sex with a hearing guy this afternoon.’

Zev stays frozen for a beat, then bursts into laughter as he rolls away. He curls his body into it, shaking until he finally sits up, and I flip him the bird. He grins. He really is a pretty guy. It’s too damn bad he’s not my type.

It’s too damn bad that hot terp is .

‘ That’s your crisis? I thought someone died!’

‘Someone did die. It was me. I’m dead inside,’ I retort.

Zev keeps laughing as he asks, ‘Who is he?’

‘Robbie’s terp. Rhett.’

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’s also an 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 a dick . 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 for let’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.

The setting sun is gorgeous though, and I take in the sight of it over the trees as Otto pulls in a deep breath. The scent of orange blossoms is in the air. He has a small orchard along the back fence, and I know soon enough, he’s going to be sending baskets of citrus to all our front doors.

He touches his cane to the ground, the metal tip-tapping side to side, and he places his free hand over mine to read my signs. ‘You seem off. What’s wrong?’

Of course he’d fucking notice. We reach the little statue of a tiny angel he put up to alert him to when he got close to the bees, and he stops, setting his cane against the small fence so he can take both my hands.

‘Would you ever date a hearing person?’ I ask, unable to stop myself. It’s not like I’m seriously considering doing something with the dickhead at my food truck, but God, I can’t get him out of my head. Even the workout hadn’t purged him from my brain.

His brow furrows, and I look into his eyes. They don’t sit straight anymore. His retinitis pigmentosa gave him strabismus, and they rest far apart. But they’re piercing the way they always have been. ‘Is the hearing person nice?’

‘No.’ Yes . But I don’t want to admit that yet.

‘Why are you thinking about dating a mean hearing person?’

I scratch the back of his hand, our version of a scoff or an eye roll. ‘I’m not thinking about dating him.’ I’m just thinking about him. Too much.

Otto looks confused now. ‘I don’t understand.’

I feel a groan escape my throat. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m frustrated and confused. He bothered me at work.’

‘How?’

‘He got involved with customers,’ I tell him. I sign slowly so his hands can follow. ‘I didn’t ask him for help.’

‘Did you need help?’

I should have seen that question coming. ‘No.’ He can probably feel the lie. I didn’t need help, per se, but if it had been Robbie or one of the other Deaf teachers, I probably wouldn’t have minded. ‘They were refusing to use the sign menu, and he attempted to interpret for them.’ My hands still in hesitation, and then I admit, ‘He’s Robbie’s interpreter.’

He laughs. ‘You’re always so stubborn.’

It’s true. I was. I am . Always will be.

‘If he made you angry, why are you asking about dating?’

Unfair question only because it is fair, and I don’t want to admit that. ‘He was hot.’

His mouth quirks up, and I hate him for it. ‘Hate sex?’

Now, that has some appeal. It’s definitely the best advice I’ve been given all day. ‘How do I do that? Hi, you piss me off. Want to fuck?’

He laughs loudly and shakes his head so hard the hearing aid on his right ear slips, and he lets me go to fix it. ‘That might work. I don’t know, I’ve never tried. I’m still a virgin.’

I’m not, but I might as well be for all the luck I’ve had finding a partner over the years, and I don’t want some rando to fuck. And it’s because Otto’s right. I’m stubborn and set in my ways, and I have this idea about what love is meant to look like, and so far, no one’s measured up. Rhett is the first person who’s appealed to me in so long, and of course he’s under my skin because he pissed me off.

‘Come here. Let’s go see the bees. They’ll make you feel better.’ I don’t know about that, but Otto pulls me down the little path. He feels along the tall grass border with his foot, then stops the second we reach his bees. He lets go, and I watch him touch the sides of the hive. He lays his head against the top and presses his ears to where I know he can only just hear the buzzing.

I don’t know how he’s so comfortable so close. I’m not allergic or anything, but bee stings are the worst. And he does get stung sometimes, but not as often as I probably would if we’d swapped places.

He holds his hand out when I don’t follow. ‘Come on.’

I slip my fingers under his palm and sign a short, sharp ‘Fuck no.’ The fuck is implied, but the face he makes tells me he gets it. He lets me go as I take a few steps back to watch and make sure he doesn’t need me to save him from a swarm.

And he doesn’t. A few of them land on his face and crawl around, but he just laughs and remains still, letting them use him like a little bee playground.

He stays that way for a while. He’s so…content. Happy in ways I don’t think I’ve ever really been. Even following my dream and having a successful business that pays my bills and lets me live comfortably hasn’t felt like enough.

I close my eyes and hate myself for seeing Rhett so perfectly in my memory. His face, his hands, his fucking body.

Fuck that guy.

Seriously.

Fuck. That. Guy.