It’s better when the person is face-to-face with me. Like Dex with his low rumble, pitched enough, I can both hear and feel the obscene way he moans.
Goddamnit, I am not thinking about that right now.
I pull up my plane tracker on my phone instead. There’s half an hour before descent. It’s enough time to get my nerves settled.
This is my new life for the next three years. That’s enough time to give myself the chance to figure out what the fuck I want for my future.
And enough time to forget those crooked eyeteeth, and the paint-splatter freckles on pale cheeks, and those goddamn blue eyes.
Charles de Gaulle is probably my least favorite airport. It’s chaotic and full of people. And while they moved smoking to only designated areas, the smell of nicotine clings to old, yellowed walls and walkways. People are also not interested in giving space as I ride the long escalator tube to get the fuck out of here.
As much as I try to avoid it, I end up sandwiched between two families with children whose voices are pitched just loud enough for me to hear them screaming.
Wonderful.
A headache blooms behind my eyes.
But even with the pain, the moment I step outside and head for the cab line, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.It feels the same as when I was a kid. I remember clinging to my dad’s hand, feeling like I was an entire universe away from home.
And the small town he grew up in was so different from the city. The moment the concrete turned into gentle rolling hills and thick green trees, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Chaville was romantic in the way that I expected Paris to be but wasn’t.
I will never understand why they call that the city of love.
It was pure chaos year-round, filled to the brim with tourists. Even the oldest monuments turned into a cash grab. In the suburbs of Paris, it’s different. It’s still—which is the only way I understand what hearing people mean when they talk about the weight of silence.
My world is almost always totally silent. Even with hearing aids, it’s muffled and soft. But I feel everything. So when the world stops moving quickly, it’s like a weight comes off me.
I want that now. I need it. I’m craving it in ways I can’t properly describe. And I’m ready.
I decide not to fuck around with a cab, though, and instead order a hire car on my app. There’s one in the line that flashes his lights at me, so I roll my suitcase over and shove it in the seat beside me, climbing in.
I barely trust my voice in English, and I won’t attempt French. Not with the way they speak half in the back of the throat and half at the tip of the tongue, so I pull up my notes and begin typing. My written French is probably appalling, but I’ve been brushing up since my dad gave me the job.
Me: I’m Deaf. Going to the address on the app. If you need something please wave at me.
The driver blinks at it, says something I can’t lipread, thenshrugs and pulls out at a speed that makes me wonder if I’m going to survive the journey. Luckily, he can’t maintain it. The traffic is worse than the I5 on a Friday afternoon, and we’re at a gridlock the moment he pulls out onto the main road.
But I can at least sit back and relax and wait to leave the city behind. Tomorrow, I’ll unpack all the boxes I shipped over. On Thursday, I’ll head to the market to shop. Friday, I’ll make my way into the office to introduce myself and figure out how I’m going to lead the team.
But tonight…tonight, I’m going to crawl into the bed that’s hopefully made, pull the sheets up over my face, turn on a video I don’t want to admit I have saved, jerk off, and pray to god that it’s enough for me to let all of this stress go and sleep.
I don’t have a lot of hope, of course. That’s not my strong suit. But with this many miles between me and a past I don’t feel like dwelling in, I’m at least willing to try.
I’m half-asleep when I notice the car start to slow, and I wake with a tiny gasp in the back of my throat as the driver turns down an old, familiar road. My eyes are a little fuzzy, but that’s not why I barely recognize any of the houses.
The last time I was there with my dad, the neighborhood was still dotted with historic relics—old stone cottages with big wrought-iron gates and overgrown gardens. Now, everything’s been renovated and rebuilt from the ground up. This could be any middle-class neighborhood in the Pacific Northwest with their sleek cars and trimmed lawns and painted stucco.
Ours is the only one that stands outside of time. My gaze catches on the gate as we pull up. It’s halfway open because Idon’t have a key, so the driver pulls up right alongside and gives me a nod and says something I once again can’t understand. Maybe he’s offering to help me with my bags, but I only have the one, and I really don’t want a stranger walking with me anywhere.
I have childhood memories here of when I was under the protective gaze of my father. It’s different now, being on my own. Sometimes I don’t even know what being an adult is supposed to feel like—except for this deep loneliness and the constant awareness that there’s no one to turn to and no one to fix my problems when everything falls apart.
But maybe that’s all being an adult really means.
I make sure I pay the driver before sliding past the gate, and I can feel the creaking as it swings shut. It slams loud enough to startle me even without hearing aids in, and I grimace before turning to face the garden.
It’s been maintained—sort of. The arch along the pathway that leads to the front door is still overgrown, but someone’s come to trim back the vines, and off to the side, it looks like someone’s been maintaining a little vegetable patch.
For a second, I think there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to be doing any of that, but then I picture myself in little shorts and a sunhat, kneeling in the dirt, getting my hands dirty, and suddenly, I don’t hate it.
