Page 11 of Nonverbal

I glance around, suddenly aware that this coffee shop is close to my house. Which is okay. I’m safe. I’m safe with Amber. That man doesn’t drink coffee. And he’d be at work right now. There’s no reason he would be here. None at all. I’m safe.

I take a deep breath, touching my stitches through the dress as my gaze drops to the recently mopped tile. My stomach gurgles like Doctor Strange opened a portal to a dark dimension in my gut. Stop thinking about him. He doesn’t exist right now.

Amber squeezes my arm and whispers, “Get ready.”

After lots of whirring and steam and shwoop shwoop shwoop, Rings carries our two drinks to the counter. “Have a great day,” he says mindlessly, without looking at us.

“Sorry, can I get salt?” Amber asks as he’s turning away.

The strange request makes him stop. “You want salt?” He locks eyes with Amber and smiles, glancing briefly at me. “Oh, hey. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s life?” An eyebrow ring dances as he talks.

I smile and nod, giving a thumbs up.

“Good, yeah,” Amber adds. “How about you?”

“Not too shabby,” Rings says. “Just got back from Colorado. I have some friends with a farm up there. Needed to escape this heat and zen out for a while.”

Flashing my rehearsed smile, I show Amber my screen. I don’t like using my AAC app in public because everyone turns to stare at the Disabled Girl talking through her phone. Typing is more subtle.

Amber reads my words out loud. “Ugh, yeah, this heat.”

I show her my phone again.

“Did you drive?” Amber translates. “It’s super scenic in Colorado.”

“No, I flew, but I totally love the drive up there.” He rests his palms on the counter and leans in. “I should’ve driven. Easier to transport stuff. My friend has a new crop that’s killer. What a trip that shit is.”

I add a hair toss as I cast my hook, hoping for a bite.

“Care to share?” Amber reads. “I’ve got an evening free tomorrow.”

He points at her. “You?”

“No. Paige.”

I’m usually decent at reading people, so there’s no mistaking the flash of disappointment on his face. He covers part of his mouth with a hand, hiding his lips from me while he leans toward Amber as if sharing a secret. “Is she okay with you setting her up? I was hoping you and I could go out. I’ve never been with a mute. How would we talk?”

My stomach sinks. I’m not sure why he thinks I can’t hear, but I continue to smile like I’m oblivious. If only I were deaf. Being the Silent Autistic Girl is like getting a giant horse pill from the doctor. One that makes your eyes grow wide while you protest, “Hell no, I ain’t swallowing that. You want me to choke?”

I can tell Amber is ready to throw hot coffee in his face for using the term ‘mute’, so I step between them. I can handle this guy, and I’m willing to give him a chance. He might be misinformed and ignorant, but those traits can change.

I slide the pen from his apron pocket, click it, and scribble words on a napkin—I saw this all in a movie once. Then I dangle the napkin in front of my cleavage so he can read: I’m great at conversation, and I can make decisions for myself. Let’s hang out and have fun. I’ll make it worth your while. Then I sip my coffee and lick foam from my upper lip. Hopefully, he doesn’t notice my hands shaking.

The gears in his head churn. I can almost hear his thoughts: Is it okay to have sex with someone who is…you know? Will I get arrested? Does this make me a pervert? Does she even know what sex is?

“Okay,” he finally says, pronouncing the word slowly. His voice gets louder. “What’s your number?”

I write my digits on a napkin, trying not to clench my jaw too tight. I really hope he doesn’t turn out to be a total idiot. Whatever. I have limited time away from home, and I only need a hookup, not deep intellectual conversation.

“Cool then,” he says. “Paige, right? I’ll text you.” After waving at Amber, he turns to grab a printout of the next order.

Success! I’m one step closer to my goal. I hope. The other guys I fucked didn’t get me there, but Rings could be my golden ticket.

I feel like skipping, but I keep my cool as Amber ushers me toward the exit as quickly as possible, our cups abandoned on the counter. A man stands up in our path.

“Hey,” he says, gawking at Amber and pointing. “I know you.”

Amber tries to ignore him and shoves past. We make it outside before the middle-aged man with glasses touches her shoulder. “Hey, wait. I know you. You’re ButtercupXXI.”

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