Bayleigh: Agreed.
There’s a lull, one of those heavy silences that sits on your chest. Then another message blinks through.
Bayleigh: So, tell me…what’s your plan, Lincoln? You learn ASL, sign a few words, and then what?
I stare at it for a second before typing back.
Me: Then I take you on a proper date. I thought I made it clear that I’m interested. I want to court you.
It’s the truth, bare and simple. No games.
The typing bubble flickers. Stops. Flickers again.
Bayleigh: And if you meet your scent match?
The question sits there, mocking me. I could lie, make it easy. But I don’t want easy.
Me: I wouldn’t care. I want you.
The bubble appears, then, disappears again. Finally, one last message appears.
Bayleigh: It’s not that simple. Rejecting your scent match or being rejected is painful, and it doesn’t just go away. The pain stayed with me, made me sick to my stomach, and heats would have been unbearable if I hadn’t suppressed them.
Me: What did you do to make it better?
Bayleigh: After a year or so my mom took me to the clinic, and I had them sever the match. It’s like it never happened to my body, but my mind and heart remember.
Me: Then that’s what I’ll do. If I ever meet my scent match I’ll immediately have it severed. The pain will be worth it if it means I get to keep you.
Bayleigh: Goodnight Lincoln.
I stare at the message until the screen fades to black. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, itching to type something else, anything to make her stay. But I don’t. I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and drag my hands over my face.
I’m in over my head. And for once, I don’t give a damn.
By the time I get home, it’s past nine. I grab a bottle of water and head upstairs. My body’s tired, but my mind won’t stop running.
Bayleigh’s words replay over and over:He rejected me because I’m deaf.
What kind of man does that?
I stop in the hallway mirror, catch my reflection, and sigh. My eyes are bloodshot, but my hands itch for movement. So I lift them.
A.
B.
C.
I move through the alphabet without needing the video. My motions are still rough, but they’re mine now. When I get to Z, I keep going—family words,whwords.
Who. What.
I mouth each one as I sign it, trying to match the rhythm I remember from class. When I hitwho, I laugh—it still feels ridiculous, like bad charades.
The memory slips in anyway: the ASL instructor laughing across the classroom, shaking her head.Not like that,she’d said, touching her chin and wiggling her brows to demonstrate. Then she’d pointed at my face?—
Your eyebrows,she’d said.You look like you’re hooting like an owl. Be more expressive. Let them see it’s a question.
