Nice enough guy, I guess, even though he did continue to ramble on about how impressed he is that I survived what has been, to date, the worst day of my life. I may continue to call him Mr. Sadistic Thumbs, however, if he keeps jamming them into my vertebrae like he did. I apparently (and begrudgingly) have eighteen more sessions to decide which way I’d like to go with what to call him.
But, on the bright side, since I obviously didn’t land that job I interviewed for a few weeks ago, I don’t need to worry about starting work having to request a bunch of time off for appointments. And, better yet, that means I will almost definitely have eighteen more times to try to muster up the courage to formally ask Lauren out. Let’s hope I grow some balls by the time I’m discharged.
I like her. Since she understands when I sign primarily in SEE, she’s just as comfortable to communicate with as she is easy on the eyes. Other than my own family, she’s the first person to treat me like a human since my injury. Not that I’m not partially to blame for that myself, since I’ve become somewhat of a recluse since the accident and everything that happened after. Wallowing in my own guilt and shame has really weighed on me, so these little glimpses of normalcy—these little coffee dates we have after each appointment—they’re, I don’t know,invigorating.
Who even uses that word anymore? When did I become such an old guy? That sounds just like something an old guy would say…
As we step outside the office, she glances down at her watch, then up at me. “We don’t have as much time leftover today as we normally do, but… you were my last client of the day.” She bites her pillowy bottom lip again, a nervous expression creasing her brow. “Would you still like to go grab a coffee?”
I shake my head, and she looks down at the ground, clearly dismayed. I flash her my hands to get her attention again. “If I drink anything but decaf this late in the day, I’ll be up all night. I’m not opposed to grabbing an ice cream though, instead…” I offer, nodding at the Dairy Joy across the street.
Ah, see? Balls are growing! Like little crocuses sprouting in the spring, maybe, but they’re there.
Her lips twitch in sudden amusement. “Even in your Richard Simmons get-up?”
I nod. Fuck, I could be dressed in aBarneycostume, and I’d still agree to it if it meant I got to spend more doctor-less time with her. “Even then. Come on, my treat this time.”
I hold my hand out in invitation, and after she takes a moment to study it, she accepts, threading her fingers between mine. “Do you want to share a banana split with me?” she asks as we dart across the crosswalk.
I scrunch my nose, playfully attempting to insinuate that it's not my favorite.
When we get to the sidewalk, she studies me. “You said you were a chocolate guy at your last appointment. What about a brownie sundae?”
Holy shit… sherememberedthat?
I nod emphatically and she giggles. When we get up to the window, she shyly shoves me in front of her. Guess the mute is placing the order, and now that she’s off the clock, her interpreterservices are no longer on the table. I dig out my phone, open up the notes app, and type out:
The teenager behind the counter looks confused for a moment, then finally asks, “So, like, I justtalkto you?”
I soundlessly chuckle and nod.
“Alright, cool.” He starts scribbling on the pad in front of him. “Do you want whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry?”
I shoot him a thumbs up in response after glancing at Lauren over my shoulder to get her approval.
“You got it. Will that be all?” he asks, and I nod. “Cash or card?”
I waggle my card, and he accepts it. After he hands it back, he gives me another confused look—one I’m honestly sick to death of getting. I’m sure he’s noticed the scar on my neck. Everyone sort of regards you in horror when you tell them you got a ski pole lodged in your throat, so I just stopped divulging that little tidbit after a while. Honestly, it was gory even to me at first, but after a while, I just got desensitized to it.
“Who are you supposed to be?” he asks after a bit. I blink at him, perplexed, and he flaps his hand gesturing at my outfit. “I can’t tell if you’re wearing a costume or not…” he explains.
I laugh, air puffing out ofmy nostrils. I type on my phone again:
“Who?” the kid asks, clearly puzzled. Maybe I’d have had better luck if Ididwear a Barney costume…
Lauren snorts and finally steps out from hiding. “I think he’s insinuating that we’re old,” she notes, peering up at me. Then she turns to the kid. “He was a TV fitness instructor in the eighties and nineties. You know,Sweatin’ to the Oldies?”
The kid shakes his head. “No idea. I wasn’t born in the nineteen-hundreds.”
Ex-cuse me?!The nineteen-hundreds?!
Lauren, as if reading my mind, huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Holy shit, I suddenly feel like I need to start looking at nursing homes…”
Alright, this woman is smart, kind, absolutely stunning,andsnarky? There’sno wayshe’s the package deal, and yet has a naked ring finger. What kind of alternate universe did I step into when I moved up here and officially made my parents' summerhouse my main residence?
It’s givingTwilightZonevibes.
I grab our treat and we find an empty picnic table near the edge of the outdoor seating area. This time of year, Ternbay is always overrun with summer vacationers, now that school is out. Me, my parents, my nana, and sister always used to be a part of that crowd too, but that’s long since been the case after Natalie and I both flew the coop as soon as we were both in our early twenties.
