Page 73 of A Good Book

Ben

Even I wassick of myself. The monotony of each day mixed with a lack of direction and a nonexistent level of motivation was not only exhausting, it was annoying. But what was the alternative? How was I supposed to get motivated? That wasn’t something I could pull out of thin air.

I never took the time to formulate a Plan B. Music was my first love. The possibility of going deaf never entered my conscience. Blind, sure. I had a BB gun, and my sister liked to use it and was a terrible shot. Even losing a hand while working in the meat department of the grocery store or becoming a paraplegic from a car accident would not have shocked me.

Perhaps, aside from death, going deaf was the most unimaginable thing for someone like me. Therefore, I just … never imagined it.

However, after dry humping my best friend, which was better than any actual sex I had ever had because it was Gabby, I scrounged enough joy to leave my room for a birthday dinner and to help decorate the house for Christmas.

Did I open the letter Gabby sent? No.

The card? Nope.

Why? Well, that was a good question. The answer wasn’t so simple. It laid between a lack of self-esteem and the fear that, without music, I’d try to make her my whole world. Being someone’s everything sounded romantic, but it was a lot of pressure. To love her the way she deserved, I had to want her more than I needed her.

Without the ability to hear, I felt pretty fucking needy.

Tillie poked her head into my bedroom and pointed to her watch. I nodded, adjusting my red tie in the mirror. I was going to church for the first time since losing my hearing. It was for my mom. She wanted the whole family there since it was the Sunday before Christmas.

I dragged my feet on the way to the car. “I need to pee once more,” I said.

Mom frowned and her lips moved before I moseyed back into the house, wasting more time. My goal was to get to the service no more than a minute or two before it started, so I didn’t have to endure watching everyone smile and try to communicate with me. Also, Gabby was home from school, and I hadn’t seen her yet. I needed a little more time to figure out what to say or how to act. Since I wouldn’t hear the sermon, I could watch her the whole time and gauge her demeanor and mood.

After pissing a full ounce, checking my tie again, and grabbing gum from my desk drawer, I returned to the car. Mom continued to scowl at me while Dad rolled his eyes and Tillie smirked. I shrugged like I’d done nothing wrong.

As planned, we arrived just as Gabby’s dad, Pastor Jacobson, walked to the lectern. He smiled and said something, then the congregation bowed their heads in prayer. Our family squeezed into a small space in the last row of pews. I followed the lead a minute later when everyone sat down.

Hearing virtually nothing in my bedroom or among my immediate family was weird. Hearing faint sounds as the choir stood to lead everyone in song was jarring. I felt like an outsider looking in, removed from reality—a ghost.

As I surveyed the packed sanctuary, my gaze snagged on Gabby, glancing over her shoulder at me from the front row, standing next to her mom. She didn’t smile, nor did she give me the middle finger, and after a few seconds, she returned her attention to the front of the church. For the following forty-five minutes, Gabby shot me an occasional quick glance and my mom elbowed me, pointing to her Bible as if I needed to follow along with the scripture even though I couldn’t hear the sermon.

After church, the congregation spilled out of the front doors, some people heading straight to their cars, others huddling in small groups to talk despite the cold. My head swiveled when someone kicked the back of my shoe. Gabby sauntered to the side of the church. I waited a few seconds to slide away from my family who were chatting with our neighbors, then I meandered in the direction of the parking lot before redirecting to the side of the church.

Gabby wasn’t there, so I continued to the back of building. There she stood with her hands in the pockets of her red wool coat, shoulders by her ears, and cheeks pink from the nippy air. I stopped several feet from her, and she stepped closer. No smile. No movement of her lips. Her right hand slid out of her pocket, and she held up her palm where she’d written words in blue ink.

You’re a jerk.

I read it before looking at her face, and I replied with a slow nod.

She frowned as if my acceptance of her assessment somehow angered her more. Then she removed her other hand, balled into a fist, and opened it to reveal more words on that palm.

Kiss me anyway.

I read it several times before my gaze moved to hers. The corner of her mouth curled into a faint smile. That’s when I should have turned and walked away. I couldn’t kiss my best friendandpush her away. It wasn’t fair to give her mixed signals. It also wasn’t fair that she looked so pretty in her white and green dress with a red ribbon around her waist. It wasn’t fair that her lips were freshly glossed with her signature cherry ChapStick. Keeping my hands in my pockets, to keep things from getting out of hand, I bent down and kissed her.

Again, she didn’t play fairly. As I started to pull away, her cold hands touched my cheeks, and she lifted onto her toes, pressing her chest into mine. I told my hands to stay put. No touching. Just wait it out and she’d release me. But she didn’t. Gabby’s tongue teased my upper lip. It was cruel.

What happened to the good girl who never would have made out with a guy in her Sunday best behind her father’s church? I wanted to say that I missed that girl, but it was hard with her lips on me.

The kiss ended when said lips lifted into a beaming smile. I wanted nothing more than to feel her warmth forever. She signed something with her hands.

I shook my head. “I told you I don’t know sign language.”

She shrugged before sauntering back toward the front of the church, tossing me a flirty grin over her shoulder at the last second.

I was terminally lovesick.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

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