Page 25 of Interpreter

“Don’t worry,” he continues, chatty as fuck. “I cried on my first day of school too.”

She’s dead. Did she seriously tell this little boy that I left because I cried on the first day of school? I feel my eyes narrow before I turn my head an inch to see Milah clap a hand over her mouth, her eyes filled with laughter she’s refusing to let out in my presence.

“I wasn’t crying,” I interrupt the little boy who is still going on about all the times he’s cried at school.

“Oh,” he stops, his finger going up to his mouth, looking pensive. “It looked like you were about to.”

In a world of silence, something tells me Milah has lost her fight with smothering her laughter. And when I look over, I see my guess is correct. Milah darts to the supply cabinet, throwing open the doors to hide her shaking body from what I’m sure is close to crying with laughter.

I let her have her moment as I tell the little boy, using my words and hands, that I was not crying but needed a bathroom break, which led to stories about how many times he’s accidentally wet his clothes at school. On and on, I nod at the words I can catch from the first grader until his teacher taps me on the shoulder, her eyes dry and sober.

“WTF!”she signs.

And that’s why I allowed her a laugh at my expense.

“I’m sorry. I’m not understanding you,” I say, straight-faced somehow, looking down at Oliver as if I’m asking if he knows what her deal is.

“Do not act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!”

That’s exactly what I plan on doing. Remember that fuse I was talking about? I just struck the match.

“I honestly have no idea what the problem is, but—” I glance down at the dark-haired little boy watching us curiously. “—you’re making little Oliver nervous.”

I knew that would do it. She snatches me by the arm and tugs me toward the door. I’m three times her size, so allowing her to pull me out into the hallway is purely for my benefit. Flushed and heaving with barely controlled anger is the little firecracker I’ve been waiting to see.

“You moved all my supplies to the top shelves!”

Theo says I’m not missing anything by being yelled at by a woman, but today, I think he’s wrong. If there were ever a time I wanted to hear someone yell at me, it’s today. My imagination runs wild with how she sounds. Raspy? Is her voice deep? Maybe it’s high pitched and will soon draw attention to us. Does she roll her Rs like the Latinas I remember during my stint in the military? If she’s Costa Rican like her room would indicate, then she would roll her Rs slightly different than most Spanish speaking countries. Their Rs sound almost singsong. It’s not so much a roll but more like a melody. It’s a beautiful language.

“You asked me to organize the cabinet,” I respond, tucking my hands in my pockets so I won’t sign in front of anyone in the hallway. I don’t think everyone knows I’m deaf, and I’d like to keep the stares and whispers to a minimum, if possible. At least until this experiment is over and Dr. Parker agrees he’s wrong.

“You knew I didn’t use the top three shelves for a reason!”

She’s still humming with attitude, and fuck me if I don’t want to pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, and help her vent some of that frustration. Whoa. That was random. Looks like my dick likes Ms. Iglesias too.

I cock my head and feel my brows pull down. “I did?”

I guessed she didn’t use the top three shelves, but I didn’t know for certain. There’s a difference between knowing and guessing.

“Do not play coy with me, Mr. Lambros.”

Her dainty hip pops out and immediately my eyes zero in on her narrow waist.

“Do I look like I can reach the top of an eight-foot cabinet?”

It takes a lot for me not to smile, but I manage, holding on to a serious look.

“I figured you had a step stool.” Total bullshit. She wanted to keep me busy and out of her hair today. It wasn’t until I sent Samuel out of the room did she warm up to me. “You didn’t say I couldn’t use those shelves,” I tell her flatly.

“Ahh!” Her hands go in her hair, and she turns away from me.

Something inside me flips.

I can’t even tell you what it is or why it happened. All I know is, this conversation between Milah and me became mine the minute she led me out into the hall. I don’t want to miss a word that leaves her sassy mouth—even if it is her yelling at me. So me flipping her back around to face me shocks both of us.

My hands are still on her as we both stare at each other. My fingers spasm against her skin, and I follow her hand, watching as she places it over mine, calming me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, pulling away. I don’t need to explain that I’m sorry for grabbing her arm. The steady gaze she holds on my hand tells me she understands what I mean.

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