Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Ezra pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose—they’re for show; I know he doesn’t need them. He looks up at Indigo, and I expect him to cave. Instead, he says, “I should have moved them, Indigo. But I was frustrated about the kombucha top left on the counter. I felt defiant and acted out.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I do not need this confessional nonsense.
Apparently, neither does Miles. He strides out of my room, hauling the bamboo like a lumberjack with a stack of wood, his jaw set in that calm, no-nonsense way. “Where do you want this—couch, floor, or table?”
Indigo startles. “Um…”
“The table, man,” Ezra says, brightening. “Sweet! That would have taken me half an hour.”
“Because you get distracted by your folk music station every time you do chores,” Indigo snaps.
“Oh, now you’re mocking my music? Pretty sure you were the one who asked me to blast it the other night in bed.”
And the gloves are off.
She gasps. “Ezra! Use your ‘I feel’ words.”
What a great idea. “I feel like it’s time to set up my room,” I interject, darting past them.
Miles grabs two more of my grocery bags from the foyer, then follows, shutting the door behind him with a necessary finality. He sets the bags down by the door and leans his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, watching me. “Good call on escaping the folk music and kombucha detente.”
The chaos of the living room is replaced with the quiet clutter of my room, my life scattered in suitcases and bags. I breathe easier, but the space feels smaller with Miles here.
And it’s not a bad sort of small. But it is a tempting sort of small. I need to be careful with him so close. I need to remember the friendship plan. “It’s always a good idea to escape them,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, they’re fun,” he says, taking in my room with its futon, scratched-up bureau and not just secondhand, but fourth-hand chair that was passed on from a friend of a friend of a friend.
“Evidently they’ve moved from fucking it out to therapying it out,” I mutter, glancing at the door. “Let’s put on music so they can’t hear us talk about them.”
“Good idea,” he says, pulling out his phone. “What do you like?”
I shrug, my chest tightening. “Honestly, anything. Well, not folk music.”
“Heard. But seriously—any artists you’re into?”
I wince. “I’m not a big music person.”
He tilts his head, his expression softening. “Do you dislike it, or…does it distract you from hearing?”
I relax, but only somewhat. It’s a relief that he’s naturally curious and doesn’t cringe, but it’s still uncomfortable to talk about this with anyone outside family or close friends. Honestly, I don’t even love talking about it with my girlfriends. It makes me feel even more vulnerable than I already am with the hearing loss.
But Miles is so earnest and patient, so I give him the truth. “Yeah, it’s that. I don’t listen to music much while I’m out and about because I’m afraid I’ll miss something important. Same at home, I guess. It’s silly.”
He nods, thoughtful. “It’s not silly. Not one bit. I get it.” He touches the arms of his glasses. “Sometimes when I go to bed at night, my mind wanders to what if I need to see—really see well—in the middle of the night. That’s why I never wore glasses when I was a teenager and lived at home. Just contacts all the time.”
The tension in my chest unknots somewhat, replaced by something like empathy. “Because…you wanted to be able to look out for your brother and sister if you had to?”
“And my mom,” he adds.
My heart softens and pulls toward him.
“I’m not saying it’s the same,” he quickly clarifies. “I know they’re different senses. I just…I want you to know that I want to understand…you. That I like understanding you.” He pauses, then like he has to say it, adds, “As a friend.”
My heart thumps hard, my throat thick with emotion. “I don’t listen to anything when I walk around the city,” I say, and it is an admission.
His lips curve into a soft grin. “I was wondering the other day if you did.”
“Yeah?” I ask, wanting to kiss that grin. To touch the corner of his mouth. To run a hand over his stubble.
“It had occurred to me.”
“Now you know,” I say, and it feels safe to tell him. Like my vulnerability doesn’t make me weaker.
“I’m glad you told me,” he says, then cocks his head, studying me. “What if we don’t listen to music? What if we listen to ocean sounds or birds or something? Would that help?”
No one in the entire world has ever suggested anything like that. Maybe because I haven’t given anyone the chance. But he took the opportunity. “How about rainfall?”
His smile grows wider. “You speak to my Seattle soul.”