"Well, he's a musician right, like I imagine that's a pretty loud job and environment. He lives in Nashville which isn't exactly a small town."
"So?"
"Well, to go from all that then home and be secluded in the quiet castle must be a big change."
"I still don't get it."
She sits up straighter and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, the tumbler balanced between her fingers.
"You know his parents are deaf right?"
"What?" I did not know that.
"Yeah, oh gosh, you didn't know. Well, yeah, his mom was born deaf and his dad has been hard of hearing since he was a child. So it's called the quiet castle because there's rarely music or anything coming from up there."
"But, Rhys isn't?"
"No, the genetic lottery favored him. But I can't imagine what it would have been like to become a musician when your parents couldn't hear it."
"Shit, yeah." My mind buzzes and my stomach drops out.
Neither of my parents played hockey but they got on board with the game as I grew up. My dad would learn from my coaches and help me defend against him. And his lack of shooting ability actually helped me be able to predict random puck trajectories as a defenseman.
My mom was constantly experimenting with ways to get the stink out of my gear. Spraying it with vodka became her favorite method.
But even if some of the vodka went into tonics for her after long weekends of tournaments, I wouldn't have been able to get as far as I have without their support.
I feel a little guilty for only appreciating Rhys for his exterior, as gruff, artistic, and attractive as it is.
Part of my natural ability to be a safe harbor for my friends is understanding what can hurt them and then not letting them get too close to it.
I don’t know exactly what Rhys needs but it’s probably a bad idea to let him get too close to me.
But, what if, what he really needs is a distraction?
Chapter eight
Rhys
Let's Go Have a Sword Fight
Iusethetinyflashlight on my key ring to alert my mother to my presence. She's pretty good at feeling the vibrations of us moving through our ancient home but when she's curled up on the sofa under blankets, lost in a book, I use our old system.
Hi MomI sign as I come and join her on the sofa in the den.
Where'd you run off to today?She signs.
I smile.Helped a friend and hung out a bit. Duncan Paisley. I spell his name with each letter but I'm desperate to find a nickname sign for him. At the moment I can't think of anything appropriate. It’s either an eloquent explanation of the way his scent lingers on the collar of this sweatshirt and my mouth has been drooling trying to get more of it since I pulled it over my head or his nickname would be some version of the word "coming". I'm not sure my mother would appreciate either.
Franny's grandson? Usually he visits in the summer.She pauses.Do you want to have them up for dinner?
No, not yet.I tack on a shrug.
I lift my head as my dad shuffles into the room.
He settles into the chair across from us and signs with my mother about some news from the gardener. My mind wanders back to Duncan and how loud and boisterous his family was together.
Their love and joy felt so different than ours.
