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Thunder grins, helping me onto the bike and showing me how to hold on. As we speed off down the road, I feel the wind rushing wildly through my hair. I throw my head back and give a victory yell. Roaring at the wind, I feel Thunder’s laughter rumbling through his chest. But I don’t mind. He gets it—nothing is as freeing as a bike. I shout to the wind again, and this time, I laugh as he tips his head back and joins me.
ChapterFour
Thunder
I climb the stairs to her apartment, nerves fluttering in my stomach. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside her place, and I’m filled with curiosity. When she opens the door, a shy smile graces her lips, and my heart instantly melts. If only she knew the effect she has on me.
Stepping inside, I take in the cozy, warm space. Mismatched furniture and scattered decorations give it a homey feel. The smell of freshly cooked burgers and fries wafts through the air, making my mouth water in anticipation. I can’t wait to dig in.
But as I follow Arabella further into the apartment, something else captures my attention entirely—her art studio. The space opens up, revealing a world of colors and textures. The walls are adorned with a tapestry of artwork, while the scent of acrylic paints and turpentine fills the air. Canvases of all sizes and shapes are scattered about, some propped up on easels, others leaning against walls. Tubes of paint and brushes lie across a long, wooden table in the center of the room.
The creative energy in the studio is palpable, drawing me in with its magnetic pull. I’m captivated by the beauty of her work and the passion she pours into her art. The canvases, paints, and brushes are scattered everywhere, creating an atmosphere of inspiration and artistic expression.
I can’t help but be in awe of Arabella’s talent and dedication to her craft. Her art studio is a reflection of her soul, and I feel privileged to witness this intimate part of her world. It’s a side of her I haven’t seen before, and it only deepens my admiration for her.
I find my jaw dropping as I take it all in. I had no idea Arabella was an artist, let alone this talented. “Wow,” I say, turning to face her. “This is incredible. You’re incredible.”
She looks up at me, a shy smile playing at her lips. “Thanks,” she says softly. “It’s my passion. Not many people know about it.”
I can’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness towards her. How could anyone not appreciate this amazing woman and her talents? “Well, they’re missing out,” I say firmly. “You’re brilliant.”
For a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other. I can feel the romantic tension between us, and I know that I want to kiss her again. But I don’t want to push her, not after the last time. So instead, I turn back to the burgers and try to ignore the pounding of my heart.
In this moment, I realize that Arabella’s art isn’t just what she creates on canvas, but it’s also a part of who she is. Her creativity and passion are an extension of her personality, and they only make me more drawn to her. I can’t wait to learn more about her art and the stories behind each masterpiece.
We sit down at the small dining area she has tucked away in one corner of the living room. The dim lighting casts a soft glow on her, and the candles she’s placed on the table add to the warm ambiance. I try to catch her eye to speak, but I have to wait until she looks up. It’s frustrating, as I don’t want to offend her, but I’m curious about how she lost her hearing.
“I hope I’m not offending you, again, but I’m curious about how you lost your hearing.”
She gives me a soft smile and lays her fork down. “Not at all,” she replies. “I was ten years old, and had what is called an acoustic trauma. Which is a fancy way of saying I was standing too close to a firecracker at a Fourth of July bbq.”
Her matter-of-fact tone surprises me. “Is that why your speech is so clear?” I ask.
She nods. “I work hard with a speech therapist to maintain normal pitch and volume,” she explains. “You’d be surprised how often I have to raise or lower my voice. Which is why, I mostly try to keep quiet.”
I admire her resilience. “I like your voice,” I tell her sincerely. “And I’m grateful that you’ve shared it with me.”
“Thank you. I can hear some low-pitched sounds better than others, especially in a quiet room like this,” she says, gesturing to the dimly lit space around us.
I’m intrigued. “So I don’t always have to wait for you to see my lips to communicate?” I ask.
She nods. “Speech-reading is hard work, but you can always say my name in a low pitch, as long as the room isn’t too crowded. It should get my attention,” she explains. “You can also touch my hand,” she adds, extending an invitation.
I take her hand, feeling a surge of connection between us. Her hand is soft and warm in mine as she extends the invitation. “You can also touch my hand,” she says, with her eyes locking onto mine.
I don’t hesitate. I reach out and take her hand, feeling a jolt of electricity run through me at the simple touch. It’s as if a current of energy flows between us, connecting us in ways words can’t express.
We sit in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other’s touch. The way her hand fits perfectly in mine, smooths edges I didn’t know were ragged. I’m so lucky to be here with her, sharing this moment.
“I’m glad you can speech read,” she says softly, breaking the silence. “Speech reading is hard work, but it helps me communicate better.”
I nod, understanding the effort she puts into something that comes so naturally to others. “You’re amazing,” I say, my voice filled with sincerity.
She smiles, and the candlelight dances in her eyes. “Thank you,” she says, her voice tinged with modesty. “It’s been a journey, but I’ve learned to embrace my art as a way to express myself.”
Eager to learn more, I ask her how she got into her art. She tells me it started as part of her therapy to help her work through anger related to her disability, but then she fell in love with it.
“It’s my way of finding beauty in the world and expressing my thoughts and emotions,” she says, her voice filled with passion. “It’s become a part of who I am.”
