Page 80 of Quiet Beautiful Things

But… why?

She points to her clock and raises a brow.

“Dinner is at eight,” I sign. “Dancing after.” I step closer. “Then…” I tug her toward me. She’s too close for me to sign, so I say, “Then I’m going to take off this dress and everything under it and do things to you that’ll have you screaming my name.”

She stiffens in my arms. I replay the words in my head and understand why.

“Shit,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

A finger comes up over my lips.

“Sorry,” I sign.

She nods politely. But I can tell my slip up affected her. “Wine?” she asks.

“Of course.”

I follow her to the kitchen. I’ve only been in here once before for a glass of water the night we were together. In one corner, there’s a small desk with a computer monitor that’s turned on its side, long side up. That’s odd. I point to it. “What’s that for?”

“Phone calls,” she signs. “Deaf like video calls.”

“Really?”

I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing how visual they are. It makes sense that they would want to see each other sign versus read texts. It still baffles me sometimes that English is Ellie’s second language. It’ll be Maisy’s second language too—when she learns it.

Me: Good to know. When Maisy goes off to college, I’ll make sure we each have a large monitor for video calls.

Ellie smiles. Is she thinking what I’m thinking? That I hope I still have Maisy in thirteen years when it’s time for her to go off to school?

She gets two glasses from her cabinet and a bottle of Merlot from her pantry. I raise an amused brow. It’s one of ours.

“You like my wine,” I sign.

“Really good,” she signs emphatically.

I take the bottle from her. “You like me.”

Her eyes roll. “Not bad,” she signs.

I laugh, walk her back to the counter, and press her into it with my thigh. “I’ll show you not bad.”

When I set the bottle behind her, it knocks into something. I glance over her shoulder and see a spilled jar of fortune cookies. I palm one and show it to her. “Why all the fortune cookies?”

“My parents like them.”

She’s pleased that I understand.

“May I?” I hold it up.

She shrugs.

I remove the cookie from the plastic, crack it open, and pull out the tiny slip of paper, laughing when I read:Wise man never plays leapfrog with unicorn.

I show it to her, then say, “Your turn.”

She fishes her phone from her pocket.

Ellie: I don’t do fortune cookies. I just keep them around for my parents. They have a somewhat unnatural affinity toward them. It’s kind of nauseating. But also romantic in a way.

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