Only When It's Us Read online

  Given that, I’m pretty much financially on my own, which I don’t mind. For years each summer, I’ve worked at a local bookstore—that’s where I learn words like tempestuous and pugnacious to add to my vocabulary. An indie bookseller that also serves coffee and baked goods, it experiences a great boost to business during touristy summer months, so I make nice tips, on top of a decent hourly wage. Whatever I earn during the summer is my disposable income for the school year. With my full ride thanks to academic and athletic scholarships, on top of careful budgeting, I squeak by for monthly expenses of groceries and utilities in the apartment I share with Rooney.

  The last couple of months, though, Rooney’s “accidentally” paid the rent and full utility bills rather than letting me write a check for half and mailing it off with hers like we used to. I have a nagging suspicion that’s because Rooney’s family is loaded—her dad’s a big-time producer in Hollywood—so it’s nothing to her, and she knows I’m on a shoestring budget. She’d deny it ’til the day she died, but I’m onto her.

  “Willa, you’re getting that far-off look that has no business being on a twenty-one-year-old woman’s face.” Mama’s hand is cold and painfully slim, but I still lean my cheek into her touch. This isn’t her first rodeo with cancer, and I know better than to take any moment with her for granted. Life is fragile, and while I’m hopeful Mama can beat this, I never pass up the chance to slow down and savor that she’s here.

  “You don’t need to worry, honey,” she whispers. “I’m taking care. Dr. B’s doing everything he can for me and worries enough for the both of us, okay?” Her hand drops and squeezes mine. “You need to live your life. All you do is exercise, go to class, practice, and play, then sit here in the hospital, watching your mom lose her hair again.”

  “Stop it.” Tears prick my eyes. “I love you. I want to be with you.”

  “But you need to live, Willa. To thrive, not just survive. Go out with Rooney. Wear a short dress, show off those killer soccer legs. Kiss a boy, screw him six ways to Sunday—using protection of course—”

  “Mother!” My cheeks turn bright red. “You know I don’t date.”

  “I didn’t tell you to date. I told you to get laid.”

  “Motherrrr,” I groan.

  “I’ve been sick off and on for a while now, but you know what, Willa? I don’t feel like I’m missing too much. I lived as a young woman. I went to wild concerts and backpacked. I hung out with weirdo beat poets and read fat novels and hitchhiked. Smoked dope and stared at the sky while I rode in truck beds. I had fun and worked hard, enlisted, traveled the world as a nurse. Got to see new places, have exotic lovers and a few sexy soldiers—”

  “Mama.” I shake my head. My mom’s pretty, even with her hair gone and a soft turban around her head. Her eyes are a rich brown like mine and wide-set. Her cheekbones pop and her lips are full. I’ve seen pictures. Mama was a babe when she was younger. I just really don’t like to think about her boinking.

  “You know what I’m saying, Willa. Life doesn’t live itself for you, and nothing is promised to us. You have a lot to offer, so much to experience. I don’t want you to miss it because of me.”

  I want to tell her that I’d miss everything life had to offer if it meant I got to keep her always. I want to tell her I’m scared she’s sicker than she lets on, that I’ll hate myself for spending nights doing what regular college kids do when I could have been spending those fleeting moments with her.

  But I’m me. I don’t talk about uncomfortable things like that. So, instead, I squeeze her hand in reassurance and say, “Okay, Mama. I will.”

  3

  Ryder

  Playlist: “Elephant Gun,” Beirut

  Precisely two years ago, I realized my life was never going to turn out how I thought it would. Denial’s a powerful coping mechanism. After I got sick, my psyche held on to denial as long as it could. But, eventually, the thick pragmatic streak that runs in my family came knocking on my mind’s door and demanded I face reality.

  I’m not your stereotypical Cali guy. I don’t hang ten or say gnarly. I grew up in Olympia, Washington, and I wish I still lived there, but Dad got an offer he couldn’t refuse from Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center—RRMC, as most people call it—so here we are.

  I miss the feeling of fall. I miss wet leaves smashed into a slippery carpet beneath my feet. I miss the cold turning my nose pink and burning my lungs on long, snowy runs. I miss darkness, as weird as that might sound. I miss candles and hearth fires and hunkering down with a book once the sun set at dinnertime.

  And I miss soccer. I miss the game I was so sure would direct and fulfill my adult life.

  So, of course, on the anniversary of all my dreams going down the shitter, Willa Sutter, women’s soccer’s rising star, dropped herself in the seat next to me in Business Mathematics. It felt like the universe was kicking me right where it counts.

  Didn’t help that she seemed to inexplicably hate my guts. As class ended, she gave me the death glare and shoved a pen in her hair like she wished it was a shiv spearing my heart. Rage tinged her amber irises coppery red, and violent energy practically radiated off of her. The woman whose future was once mine, the future I’d give anything to have back, looked like she wanted to kill me, then do it again, just for kicks. Sticking around to watch her try to melt me with her eyes when I had no idea what I’d done to earn such hatred might have been entertaining another time, but not that day.

  Next class was just as bad. Once again, she dropped into the seat beside me, making me intensely aware of her body nearly brushing against mine. I’m an over-average-sized guy. I have broad shoulders, long legs. I don’t fit in those desks. So, it wasn’t necessarily surprising when I shifted in my seat and accidentally elbowed her, earning her evil eyes again.

  What was surprising was that when she glared at me, demanding an explanation, I actually wanted to answer her. And that’s really saying something because I haven’t spoken a word in two years.

  “Ry.” I hear it like I’m underwater, faint and warped. That’s what life sounds like with moderate and severe hearing loss, in the right and left ears, respectively. Bacterial meningitis came out of nowhere just a few cruel weeks before pre-season at UCLA began. I got horribly sick, fast, and the next time I woke up, I was in the hospital, hearing my mom’s voice as a tinny, garbled sound I barely recognized. Meningitis damaged my inner ear, and the antibiotics did their fair share, too.

  There was no recovering Division-1 ability on a soccer field when my balance was off, when suddenly I couldn’t hear my name being called or a ball coming at me. My hearing aids made things worse, and the entire experience of trying to play again felt like one big nightmare.

  Coach was encouraging. My teammates were supportive. I was realistic.

  I took my career out back, behind the ball shed, and gave it a mercy killing. I hung up my cleats, forwent my athletic scholarship, and moved on. Now I’m not Ryder Bergman, solid left-back, freshman starter destined for greatness. Not anymore.

  “Ry,” Ren tries again. I mean, maybe he said my nickname. My brother could have just as easily said my full name and I simply failed to catch most of it. I try not to care about details like that anymore, to wonder and worry about what I’m missing, but it’s not easy. At first, the anxiety was crippling. Now it’s a persistent hum of unease.

  I swivel in my desk chair and face my brother Ren. Like me, he’s tall, broad-shouldered and built, but his blond hair is tinged russet, his eyes, pale blue-gray just like Mom’s.

  Ren’s a professional hockey player who was massively anxious about the draft, convinced he’d get shipped away from us to the other side of the country. To his immense relief he managed to get signed with LA, though despite working and living nearby, he’s rarely home during the season. When he is, he’s usually up my ass.

  I tip my head to the side and mouth, Where’d you come from?

  Ren leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He f
rowns but still speaks clearly, so I can read his lips. “Off day. Next game’s tomorrow.”

  And? I mouth.

  With a roll of his eyes, Ren yanks his phone out of his pocket and wiggles it side to side in the air, which after two years, is code for, Get your phone out, asshole, and actually talk to me.

  Sighing, I pull out my cell and open up our text message thread.

  I know what day it is, he writes. Come on, I’m taking you out.

  Old Ryder would let out a humorless laugh, but I’m practiced at swallowing the impulse to make a sound.

  No, I type.

  Ren’s mouth says something I can’t read, but I can tell he’s frustrated. For a second, I feel bad. Ren is the last brother left, and he deserves my kindness for sticking it out with me. The other brothers have given up on trying to reach me, leaving me alone for the most part. It’s not their fault. I’ve pushed pretty much everyone away.

  Freya threatened to drag you out if you don’t come willingly, he writes.

  I throw my hands up and mouth, What the fuck?

  Ren shrugs. “She’s tired of your bullshit. Says she knows a spot with a good burger that’s not loud, so it won’t give you a headache.”

  A sigh leaves me, my thumbs typing, And if I don’t?

  Ren laughs and pockets his phone. “She’s your sister, too. You know what will happen.”

  Freya’s the oldest. She makes my brand of stubborn look like childish willfulness by comparison. It’s better to let her have her way. I’ll sit in a quiet place, eat, let them talk around me, and then she’ll leave me alone.

  Standing, I yank off my hoodie, and run a hand through my hair, looking around for my ball cap. Ren takes my wardrobe change for the sign that it is, that rather than fight my strong-arming sister, I’m giving in to this stupid outing. He whoops in victory, a rare-pitched sound I can still hear. I want to say I’m grateful that I can hear him, but I’d be lying. All I think about when I hear something like that is everything I don’t. The counselor my parents made me see after everything happened told me it takes a while to see life as glass half full again.

  Glass half full is a far way off.

  To the outside observer, we look like a sadly asocial bunch, with our noses buried in our phones, but it’s the only way we can all talk since I’m here. Group chat usually only consists of the four of us. Freya, her husband, Aiden, me, and my brother Ren.

  Sometimes they’ll talk out loud. I’ll read their lips, then I’ll respond to group chat. That way, they can have conversation like normal people, and I can just chime in when I want. Which isn’t often. That, at least, isn’t new. I’ve always been pretty quiet, even before my hearing loss.

  Aiden sips his beer and sets it down. While giving me his face so I can read his lips, he says to everyone, “Someone ask Ry about his new friend in my class.”

  My eyes narrow at him. Yes, Aiden is Professor MacCormack. My brother-in-law is also my instructor, which I was concerned would be a conflict of interest. Business Mathematics is a prerequisite for a class I’m dying to take next semester that only comes around once in a blue moon, and Aiden’s class was the only one with openings. He told me we’d be fine and I believed him. If anyone’s a big enough asshole to compartmentalize and enjoy making class a nightmare for me, it’s him.

  Freya perks up and leans in. She smacks my hand to earn my attention. “New friend? Spill.”

  She’s Mom’s twin, and I have the uncanny feeling of my mother poking me to talk about girlfriends, how she used to back in high school. Freya’s blonde hair is cut in a choppy pixie, her icy blue eyes sharp as ever, and she has a new piercing I hadn’t noticed.

  I make a y with my fingers and bring my thumb to my temple.

  Freya’s eyes narrow at me. “What?”

  I smirk, typing in group chat, Bull. Your new piercing makes you look like a bull.

  Ren snorts and tries to hide it with a cough, while Aiden chokes on his beer. Nobody fucks with Freya. Except me.

  “You little shit.” She leans across the table and makes a vain attempt to twist my nipple. Settling back into her seat, she delicately adjusts her septum piercing. “I look distinguished.”

  More snorts and laughs take up the table. I hide mine behind a fist, letting my shoulders shake. The impulse to belly laugh used to press against my ribs when I finally started finding things funny again, but it’s another part of life I’ve learned to accept is best left silent now.

  Suddenly the laughter dies off when Aiden says, “Dammit.”

  Freya’s head turns in the direction Aiden’s looking, as does Ren’s. Willa Sutter walks in the door, but I have no idea what they’re saying about her. In a rare moment, they forget either to make sure I could read their lips or to use their phones.

  I clap my hands twice, earning their attention and three different facial expressions of guilt.

  “Sorry, Ry,” Ren says.

  Aiden waves his hand so I’ll look his way and read his lips. “Sutter’s here. It’s not going to look good.”

  Freya pats my hand. “Who? Why?”

  I throw up my hands, then point to Aiden. Look at him. I watched one of their exchanges in class, and while I missed most of what was said, I saw his features tighten, the severity of his delivery toward her. Aiden looked like he was being harsh, and I kind of felt bad for Willa…until she gave me devil eyes and decided she hated me. Then I figured Aiden could be as big a dick to her as he wanted. She was on her own after that.

  Aiden sighs and picks up his phone, so all of us return to group chat.

  Willa Sutter is her name, a student of mine. I might have been a bit hard on her, Aiden types. But entitled D-1 athletes are my Achilles heel. I figured I’d make it up to her by telling her to ask Ry for notes.

  How would she ask him? Ren writes. Does she know he can’t hear her?

  Aiden lowers his eyes. Guilty.

  A rare huff of anger leaves my chest. I bang the table, pointing a finger in his face. You asshole.

  That must be why she hates me, I type. She probably asked me for notes and I didn’t hear her, then she thought I was being some dick, ignoring her. Now she’s going to see us together and think we’re best friends who are out to ruin her GPA.

  Slow down, Freya types. Why would she think you’re best friends?

  Because Aiden gives me the notes for lecture so I can follow. My thumbs fly, anger building as I realize what a mess he got us into. He talks with his back to the board half the time, and the lecture notes on the projector aren’t comprehensive. He’s not doing me favors, of course—he’s legally required to make the course accessible—but she doesn’t know that.

  Ren types, So this chick thinks he’s doing you a favor and screwing her since you won’t share.

  I nod again, throwing down my phone.

  Ren gives Aiden a disbelieving look. “You’re still not over this campaign?”

  Aiden scowls into his beer and doesn’t say anything.

  Aiden doesn’t want to see me treated differently for my hearing loss, and he’s pissed I gave up talking. I know he loves me and he means well, but he’s just too damn pushy on this point. He’s determined to wear me down with people who are ignorant of my hearing loss and thus pester me for conversation, as if I can still hear, until I wear the horrible hearing aids and start talking back again.

  Not going to happen.

  I’d like to remind the committee, I type, that this is not the first time Aiden’s stuck a woman on me and conveniently forgotten to tell her I can’t hear for shit.

  Freya spins and slaps Aiden upside the head. “I told you to stop that.”

  “I did it one other time!” he pleads.

  “He doesn’t need a yenta,” Freya growls. “Look at him. He’ll get laid the moment he wants to.”

  All three of us men shudder for various reasons. I don’t want my sister talking about me getting laid, Ren doesn’t want to hear about his brother getting laid, and Aiden definitely doesn’t wa
nt to hear his wife acknowledging her brother’s sex appeal.

  Before I can say anything further on the matter, my peripheral vision, which I’ve relied on more than ever in the past few years, changes, making me turn to the right.

  Willa stands a few feet away, a disbelieving look tightening her face. “Professor MacCormack?” her lips say.

  God, her lips. They look bee-stung, impossibly soft. I hate that to understand her, I have to stare at that full mouth, especially now that I know she doesn’t hate my guts for no good reason, which would make hating her back so much easier. She hates my guts because she thinks I was being a prick and ignoring her.

  Much, much harder to hate now.

  “Willa, hey!” Aiden half-stands, but Freya’s pinning him inside the booth and giving him a death glare. Slowly, he sinks back into his seat.

  Willa’s gaze dances between us. “Wow.”

  “Willa, this isn’t quite what it looks like,” Aiden says. “I know I gave you a hard time about the notes, and I understand why you’re confused as to why Ryder gets them, when I didn’t give them to you, but the thing is—”

  Her hand flies up. “I’ll pass on the excuse. You’ve made it clear that while this guy has earned special treatment, I need to fend for myself.”

  A leggy blonde stands behind Willa, her brow pinched in disapproval. “You’re a disgraceful piece of shit,” she says, eyes on Aiden. Her mouth starts flying, so I can’t follow her anymore. Ren’s aware of this, and pulls out his phone, transcribing what she says for me in our private text.

  “You don’t think female athletes have a hard enough time? Every professor of ours provides what we need rather than making us beg. I was under the impression it’s not that hard to be a decent human being, but here you are, proving me wrong. Fuck you and good night.”