Page 29 of Interpreter

“Music is not heard, Tim. It’s felt.”

I watch Tim’s expression as he never answers Ms. Peak and I realize, “He has to see you to read your lips.” I speak softly, careful not to startle either of them with Oliver’s and my presence.

Ms. Peak never looks back at me. Instead, she keeps playing, her eyes on the man breaking in front of her. “He hears me” is all she says, as the man before us folds onto the piano, his bare feet against the carpet with his ear to the piano.

“That’s it, boy. Feel. You did not lose your ability to feel. You did not lose your passion. You simply opened a new portal. Pull it down. Let it fill the empty space. Let it heal, my boy.”

Her words are so beautiful that I almost ask if she wants me to sign them to Tim, but I don’t. Whatever she and Tim have going between them is working just fine. They don’t need me to interpret anything. They are communicating on a whole different level.

“Yes. Yes, my boy. That’s it.” Ms. Peak continues to praise Tim. His eyes are still shut, and when the song finally comes to an end, it’s a full minute before he pulls his chest off the shiny, black piano and looks at her.

His eyes are red and puffy, and his throat works.

“Now, you play,” she tells him with thatno bullshittone she has. She completely ignores the fact he looks like he was just pulled down a gravel driveway by his belt loops.

He chuckles, scrubbing both hands down his face. “Nice try.”

I hope Oliver didn’t feel the shiver that went through me. His voice should be used for one of those audiobooks that Pe listens to when Marcus pisses him off. He says nothing makes a man more jealous than for his lover to send voice clips of him jerking off to another man’s voice.

“Mr. Tim!”

Oh no. I reach for Oliver, but he’s a slippery little sucker and runs straight for Tim, who finally looks our way and frowns. And I’m not talking the,I-just-stepped-in-water-with-my-suede-bootsfrown. I’m talking,you-just-keyed-my-cartype of frown. That light smile he just offered Ms. Peak is shut down immediately at the sight of us.

“I’m sorry. Oliver wanted to make sure you had something to eat.” I hold up the lunch bags, and his eyes jump from me to the little boy running toward him and then to the bags. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.” We kind of did, but we didn’t know he would be in here doing something so… extraordinary. I mean, I was thinking he may be lighting up a cigarette out back. I invoke that type of response sometimes. Pe says he hopes I hold onto my looks long enough to get a husband because my crazy can be a bit much. I know that’s a shitty thing for your bestie to say, but honestly, Abuelita essentially said the same thing before I left Costa Rica.“Búscate un buen marido mija, pero eso sí, uno que le gusten las locas.”Basically she told me to, “Find myself a good husband, but one who likes crazy.”

“Did you really feel the music?” the little ball of innocence asks.

Tim’s gaze settles on the bouncy little boy now at his feet. He waits for a moment and then looks at me, a pleading look in his eyes. He doesn’t have to ask me what he needs. I sign Oliver’s question.

“Uh….” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly buying himself some time. “Yeah, I did.”

Why does that make me freaking smile? Why did I think he would keep that secret and not let Ms. Peak, or me for that matter, know that she was right and he didn’t need to hear to enjoy the music? He could still feel it.

“Can I try?”

Tim looks at me like he isn’t sure what to say. I shrug. I don’t see why he can’t try. Poor Ms. Peak isn’t getting her lunch hour back; may as well make another little boy happy today.

“Sure.” He doesn’t sound sure. He sounds like he would like to sprint from this room and take up knitting. “Ms. Peak?”

Ms. Peak, who made it back to her desk, grins behind her bag of pretzels. “You can play it for him.”

Ah. She’s good. Real good.

Tim doesn’t agree because he shoots her a glare that, if given to me, would have me running to the bench and banging out a few notes, even if I don’t know how to play. The man can be scary.

“Are you going to deny him the experience?” she continues when Tim just stares at her, never making a move to sit and play for Oliver. Even I’m sweating from the heat of his stare, and I’m not in the line of fire.

“You better hurry. I have a class coming in thirty minutes,” she goads. I’ve never appreciated Ms. Peak until now. Who knew a music teacher had the balls of a Marine? I sure as hell didn’t, and I’m guessing by the tick of Tim’s jaw, he didn’t either.

But he sits his ass down at the bench.

Ms. Peak stops crunching on her pretzels.

I ease down into the nearest chair. I have a feeling I am going to need to sit down for this.

“Take your shoes off,” he grumbles out to Oliver who already has one slung off to the side and is working on the knot in the other one.

“Put your hand on the piano and close your eyes.”

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