Page 7 of Silent Is The Heart

The crisp April air floods into my lungs and soothes the heat in my face over my last blunder. God, I hate this. My voice is wrecked. I never knew how much pride I took in the sound of it until it was destroyed. Why can’t Aaron just talk?

I think I could listen to just about anything he’d say. He’s one of those people who radiates positivity, but in a calm, non-suffocating manner, not an overzealous, director-of-fun manner. He brought me outside, and I’m pretty sure he had to fight for the right to do so. This freaking place—heaven forbid, a patient actually doesn’t hate life for half an hour. Granted, I’m in a wheelchair for now, but it’s still fresh air. None of the other staff ever contemplated that a seventeen-year-old who’s been in either a hospital or this hellhole for two and a half months might like to smell something other than bedpans and latex gloves.

Glancing over, Aaron’s patient eyes greet mine from where he’s sitting in one of the wrought-iron patio chairs at the little table. His mouth ticks up at the corner, but he says nothing, and that says more than any words can. From what he’s told me about his life, he hasn’t gone through anything like I have, but he doesn’t try to pretend he understands nor steamroll me with insincere sympathy.

“Sorry,” I croak, clenching my fingers into a fist at the sound that comes out.

Maybe if I only try to talk to obnoxious or ugly people, it’ll be easier to speak once I get out of here. Why does he have to look so good?

Listen to me. A guy brings me milkshakes and babbles on about silly stories from his childhood and college, and I like… care about his feelings. Mom would snicker at my personal growth.

He has a brother who’s deaf. Maybe that’s why he’s the first person I’ve met since the accident who looks at me like I’m normal. Maybe he’s just used to people with limitations.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” he chuffs. “This isn’t easy—physically or emotionally. None of it. But I’m so impressed by you…”

That has my gaze flicking to his for some reason. How many times have I heard that in my life?

Jesus, he blushes. Someone is going to gobble this man up and eat his candy center. If only I could walk, and talk, and be legal, and…notin here. I’d be a defender of the candy center. I mean, someone should. He’s too… good to be gobbled by the wrong person.

His soft, self-deprecating puff of air is an adorable sound as he shakes his head, trying to find the right words. “Easton…look at all you’ve gone through, and all you still have to go through—”

Yeah, no shit. Where is he going with this?

“And you have no one to help you go through it. Of course, it’s going to be difficult as hell and aggravating and painful, but look at you.” He gestures to me with a smile that I must be imagining is so dreamy because I’m an idiot with teenagehormones looking at the perfect shape of his mouth. “You’re doing it,” he declares with this disbelieving little laugh. “You learned to roll that chair when it’s something you’ve never had to do before. You made a decision to be out here working with me today. You made a decision to try to work your vocal cords when I know it’s the last thing you want to be doing. You’re tough, and you don’t have to be. You choose to be tough, and it’s…”

The silence dangles like a prize I want to win. ‘It’s what?’ I want to ask, but he chews his lower lip and then sucks in a breath.

“That’swhat’s so impressive.”

Was I hoping for the word sexy? What the fuck is wrong with me?

Still, the wordimpressivehas me fidgeting in this stupid wheelchair under his smile. Who in the hell has ever thought I was impressive? I don’t even think Mom did. She loved me, sure, but let’s be real here—impressive?

Leaning forward, he clasps his hands between his legs like a coach having a heart-to-heart with a team member. “I don’t care how long it takes or how many breaks you need; I just want to know that when you’re a famous artist someday, you’ll feel confident giving interviews and telling your critics to fuck off. Knowing you’re out there knocking the socks off the world and not hiding because you don’t sound like you used to will make this random, boring guy in some medical office who used to annoy the heck out of you really freaking proud to say he knew you once.”

Did he actually just drop an F-bomb? Perfect, buttoned-up Aaron? Wow!

Snorting, I shake my head. Famous artist. Okay, he’s laying it on thick now, yet I’m still preening. He shows up to our sessions early just so he can ask to see what I drew since the last time. I wouldn’t give a damn if he infringed on our session by perusing my sketches, but it’s thoughtful. It gives me more time with him. And… it’s kind of cool that he’s so into my stuff.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” I finally let out, ignoring my soft volume. “It’s not my fault you’re boring.”

Snickering, he grins and leans back in his chair. “True. That was unfair of me.”

I feel the urge to hang onto the lighthearted mood before it fades. I don’t want him to have to pull nails to get me to talk. When I know I have to talk, I don’t want to. It’s not him, it’s this place and how I got here. That’s not Aaron’s fault. He’s just doing his job and is damn better at it than anyone else here.

A famous artist. Ha!

Something competitive in me, however, gets a mental picture of what that would look like. I’ll probably have to sell blow jobs in the back of an alley to even buy art supplies when I get out of here, but I’d be my own boss. At least, I’m pretty good at blow jobs.

Thank God he can’t hear my thoughts, or he might think I’m serious and sign me up for more therapy.

“So…” I clear my throat, staring at a hawk soaring over the tree line behind the facility, inspired by the fact that will be me one day—getting far the fuck away from here to a life that’s my own, even though I have no clue what kind of life that will be. “Explain to me…” I have to pause to swallow, my throat feeling like a jumbled mess. “How in the hell you ended up…in the gynecology department on your first day doing your shadow hours?”

“Oh, my gosh,” he moans into his hands. “I don’t know why I even told you that.”

His ears are red, eyes sparkling, and his embarrassed expression is so full of joy, I just can’t with him. The man even makes taking a good ribbing look sexy. He’s got the body of a tight end and told me he puts puzzles together with his mom. Puzzles!With. His mom.

“That hospital’s signs were all screwed up!” he defends. “They’d just remodeled and apparently, they forgot to remove some of the old signs.”

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