Page 37 of Interpreter

“I’m putting it over your stubborn as—self.”

No, he didn’t just handle me. No, he didn’t just force his earthy smelling—oh shit, it smells so much better than I thought—shirt over my head and pull my arms through like I was his to dress. His to dress… oh goodness. My ovaries tingle. Fine, it’s my vajayjay. Either way, it’s not good. Soooo not good….

In seconds, Mr. Lambros has me dressed in his shirt that hangs past my knees and smells like what Felipe says is the fruit of our desires. I stand there, shocked, a little bit horny, and a whole lot of tingly. “Uh, thanks,” I mutter, forgetting to sign.

He tips his chin, and I wonder if he missed what I said since the sun has gone down and there are only a few lights on so people can find their blankets.

“You didn’t have to give me your shirt,” I say, taking a seat next to Oliver. I’m not even going to bother asking him if I can sit here. He didn’t bother asking if it was okay to basically force me to use Big Jon, my vibrator, when I get home. Pe is sure to sniff out sexual frustration if I don’t, so really, Tim is at fault for what happens later tonight.

“You were wet,” he offers like I’m stupid.

Ha! Now, I’m wet in other places. Would he like to give me his jeans? No, that would be a terrible idea. Not only are we at school, but Martha has been tracking him like I do a spider.

“Well,” this time I sign along with my words, “I appreciate it, but you didn’t have to. And you certainly aren’t getting it back. I’m greedy like that.”

Tim doesn’t answer me, and I don’t sweat it. What could he do other than say you’re welcome or keep arguing? Instead, he’s grinning at the two kiddos between us. Aspen is signing,“Hello,”and Oliver signs, “My name is Oliver,”which I don’t think Aspen grasps. Names are harder to pick up since they are assigned in ASL. It’s not the same as basic words or commands.

“She’s really cute,” I say, touching Tim’s shoulder to get his attention.

He drags his eyes off the little girl he clearly loves and reads my signs. He nods, agreeing with me that she is cute. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to my family,” he tells me, which reminds my curious ass.

“You live at the foundation for veterans, right?”

His jaw clenches, and I think I’ve brought up a topic he doesn’t want to discuss. But then he takes a cleansing breath and says, “I do. I’ve been there for four years.”

Wow. Four years? That’s a long time. I thought it was a short-term facility. Well, I don’t know. I only know what I was able to search on the internet. Anniston McCallister took in her first veteran several years ago. A year or so later, she and Major Jameson, her success story, established a foundation to help more veterans like him to acclimate into civilian life after being discharged from the military. I want to pry and ask Tim what his story is. Why does he need to be in this foundation? He doesn’t seem too bad, a little antisocial, but I don’t feel like he couldn’t do well by himself. I really don’t know him though.

“Don’t overthink it,” he tells me. “Just ask me.”

Well, now I can’t ask him because then he will think he’s right and I really was curious about why he’s at the foundation.

I go with, “You seem really happy with your family.”

He makes this choking sound like he smothered a laugh. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

He’s right, but I will never admit it—especially when he just flashed me a true panty-melting smile.

Radio host: How did you feel when Timaeus turned down the orchestra? Did your symptoms carry a lot of weight in his decision?

Penelope: One thing you should know about my son is that he is stubborn. So stubborn that, even if my symptoms played a part in his decision, I wouldn’t have been able to talk him out of it if I wanted to.

Radio host: Were you disappointed that he didn’t choose the life of fame?

Penelope: Absolutely not. My husband—Timaeus’s father and I have always wanted what was best for him—whatever made him happy.

“What makes you think I wasn’t planning to say that?” Milah’s cheeks are flushed with heat, and I wonder if I’ve embarrassed her with my comment.

“Your brows were furrowed,” I tell her, “and you have this line that creases—”

“I have premature wrinkles!” This time it’s not her cheeks I notice, but the aghast look set deep within her caramel eyes.

This is not how I wanted this conversation to go.

“No, that’s not what I meant.”Back away slowly, Tim. Correct this word vomit right now before she smacks you.“I just mean that when you’re thinking hard about something your forehead—”

“Just stop. I don’t want to know what my skin or facial expressions do when I’m talking to you.”

I can respect that. She doesn’t want to know how her hips sway in those ridiculous high shoes she wears, or that when she’s angry her bottom lip quivers like a warning before she explodes. She’s fascinating to watch. So expressive….

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