“Dude, it’s fucking hilarious. He barely understands me. I have to talk like a fucking child to get him to understand that I just want a beer from the fridge. The best part though is that I can say that shit right in front of him and the only thing he’ll pick up on is if I’m like, baby I love you.” He angled himself more at Basil then, but it hadn’t mattered.
Basil had understood it all. Just like he understood the laughter booming through the room so loud he could feel it in the palms of his hands which were resting on the arm of his chair. Part of him wished he’d done better in speech therapy just so he could use Chad’s own language to tell him just what he could do to himself, but instead he went with a very universal gesture.
The beer dumped on his head was just a bonus after shoving his middle finger in Chad’s face. He didn’t need any formed language to tell the guy, ‘Fuck you, I never want to see you again.’
For a lot of years, he wondered if the worst part wasn’t the fact that he’d been sitting in a room for nearly two years as a bunch of hearing assholes had been mocking him to his face where he couldn’t understand them, but the fact that Chad hadn’t come after him. He’d just stayed there in that weed-saturated apartment while Basil stormed off and let himself cry—just once—before packing his shit and leaving.
He stayed on a friend’s couch and checked his phone every day in some absurd hope that Chad would reach out and apologize and beg for forgiveness. Not that he’d give it, but he just wanted proof that Chad had been actually interested in him as a person, and not just some sort of social experiment to see what he could get the ‘deaf retard’ to do for his own amusement.
It never came. Chad never looked him up again, never returned to the coffee shop after that. Maybe he was just afraid he’d get the shit beat out of him—and he likely would have, so it was probably best. Eventually Basil moved on with his life and got a master’s incomputer science, and worked some bullshit menial job doing online tech support because in spite of having a higher education degree, no one wanted to hire the deaf guy.
Then his parents and his aunt and uncle died, and out of the blue he was the owner of a flower shop so similar to the one he and Amaranth had grown up in, it almost hurt. To this day, it left him a little achy inside when he stepped into the cooler and smelled that rush of floral fragrance that had once clung to his mom’s hair and skirt no matter how many times she washed it. But this was better than wasting his life in front of a computer screen without any hope of doing more.
This, at least, was his. It was his hard work and toil, and he didn’t have to deal with the Chads of the world because Amaranth had agreed to be his buffer. It felt a little pathetic to rely on his big sister for it, but in the end, it was worth it.
It would have all been fine, too, if Derek hadn’t waltzed into his life and forced him to feel things he hadn’t ever wanted to feel again. He woke up that morning feeling a mixture of loss and regret. Loss, because in spite of it being a small town, he’d never actually seen Derek around before and doubted he would again, and regret because he’d put himself out there in a way he hadn’t meant to.
He’d purchased the drawing on a whim, unable to erase the soft, far-away look in Derek’s eyes when he’d opened the page to show him something important to him. It was absurd, the strange, bubbly feeling in his gut when he thought about owning something that was part of Derek—something that had been ripped out of him and put onto paper—but it was there all the same.
He nearly cancelled the order when he checked his email, but he realized he’d been using Ama’s PayPal which meant in all likelihood, Derek wouldn’t recognize him anyway. The delivery address was to the shop and he didn’t think he’d given Derek his last name. So, he could keep this piece of the man he couldn’t stop thinking about without taking any real risks.
It was ideal, really.
And he could live with it.
His stomach rumbled near eleven, so he poked his head around the corner and saw Ama holding the phone to her ear, writing something down on paper she was reading from the caption screen. He waited until she was done, then walked out into the blissfully empty show room.
‘Finished?’ she asked when he’d caught her attention.
He shook his head. ‘Going to stop for lunch. Do you want anything?’
She considered it a minute, then waved her hands in front of her. ‘Whatever. You know what I like. But get me a coffee on your way back. I need a boost.’
Basil sighed, peering over the top of the counter to the order sheet and saw three new ones. ‘We’re going to be overbooked,’ he reminded her. ‘I’m not pulling anymore midnight shifts.’
She fixed him with a flat look, and he knew what it meant. The busy season carried them through the slow one, kept them in the black, made sure that his aunt and uncle’s hard work didn’t go to waste. The sad part was he hadn’t known them well. Sharon was his mother’s only sibling—she’d been studying botany along with her sister and Basil’s dad at University. Michael had been invited in as a guest speaker—a hearing man who was fluent in both British and American sign language and had just finished his Ph.D. in Plant Genetics and had been traveling around the world to share his recent findings. Somehow it ended with Sharon leaving halfway through her senior year to settle in Fairfield with Michael. It had put a rift between Sharon and Basil’s mother for years, and it wasn’t until he and Amaranth were well into adulthood that the two of them had become close again.
It had startled him to know Sharon had considered him and his sister worthy of taking on her store’s legacy—and not just because they were the only family left, but because in the will she said she had wanted to be able to give them more, but it was all she’d had to pass on.
Basil took his parents’ own research and stored it in the attic of the home he and Amaranth took over, storing away most of Sharon and Michael’s things as a way of trying to make it their own. Still, he couldn’t help feeling like he was living with ghosts. Ghosts of his own past, ghosts from those he had loved and had left him, ghosts of his lost bravery and willingness to live life. But he still wanted this to work, still felt obligated to keep Sharon and Michael’s dream alive.
So, he gave in to Amaranth’s annoyed face and headed out the door so he could fuel up before another long night.
Two years before, when Amaranth and Basil showed up to open the doors to Wallflowers after a four-month mourning period, the community had been a mixture of relieved and confused. And it was a testament to how well Sharon had blended in that they didn’t seem overly concerned the shop was run by a Deaf man who refused to even try their way of communication, and a murder-faced woman with a strong deaf accent and a penchant for talking longer than people were willing to listen. He supposed it was a family trait—he had a feeling Sharon could be all of those things rolled into one person, and every so often he felt a pang of regret that he’d never really gotten the chance to know her. If she was anything like his mother, he would have loved her so, so dearly.
Shaking himself out of that melancholy, he patted his pocket to make sure he had his phone, then headed straight for the sandwich shop he liked which was tucked away inside a little outdoor mall. Even just two years ago, the place had been quaint and small—a clothing boutique, a wine bar, a sushi restaurant, and a dry cleaners. The sandwich shop had come next, then a Korean barbeque, all settled by a little tattoo place tucked in the far corner which had been there possibly forever.
It was only when Basil realized that there was only one tattoo shop in Fairfield that he started to feel a little panicked. Because where else would Derek work, if he was a tattoo artist? Possibly Denver—it was only a half hour drive up the twenty-five, or forty-five minutes if you wanted something scenic, and he couldsee a guy like Derek flourishing in a big city. But with his luck, he’d only ever been a few degrees of separation from the one person who made him feel in so damn long.
Swallowing back his panic, he stepped onto the carefully molded brick pathway and started toward the shop. His steps stuttered though, when he saw the tattoo shop doors swing open, and two identical men walked out. Two identical men that Basil recognized, because he’d never forget that face. He felt his heart thud in his chest, and confusion took over for only as long as it took him to remember Derek typing about his twin brother.
Identical, and he was not kidding about it, either. The one who was not Derek, because Basil didn’t need any sort of specific mark to tell who the man was that consumed his thoughts, had shorter hair with a sharper undercut, and he wore far too much gel to slick it back. They were both dressed casually, t-shirts and tight jeans with boots. Not-Derek had a tattoo on the side of his neck, though he was turned slightly so Basil couldn’t make out exactly what it was, but it suited him.
The most shocking thing, however, was the fact that the twins weren’t alone. They were accompanied by two children, a toddler walking between them, and a small baby on Not-Derek’s hip. As he ducked beside a large tree barrel and tried to stay out of sight, Basil felt his heart stutter at the idea that Derek had a spouse and kids. Not that it would have mattered but…
But it didn’t sit well. His gut twisted and his previous appetite dwindled to nothing. He backed up further into the lush green that lined the sidewalk, peering through a break in the tree branches. The brothers were talking fast to each other as they breezed past him, and for a moment he wished desperately to know what they were saying. Had Derek remembered him at all? Was it a blur? Had Basil made any kind of impression on him when the night was over?
He thought he might have. The way Derek had looked at him right when the lights went on, the way his expression broke a little, and the way his eyes didn’t move from Basil’s face. Basil took thatopportunity, in that short moment before Derek left, to study every inch of him. The color art on his arms, the slight dip downward of his large nose, the way his wet hair seemed to want to form into little curls in spite of the way he kept brushing it back.
