Page 58 of Unloved

Before I can put any distance between us, Samuel slides his fingers out of mine and brings his hand that’s curled into a fist, into my line of sight.

I predict the movements before he releases his thumb, forefinger, and pinky all at the same time.

I love you.

Unable to help myself, I reach out and grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him to me, kissing him senseless.

“I love you too,” I murmur against his lips. “I love you so damn much.”

Feeling on top of the world, I turn to look at Rhys, whose smile is nothing but pride and eyes are full to the brim with happiness.

“I guess boyfriends it is.”

Rhys raises his hand to his forehead and brings his thumb and forefinger together before releasing them again, as if he’s holding and releasing the tip of a hat.

He then curves both his index fingers and intersects them one way and then flips them the other way. I know what he’s telling me without even confidently knowing the sign. I replicate his movements, and he winks at me.

Boyfriends.

* * *

Hesitant to proceed, I’m standing in front of one of the glass conference room doors inside the UCLA library. I’ve been in this building countless times over the last four years, but never had I given it as much thought as I do right now.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m here. I’m not really seeking anything specific, but after advice from the audiologist, and deferring college, I realized there isn’t really a lot to do with my time. I worked part time at one of the campus coffee shops, and if the broken collarbone didn’t impede my serving abilities, the coffee shop isn’t the best place to be navigating life with hearing loss.

I could work out with either Samuel or Rhys, or both, and now that Frankie decided to move back to LA for good, I could always hang out with him for a few hours a day too, but seriously, who wants to be everyone’s tagalong?

I have a habit of keeping my circle small, choosing to live in my own comfortable, safe bubble. It’s a defense mechanism I learned early on—if you speak to and trust fewer people, then there is an even smaller chance somebody could hurt you.

As much as I want to continue living like this, tightening up my world isn’t going to work in my favor in these circumstances, because if I shut myself off from everything, the only one who will suffer is me.

The best way I could rationalize it in my head is comparing my circumstances to that of Arlo’s and Rhys’s. They are both addicts, both in recovery, and both understand that they need to have a support system in order to succeed—but their support system is made of people who have been in their shoes, who understand their troubles, who failed and who succeeded.

I need that.

I need people who have already been in my shoes, people who can reassure me that yes, there are days when it will be hard, but there are days when it will be better.

A body pushes past me, forcing me to falter on my feet. When I steady myself, I notice a girl my age, maybe a little bit younger, picking up her fallen backpack and hiking it over her shoulder. She glances up at me with green, apologetic eyes, and I salute her in greeting.

She must take this as her cue, because the next thing I know, her hands and fingers fly through a flurry of signs at a speed I’m just not used to.

With one hand, I cover both of hers, stopping her from signing and feeling guilty about it, and with my other hand, I drag my cell out of my pocket, ready to speak into it.

Her eyes dart between my hand on hers and my cell and then she nods in understanding.

It’s not until this moment that I realize, I’ve yet to meet a person who couldn’t hear me. I’ve spent weeks of not being able to hear anything or anybody else, but when it came to being able to vocalize my needs and wants, and have them be heard, I’ve had no issues.

This thought alone reiterates why professionals insist on the importance of immersing yourself into the deaf community. This exact interaction is the perfect example of the nuances surrounding being deaf and in deaf culture.

I pull up a new note on my phone and type out an introduction of sorts.

Hi, I’m Lennox. I only lost my hearing recently and still haven’t mastered the art of signing. I’m sorry I put my hand over yours.

As she’s reading, she pulls her own cell out and taps at the screen a few times before turning it to face me.

My name is Abby. I’m sorry for assuming. And I’m so sorry for knocking into you.

I shake my head and respond.

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