Page 58 of Interpreter

He didn’t speak his words. For the first time since knowing him, he just signed. It felt intimate and secretive—even knowing his family is well versed in ASL, and they could have easily seen what he signed. It felt like he was just talking to me.

I flash him a smile and try not to make a big deal about it. “You want something in the bottle or on tap?” I point to the brands we have on tap, and his eyes never veer from mine.

“Whatever you recommend.”

I hope Felipe turns the air down when he finishes showing Theo all the nooks that are good for fucking backstage. It’s seriously getting hot in here, and I’m scared my deodorant may not last.

“Okay.” I nod like one of those awkward tweens at school. “Coming right up.”

I hear chairs scrape against the floor before, “We’ll be over there. Text when you’re ready to go.”

I force myself not to look back. It’s not Tim’s voice. I haven’t been around his family long enough to know whose it is, but by the time I turn around with Tim’s beer, they’ve all disappeared.

“Did they go get a table?” I ask, placing Tim’s mug of beer on the pink napkins we keep at the counter.

“They did.” Short and sweet. Tim isn’t an awkward space filler. He just allows the awkward to hang in the air, leaving it for people like me to deal with it. “Oh, okay.” I turn to look at the clock on the wall. “Well, the show starts in fifteen minutes.” Ah hell, this is awkward. “I wasn’t planning on us sitting at a table for it, but we can hang out here before it gets started.”

I’m not about to tell him that I planned for us to occupy one of those cubbies Felipe is showing Theo. No, I wasn’t planning on banging him, but it’s more private. It’s somewhere where he can see the show and I can interpret the music without any eyes on us.

“To bond?” His grin is not cute, do not let it fool you.

Fine, it is.

My eyes cross. “Stop saying it like that. You know what I meant.”

He takes a sip of his beer, his eyes peeking over the rim. “You mean to bond with me.”

For all that is holy.

“Yes,” I admit sarcastically, but with an eye roll since he isn’t able to hear the inflection in my voice. “I wanted tobondwith you. However you may interpret that word.” On a nonsarcastic thought, I really wouldn’t mind bonding with him on a sexual level, which is clearly what he’s making the word out to mean.

An almost snort comes out of his mouth—an organic sound. Well, how about that? Mr. Broody couldn’t hold in his laughter. It came out all real, not forced or crafted. He sounded hot, not soft spoken. This laugh was a real one.

“So, tell me, Ms. Iglesias.” His tone is serious, and I know I’m not going to like this set of questions. “How did you end up in the US?”

I take a sip of the wine I poured—no José this time—and give him a tiny shrug. I liked it better when I was the one asking questions. “As you know, I’m from Costa Rica.” He doesn’t comment, and that’s because he knows my ass is stalling. Ugh. “My mami was obsessed with the United States.” Another sip of wine. Why isn’t it kicking in? “She, uh… she always had big dreams to move here, and so when I finished college, I applied for a work visa and here I am.”

That wasn’t so bad.

“Was coming to America your dream too?” His question stops me midsip. Was this my dream? Or was it hers?

“I….” Wow, it’s never occurred to me. “To be honest, I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve always worked for.”

“You didn’t want to be a teacher?”

Where is Pe? We need to get this show started. “No, not at first.” I take a large gulp of wine, which is apparently trashy looking by Pe’s standards, but I don’t care. I need alcohol, and I need it fast.

“I didn’t go to school to be a teacher, if that’s what you mean. I have a foreign language degree with a minor in communications.”

His stare is intense as he continues with his deep and super personal questions for a first date. Wait, this is not a date. “So, what was your dream job? I assume you took a teaching position because that’s what got you here the fastest.”

He would assume correctly. I shrug, feeling tiny beads of sweat form on the back of my neck. “My abuelita was in the hospital one time, and when I visited, there was this American who had a stroke or clot—I’m not sure which—while on a cruise ship. They brought him to the hospital, and he ended up needing a tracheostomy for a while after surgery.” Why do I feel so naked right now? “He spoke no Spanish, but even if he could, he had the tracheostomy, which is like a tube put in your throat so you can breathe.”

Tim grins. “I know.”

“Well, most people don’t. I was just explaining.” Smart-ass. “Anyway, there was this translator in the hospital who came and worked with him. She was able to translate for the Spanish-speaking doctors and she sat with him, every day, teaching him a little Spanish while he was there.”

I do this ridiculous little shrug. “That man was scared being in a foreign country and in a hospital where he didn’t speak much of the language. That translator became his friend, his ally in a scary place. I wanted to be that for someone. I wanted to make a difference. Maybe not in a hospital or whatever, but I wanted to be that resource, that connection for someone.” And because I can’t stop the loose lips with a now empty wine glass, I add, “When my mom had to stop working to care for my abuelita, I stopped being so picky. Not that I don’t love the kids or love teaching, I do. It’s just not the same feeling I was looking for, you know?”

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