Page 47 of Interpreter

This is painful. Almost as bad as when I told my parents that I wasn’t joining the orchestra after high school. “And a little boy. Oliver. He’s losing his hearing, like me—like I did.”

“Oh. And how does that make you feel being around someone so young going through what you have?”

Good old Dr. Parker, never misses a wound he can stick his finger in. “It’s not the best time I’ve ever had.”

“Do you offer him guidance?”

I feel my lips purse. “I offer him my dessert at lunch. Do I look like someone who needs to be offering up advice? I’m a fucking wreck. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?”

His expression never changes. He’s a patient man. Seriously, he deserves a medal. “But you have lived through it, Tim. You still might have issues to work through, but you aren’t broken. You have a wealth of knowledge to offer someone like Oliver.”

I scratch my cheek, all the confusion and new emotions making their way to the surface. “I hate signing,” I blurt out. “I loathe it. I’d rather miss words than to sign them.”

Dr. Parker doesn’t seem as shocked with this confession as I think he should be. “And why do you loathe it?”

Goddammit. I am never getting out of the house. “Because it reminds me of everything I used to be.”

“And what did you used to be?”

Anniston would kill me if I punched the wall. She would. So instead of hitting something, I groan and tuck my head between my hands. “Somebody. I used to be someone.”

“And you aren’t now?”

“No.”

“Do you still have two degrees?”

This conversation is going nowhere.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Dr. Parker takes a drink of his coffee, slowly, just so it gets on my nerves. “Can you not speak four languages? Did your voice and knowledge fade too?”

Fuck this. I am not doing this with him today. “You know what? Never mind. I have to go or I’ll be late.”

Dr. Parker nods, looking all happy with himself. “Okay, I’ll schedule you another appointment for next week. I’ll send it to Anniston so you don’t forget.”

And that’s how my morning started off. Frustrating as fuck. The only good thing about it was walking in and seeing Milah in those heels that screamed “bend me over this desk and fuck me until I can’t walk.” Her shoes are a wet fucking dream. I couldn’t even focus. All I kept imagining were the points of her stilettos digging into my back.

I know I said I had nothing to offer a woman, and I still stand by that statement, but I can do sex. I shouldn’t because interoffice romances can get nasty really quick. And Milah looks like a wholesome woman. She needs husband material, not just a fuck buddy. So whether or not she and I could use a nice romp on the desktop, I’ll have to take the gentleman’s way out and leave her alone.

Movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Milah tiptoeing into the bathroom, a plunger held high in her hand. “I found one!” She tells me with a wide smile, only letting it fall a second later when she splashes in water.

“I just bought these shoes, and they were full price!” One hand is attempting to sign to me while the other holds the plunger steady. “I know men don’t understand, but shoes are like—ahh!” Her foot slips and she slides, falling ungracefully to the tiled floor, and right in—“Oh my God, I am laying in shit water!”

I rush to her as fast as I can without falling too. “Stop flailing,” I tell her.

“My ankle. I think I twisted it.” Her face is pulled tight as she tries sitting up to examine her foot. “My shoes!”

And we’re back to the shoes. Fuck her ankle. Let’s focus on her shoes. That sounds logical.

“Can you take them off of me?” she begs. “Hurry, so they don’t ruin!”

I reach underneath her knees, ignoring the nonsense coming from her lips.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you saving my shoes?”

Because it’s ridiculous. With one hand around her back and the other under her knees, I give her an expression that simply implies to hush. “Hold on to me.” I don’t need to tell her twice.

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