Page 146 of The Sound of Him

There’s a word I want to use for them.Something that means - it sort of means beautiful, but in a fancier way?

What’s that word?

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. It’s okay. I won’t let this ruin the moment. I’m telling him about sancocho and he’s hearing about the corn and his fingers are nice and it’sokay.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s-

“Sancocho?” he asks, but he says it like san-cow-cho, like the cow that goes moo.

I can’t help but smile.

Until I realize I can’t correct him.

“Oh, no, no, hey, don’t be sad please.Fuck. Um. I said it wrong, didn’t I? I’m going to just keep saying it until I get it right. Will you give me a thumbs-up when I get it right? Please?”

That’s…okay.

Okay, yeah, that works.

I nod.

He smiles. Warm again.

I carefully smile back.

Warmer.

It takes him three tries, which is impressive because I wasn’t aware there were even that many ways you could try to say this particular arrangement of letters.

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t judge, considering I can’t say any of them at all.

I wait for that to hurt, but then he says it the right way and it's - it's the name of my favorite meal, the meal that made my mamá smile about home. It's that name, said in the sound of his voice, that just might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

“Yeah?” he asks before I can even give him my thumbs-up. He already knows that was the right pronunciation. Probably because of how hard I’m smiling. Hard enough to hurt. Agoodkind of hurt.

I would hurt forever if it meant staying right here, with the warmth of his smile on my skin and the sound of him in my ears.

The best part, though?I don’t even have to hurt. Ace wouldn’twantme to hurt.

I get to have this - this warmth and the sound of him and the way he listens even when I can't speak - and I don’t have to feel anything butgood.

Not good.

Betterthan good.

I put a hand up, a finger, to tell him I need one second. Then I gesture for him to give me the notebook.

Except I’m already standing up because what I want to do requires us to be close to each other. He looks like that puppy again, all big eyes and big smile, perked up and attention set right on me. I kneel, and it isn’t wrong, it isn’t scary, I have one second to think,wait, no, I don’t want-and then I remember that Idowant, andIget to decide. So, I kneel. I take the notebook. I flip to the front cover, to the feelings chart, and I start to tap.

He says the words for me as I do.

“Happy, optimistic, playful, peaceful, hopeful, accepted, respected, amused, joyful,” I pause on the final word of the whole section, finger hovering.Liberated.I don’t feel it yet. There’s still so much wrong with me. So muchbad. I’m still a ghost.

I don’t think ghosts can really be liberated. I think the whole point of being a ghost is that you’re trapped. That instead of living, all you can do is haunt. There’s nothing liberating about that.

“Not yet, huh?” he asks, his voice so soft. “It’s alright if you don’t feel that one yet. It takes time. Matt? I want you to know it takes a lot of time.”

I look up at him, my throat hurting, my eyes burning.