Page 18 of Silent Is The Heart

Focusing on donning my boots, I don’t miss him stepping forward. I couldn’t miss a move of even one of his muscles, apparently.

“Um, I brought you something.” He flips open that dorky messenger bag he’s toting, retrieving a little device no bigger than an electric shaver. I tense, recognizing instantly what it is.

No. He did not. Really?

Holding up an electrolarynx, I hate the pontificating smile on his face. “I don’t know if you have one of these, but we get samples of the newest upgrades. I wasn’t sure if you’d even need it, but if you’re still struggling with vocal function, it might be a useful tool to have when you’re around people who can’t sign.”

Nostrils flaring, I wish I could melt the device with my eyes, wish I could melt him into a pile of ashes. Did he hit his fucking head? Was he in a coma for the last eight years? How can he stand there and talk to me like I’m still a teenager who just got discharged from Hampton?

No, thanks. I’m good.

“No, really, we got more in than we can use,” he assures me, stepping closer, holding out the damn electrolarynx. “We won’t even miss it. Here.”

Pressing my palm against his closed hand to refuse, I tremble at the contact of skin on skin. I didn’t need a reminder of how many times I yearned to know what that touch would feel like. I was stupid then and I’m just as stupid now.

All I can muster is a shake of my head, standing here like that frustrated kid I was, the one with a tsunami of pent-up emotions. He sees me as a patient, or even worse, an inadequate child, a project that needs fixing. This guy was never my friend, never worth crushing on.

Lines of disappointment mar his forehead. I grind my teeth at the desire they give me to be compliant.

“Easton, it’s really no big deal,” he says in that soft, understanding tone that suckered me years ago. “Lots of people use them. It’s just something nice to have in case you ever have a bad day.”

Cupping my hand, he tries to turn it like he’s going to place the damned thing in my palm.Bad days? What the fuck does he know about bad days? I remember every story about his privileged life, but apparently, he remembers fuck all about mine.

Snatching the electrolarynx, I whip it across the room, sending it ricocheting off the wall. He jumps back, watching the body of the device split open and fall to the floor. The way he gapes at me like he can’t fathom the reason for my outburst is just another wedge in the proverbial distance between us. I’ve never felt so petulant in my life, and it only increases my shame and anger twofold.

The new model looks a little faulty,I sign with as much indifference in my expression as I can.I think it’s time for you to go.

“Easton, I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… wanted to help.”

It takes everything in me not to use my voice, not to scream at him. Gripping a handful of his shirt, I tell him with my other hand what I think of his offering of help as I drag him out of my room and toward the door.

Are you fucking deaf? Maybe you’re the one who needs therapy. I asked you to fucking leave.

I release my grip on him unceremoniously, and he staggers to a stop in the hallway. Breathless, sweater rumpled, face flushed—he looks like he just saw the boogeyman. He still has that youthful innocence about him and that annoying do-good spirit, as though all the world is shiny. His face says I’ve just taken a big old dump on it.

Well, I’m not a fucking fairy godmother. Iamthe fucking boogeyman, and he stepped into this pile of shit willingly. Ididn’t ask for him to come calling. I remember what happened to me and I got over it. He needs to get over whatever the fuck brought him back to memory lane.

His hand trembles as he brings it up to smooth out his collar. The morning light glints off his wedding band, assaulting me with images of him being devoured by Jason Reider on his desk all those years ago. Three weeks later, he’d up and run off to Seattle to move in with the guy. One of the nurses told me they got married about two minutes later. He never said a word about it, and I didn’t get so much as a fare-thee-well.

I know he didn’t need to, but damn. I guess his whole art program recommendation for me hadn’t been as high on his priority list as he’d made it sound. The time I stewed over that is too humiliating to acknowledge.

Right now. I could fucking care less. I did fine without his charity. I was young and dumb then. The fact I let him get under my skin today makes me a dumb adult. I’m actually glad he stopped by. It’s good that I got this closure. Apparently, I needed it.

But I’m done. So fucking done.

Slamming the door shut, I know I’ll feel better in a few minutes. Aaron Manicki…or Aaron Reider—whoever the fuck he is—won’t even be a memory anymore.

CHAPTER 10

Aaron

Killing the engine outside the cottage, my truck rattles, adding to the vibrating sensation that’s been coursing through me the entire ride home from Easton’s. I’m lucky this thing made it across the country from Seattle with what few possessions I didn’t have to sell. Right now, though, I kind of wish it hadn’t.

God, that was stupid. What was I thinking?

I violated his privacy, not to mention a medical ethical code about contacting former patients outside of work. Granted, I had no clue he lived upstairs when I walked into H&S Ink. I assumed it was a second level to the tattoo parlor or the office, but I still willingly went to his place of work.

Staring out at the stream beyond the yard, I feel numb, as though I’ve been tased. Easton. Easton Bennick in the flesh. The thick sensation in my throat hints that was a poor choice of words.

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