I’ve always handled my implants so carefully. Reverently, almost. After all, I know what they bring me—normalcy, a world of sound, the ability to work with my patients—and I know how much new ones would cost.
Insurance might cover some, but if I broke them? What if the insurance company refused to pay for replacements? Or only paid for one? I can’t afford tens of thousands of dollars out of pocket.
So that’s another thing to worry about on top of the rest.
Some creepy, disembodied voice threatening me.
Somehow hacking into my implants.
And not just making threats against me, but myparents. My parents, who should never have been involved in this.
“We’ll fix this,” Indy told me once he brought me to his apartment. “I know it’s scary right now. But we’ll fix this.”
He spoke carefully, not dragging out his words like some people used to do when I first lost my hearing, but enunciating and making sure to face me while he talked. Back in high school, whenever someone would do it, I felt awkward. Different. Embarrassed.
But Indy didn’t make it weird. And I didn’t feel awkward about it. At least, not as much as I feared.
I’m used to the silence when I go to bed. Or when I take a shower. But during the day, with people around? It’s disconcerting. I keep listening for sounds I can’t hear. And while Icantalk to people without my implants on, it feels odd, and I always worry I’m talking too loudly.
With Indy, though…
In the three hours—has it only been three? Time’s been funny since then—since the incident in the kitchen, he’s been incredible. First bringing me back to his apartment, carrying me no less, which in hindsight, was actually pretty nice, then making me some kind of tea that tasted a bit like grass, setting out a veritable buffet of chips and store-bought cookies, finding aTop Chefmarathon and turning the closed captions on, and pretty much staying glued to my side since we got here.
He’s alternated between holding my hand and stroking my hair, which has also been nice. And if I wasn’t still feeling shaken and worried sick about my parents, I might even have considered trying for a second kiss.
But as soon as my mind shifts to more pleasant things, like the solid heat of Indy’s thigh pressed against mine, or the tingles his touch leaves behind as he combs his fingers through my hair, reality makes an unwelcome reappearance.
Then I’ll shudder, or a small sound I can’t hear works its way up my throat. My eyes will burn with unshed tears or my stomach will decide to try out for the circus. And Indy will get this guilty look on his face, like the fact that some crazy person decided to one, try to kill me, two, frame me for murder, and three, use my cochlear implants to threaten me, is somehow his fault.
It’s the strangest sort of incongruity. Half of me is horrified by what’s happened. But the other half wants to cling to thesemoments with Indy and pretend the rest is just a figment of my imagination.
Just as one of theTop Chefcontestants is bemoaning his forgotten garnish, Indy touches my hand. He waits until I’ve turned towards him before he says, “Are you hungry? Can I make you something to eat?”
I hate not being able to hear his rumbly voice.
Gesturing at the assortment of snacks in front of us, I reply, “I’m okay. We’ve got plenty here.”
His gaze sweeps across my face. Then it moves to the bags of chips and cookies, which I’ve barely touched since he set them there.“You missed dinner. Some chips aren’t enough. You’re still healing. And with the stress…” His lips thin. A muscle works in his jaw.
If things were normal—okay, notnormal, but more normal than this—we’d already have had pizza. We might still be watching a movie, maybe cuddled together on the couch in front of the fire. We might even have shared our second kiss. Or perhaps our third or fourth one.
But instead, I’m sitting here in Indy’s apartment, watching old episodes ofTop Chefand trying my very best to keep from losing it.
I know which option I’d pick if I had the choice.
“It’s too late to order pizza,” he continues, “but I might have a frozen one. I can try to make it nicer with some extra cheese and vegetables.”
Maybe a different woman wouldn’t consider Indy’s offer to fancy-up a frozen pizza to be sweet. But I do. Because I know if it were just for him, he’d toss the pizza in the microwave and be done with it. He wouldn’t worry about extra cheese or adding vegetables or?—
“I could make a salad, too. I can ask Ace or Webb to bring over some of the stuff at your place.” A crooked smile quirks hislips. “I think I can manage to chop some tomatoes and carrots, at least.”
Aw.
“Maybe after I talk to my parents.” I briefly spoke—well, texted—with them once we got back to Indy’s apartment, so they know I’m okay. And Rafe is working on getting protection set up for them, so I’m hoping the next time one of Indy’s teammates calls him with an update, I’ll know for certain my parents are safe.
Indy squeezes my hand. “I’ll text Rafe. See how things are moving along.” He leans over to snag his phone from the coffee table, then starts to compose a message. But a few seconds later, he pauses mid-text and looks at the front door.
Glancing back at me, he says,“It’s Tyler. And Rafe. I’m going to let them in.”
