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Every time her teeth sink into her bottom lip, I want to kiss her.
Not that she wants to be kissed.
Or touched.
Or maybe even spoken to.
Her eyes dart up again.
And I see it.
Nerves.
Because she’s scaredofme?
No, that didn’t look like the kind of fear that makes women pull their purses closer to their bodies or skitter to the other side of the road.
It seemed like…
The kind of nerves you feel before a big presentation. The kind where you want everything to go right because it matters. Because you wish it didn’t matter so much.
She jerks her elbow and frees herself from me. Her eyes are cold. I know I’m responsible for how awkward she’s feeling. In the car, I couldn’t help myself and almost kissed her again. I held myself back.Barely. But maybe that was the wrong choice. Since then, Yaya’s seemed more short-tempered than usual.
“This is rude,” she signs. “To the photographer. The staff. We’re wasting time.”
“They can wait.”
A line of annoyance stretches across her forehead. Or maybe it’s a line of concentration because my sign language is so basic. I’m trying my hand at ASL without an interpreter. It’s the only way to grow faster. By failing. Making mistakes. Being corrected.
“Did I do something to upset you?” I sign.
It’s an obvious question. Ididlug her into my car earlier, but it was for a good cause. She doesn’t strike me as the type who likes romantic strolls in the rain. Plus, walking into lampposts is generally unpleasant. And having a bump in the head wouldn’t translate well on camera.
Her stare gets sharper. “Why do you care if I’m upset?”
Yaya’s facial expressions are biting. There’s no mistaking her tone, even if she’s not using her voice.
“I care. So let’s talk about it,” I sign.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“We have things to do.”
“Nothing is more important to me than this.”
Her mouth plops open. And then she shuts it. Swallows. “You’re impossible.” She throws her arms up in a reluctant surrender. “You really want to know why I’m upset?”
I nod, waiting.
Her eyes dart back and forth as if she’s looking for a proper excuse. Finally, she stills. “You were following me today.”
“Following you?”
“From the warehouse to the café. Henry saw you. Or…” She grapples for the sign. “One of your….”
Her last few signs are indecipherable to me.
