In the Silence

By Jaimie Leigh McGovern

Resulting from a near drowning incident as a child, Bellamy Lawrence lives with the effects of a traumatic brain injury, including profound hearing loss. Ostracized by her family, Bellamy expects to spend her adult life alone, illustrating children's books in the solace of her Rittenhouse Square apartment with her service dog Otis. But a spilled cup of coffee, and a chance meeting with local radio host Sofia Reyes turns every expectation Bellamy had for her life upside down, as she finds herself thrust into a whirlwind romance she never believed possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781387067602

Book preview

In the Silence

IN THE SILENCE

A LOVE STORY

Jaimie Leigh McGovern

2017

Copyright © 2017 by Jaimie Leigh McGovern

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2017

ISBN 978-1-387-06760-2

32 Newport Beach Blvd.

East Moriches, NY 11940

http://www.jaimieleighmcgovern.com

To anyone who has ever felt alone even when surrounded by people.

To anyone who has ever thought love was impossible.

To anyone who struggles with feeling different.

To my family. To my friends. To the community that embraced me.

To women who love women, and who deserve to have their stories told.

To the first love story that ever felt real to me.

PROLOGUE

October 31, 1993

It was the sound of a splash that broke the partygoers from their reveling. Parties of the same sort were commonplace at the Gypsy Lane residence of Gerard and Sally Lawrence. Half of Villanova turned up each year for their annual Halloween Costume Bash. With their children in tow, the friends and acquaintances of Dr. Lawrence and his wife dressed to the nines, dressing their more cooperative youth in coordinating costumes. The children played on their own, content to occupy themselves with the myriad activities set up by the party planner Sally never failed to hire. The rear, they drank the night away, themed cocktails in martini glasses dripping with cherry-syrup blood, expensive liquor, only the best, as was the requirement of any Lawrence function. Everything was ordinary that night, that is, until it wasn’t.

It was a miracle anyone heard the noise at all, over the din of the party, but someone did. Just who, no one would ever remember—those small bits of information that get lost in the fray of things, unimportant, it seems, though hearing it saved a life—but it was heard, nonetheless, and a group of Villanova's most affluent, Gerard included, ran to the in-ground pool to see just what had made the sound. It wasn’t a squirrel, as Gerard had expected. It wasn’t a ball, as Sally had scolded the gathering children for playing with too close to the water. No, it was neither, and before anyone could get their thoughts together clearly enough to determine what it was, the shriek of Amy Lawrence, Gerard’s brother’s wife set everyone into chaos.

Someone dressed as Elvis jumped into the pool without second thought. He swam to the bottom, and he grabbed hold of the little girl there, blonde hair splayed out around her, a red cape, tangled around her legs, frozen, it seemed, in time. He dragged her to the surface, and her skin was blue, her chest didn’t rise and fall with breath. Someone called an ambulance, another detail, lost to the night, and Gerard took the child from her savior. Laying her out on the cement, he pressed strong hands to her chest, and he struggled to remember just how one performs CPR. He knew it, vaguely, in the back of his head. At work, he could perform it with his eyes closed, but with this lifeless child in front of him, his eldest niece, every piece of worldly knowledge he possessed went out the window, and all he could think to do was pray.

The shrieks of his sister-in-law grew louder, and Gerard’s memory came back to him. The crowd around him was gone, the screaming around him was gone, it was just him and this tiny Wonder Woman. It was just him and his niece, blue lips and closed eyes, matted wet hair on the concrete. Gerard Lawrence, face to face with death. He'd seen it before, but never like this. Never with someone he loved so dearly. It was just him and his niece, sink or swim, live or die. He wouldn’t remember how long he was pressing on her unmoving chest, how long he was breathing life into still lungs, but he would remember when water spewed from blue lips, he would remember when the child, still unconscious, gasped for air.

The paramedics came, and while several worked on little Bellamy Lawrence, another gave oxygen to her mother, and a sedative too, because her shrieking had yet to subside, even with her husband by her side, even with her youngest child, another little girl, pulled tightly to her chest. Someone, another lost name, took the little girl from her, and her husband helped her into the ambulance. Her husband tried to remain calm, as he watched his wife spiral into despair, as he watched his daughter, his Bellamy, the light of their world, fight for her life.

They took her to Bryn Mawr Hospital, the little girl. They took her there, and the team of the best doctors fought to save her, fought to preserve whatever brain function she had, fought for her to wake up again. They fought for all of that, and their fighting, it wasn’t without reward.

Five hours after she fell in the pool, Bellamy Amelia Lawrence woke up. Five hours later, her scream cut through the walls of the whitewashed hospital, shattering the illusion of perfection in her mother's world. Bellamy Lawrence was alive, but the child that emerged from sleep, she was a stranger in her own world, and a stranger to her mother, most of all. In the early hours of the first of November, when a tiny blonde Wonder Woman awoke, it was clear that the cookie cutter world of Amy Lawrence would never be the same.

1. BELLAMY

June, 2015

You were seven, the last time you heard a sound. It was the splash of limbs against water, it’s a sound you’ll never forget, it’s a sound you’ve clung to for the last twenty-two years, like maybe, somehow, thinking of it, you’d suddenly be able to hear again. But for twenty-two years, it hasn’t worked.

You’d nearly drowned, that’s what had happened. You don’t remember that at all. You don’t remember falling in the ice-cold pool at your Aunt Sally’s Halloween costume party. You don’t remember your Uncle Gerry lifting you up from the arms of Elvis, who'd dove into the pool to save you. Wonder Woman costume and all. You don’t remember the first hours in the hospital, where your mom cried for hours and the doctors told her that you’d suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen. But the sound—the sound, even without the memories that should surround it, you’ll never forget.

You do remember waking up in an unfamiliar place. You remember the hospital. You remember screaming, because it still felt like you were underwater. You remember how hard it was to focus on the words on your mother’s lips, because you needed to read them so you could see her telling you everything would be alright. She didn’t. Even if you'd been able to understand her, she wouldn't have said it, and you know that now. You know that twenty-two years later, she never told you the words you could have clung to. Not then, not ever again. You remember her crying that you were alive, her fists clenching your hospital gown, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Wile E. Coyote scattered across it. You remember her talking to the doctors in a language you no longer understood, trapped in silence. Alone. You remember clawing at the sides of your face, at your ears, trying to figure out why they didn’t work.

You remember the years after, in school, when you had to learn to read again, because the letters on paper no longer made sense. You remember the teachers who'd watch you. You remember your pencil, pressing into paper so hard that the lead would break. You remember the— You remember the frustration you felt. You remember how you thought you’d never understand a single thing ever again.

But you learned to read again, all those painstaking letters. You learned to sign. Though you still knew how to speak, despite your hearing loss, and the brain damage that had caused it. You learned to sign, and stopped speaking, mostly, because sometimes it was easier to pretend you couldn’t. Your words, your thoughts, they're slow— Slow and started. And if you didn't speak, then— Then you wouldn’t have to feel your body vibrate with the laughter of others. Because after a few years of not hearing people speak around you, your own words felt funny on your tongue. You didn’t have many friends anyway. And that— That was okay. You liked being by yourself, you and Otis. Otis, the Vizsla your parents got you as your service dog, because they were afraid for you to cross the street alone. Bellamy with her addled mind. Bellamy the burden. Bellamy the disappointment. So, it was you and Otis. It is you and Otis. Your best friend is a dog. Has been since you got him. And you can’t imagine anything different. He understands you more than people. That, you know for a fact. 

When you were twenty-three, you’d finally moved out of your parents’ house, out of— Out of Villanova. They treated you like you were made of glass most of the time, it made your sister jealous. They treated you like glass, all the while wishing you were the girl you were before you fell in the pool. You weren't glass you handle reverently, well used, well loved. You were crystal on a shelf, untouchable, foreign. Because all they could do was wish you were their little girl with the whole universe before her, all they could do was wish that you— That you weren’t this broken shell of her. You aren't the girl you were one Halloween night in 1993, and that’s okay. For you. At least. You’d accepted it. You’ve made your own universe instead. You’ve painted it on canvas. On paper. On the backs of receipts and old tiles. You got lucky, for the second time in your life, because the first had been when you didn’t drown in the pool. You got lucky, because you were offered a job illustrating children’s books. Your old sign teacher, she knew someone, and she got you out. You got lucky, because even though you can’t hear, even though— Even though your parents don’t understand you, and your sister may hate you a little, you’ve made a pretty good living for yourself.

You didn’t close yourself off, really. Not intentionally, at least. But. You prefer your solitude. You and Otis, on the top floor of a townhouse in Rittenhouse Square. You’re happy there. You paint, you go for long walks, you— You dance at night to the music you can’t hear. You try new foods. You drink strong coffee. You read books about places you probably won’t get around to seeing, and— And mostly, you feel fulfilled. You’re pragmatic. You don’t have expectations of a whirlwind romance or wild nights where you wake up the next morning not remembering where you’d been. You don’t want that. This— This life, it’s the best thing for you, and you embrace it. You love it, because it's your life. You love it because it's all in your control.

It comes when you least expect it. That’s how life always goes. One second, you’re playing by the pool. The next— The next you’re a different person. One second, you’re walking on Third Street, you just dropped off a new batch of prints to your publisher. And you— You aren’t paying attention. You keep headphones in your ears. Headphones that are attached to nothing. You’d learned to do that a long time ago. You’d learned that if people think you’re listening to music, they won’t try to talk to you. You’d learned to trust Otis, because he’s good at his job. He’s good at tugging at his leash to warn you of approaching strangers. But this time, he doesn’t. You don’t see her. You don’t see her until your bodies collide, and you feel the spray of hot coffee all over your chest and face. You don’t have to hear her screaming to know she’s angry. No, angry isn’t the word. She’s— She’s livid. Her eyes seem to burn fire as she wipes coffee from her cream-colored suit jacket, and you feel your body shrink at her presence. You have about four inches on her, but you cower, as she glares at you. Even then though, you see it. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than anyone you’d ever— Ever seen in your life. But she is entirely terrifying. Black hair, eyes, almost as black, elegance, even covered splatters of dark coffee. One second, you’re walking, and the next…

Are you blind? Or are you just stupid? You watch her perfect lips move, and the crease in her forehead deepen. Are you going to take headphones out? Or are you just going to stand there and stare at me and my ruined jacket?

I’m deaf. You speak back, self-conscious of your words, but you must speak them. I wasn’t— Wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.

Sorry? You—

The words die on her lips as her eyes lock with yours. You can’t help the small curl of a smile at the corners of your mouth when she looks at you, and a small, surprised gasp escapes her. You see it in her throat, that— That intake of air. There’s a moment. An exchange. The thing you believed only exists in movies. But it's happening, you think. It's real. You feel it, crawling, crawling, beneath your skin. Your heart races in your chest, and Otis, Otis who seems to be up to something, simply lays down at your feet while you reach into your purse and offer her a small pack of tissues. She raises an eyebrow, as if to question really? But she— She accepts them anyway. She dabs at her ruined clothing, and you look down sheepishly. Your tissues won’t help, not in the slightest, but— But it’s the best you can do. It’s the best you can do, and somehow, it seems to work, if not to sop up the coffee, but to quell her frustration with you.

Let me give you my information. I’ll pay for. For your cleaning bill. Or a new suit. Whichever you want. I’m— I'm really sorry.

Maybe— she begins, looking to see that you understand her, and you nod. Her anger keeps melting, melting, and it’s the strangest thing you’ve ever seen. The daggers in her eyes retract, and you dare to believe that they’re replaced with an unexpected sort of softness. Softness toward you. It’s unfamiliar. But it feels just— Just so good. You could start by buying me a new cup of coffee.

I think I can handle that. You smile again. I’m Bellamy, Bellamy Lawrence.

Sofia Reyes.

Sofia Reyes. You repeat, though you’re positive the unfamiliar name sounds wrong when you speak it. It’s nice to meet you.

I wish I hadn’t met you by ruining my jacket, but— She waves her hand, as if to brush it off, and you relax a little. Hi, Bellamy Lawrence.

You walk alongside her. Though it’s usually against your nature and means of self- preservation to go toward an unfamiliar destination, you follow where she leads you. Otis remains at your side, far more on alert than he’d been a few moments earlier, and you scratch the top of his head, assuring him that all is forgiven. As Sofia walks, she strips off her jacket, revealing a lacy sage camisole beneath it. You try not to stare, really, but— But she’s beautiful. Smooth dark skin. That dark, dark hair. She’s beautiful, and the perfume she wears sort of short circuits your working senses and makes you blush deep, deep red. You hope she doesn’t notice, because you’re mortified at your own innocence, feeling your body heat up at the sight of a mostly clothed woman, but— But the wry smile on her mouth tells you she does. It tells you she does, and it tells you she is used to this reaction, that she knows she’s beautiful, and she’s sure to flaunt it.

When you reach a bakery you’ve never seen before, she opens the door for you, and you— You reach in your bag for the card you carry for Otis. They're not allowed to ask you, but, people do. They do all the time. And you don't want to speak of it, usually, so you hold the card in your hand. You hate bringing him new places, places that don’t know you both, but you follow Sofia in, and you can’t see her mouth move as she talks to the girl behind the counter, her body shaking with laughter. Normally, you’d think she was laughing at you, making fun of your clumsiness, your stupidity, but somehow— Somehow you know she’s not, and you feel an unfamiliar tingle at the back of your neck.

Coffee. Black. Please. You say to the girl, crisping your words as best as you can.

Sofia finds a seat while you pay for the drinks, and she smiles at you when you approach, Otis’ leash around your wrist and a plain white mug brimming with coffee in each hand. You’re careful, more careful than— Than you’ve ever been as you set them down on the table in front of you and take your own seat. She nods, teasing, you think, maybe, though you’re never particularly good at reading other people. You watch her as you take a sip, and hold back a moan at the taste on your tongue. It just may be the best coffee you’ve ever tasted. Better than yours, and you've perfected that over the years. It blooms in your mouth, and when you look up, Sofia is smiling at you.

Good, right? She asks, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear.

The best, maybe. You confirm.

You speak well. Sofia tells you, and you’re not sure you understood her correctly, so she repeats herself, and you flush. I’ve never heard a deaf person speak before.

I could hear until I was seven, you find yourself saying, though you never, ever tell anyone about yourself, you never— Never tell anyone about the accident. I almost drowned. Sometimes I think my mom wishes I would have, rather than have me damaged. I—I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don't—really ever talk to anyone, especially about that...

I’m sorry. She frowns, and you can tell by her eyes that it’s not a pity apology. She means it, you think— or maybe, you just hope that’s the truth. I’m sorry I called you stupid. I wouldn’t have if...

It’s okay, I’ve been hearing, or— Or not hearing it, I guess for my— My whole life.

I’m sorry for that too. She shakes her head. Is this hard for you? I can’t sign, but I have paper in my purse, I could write for you.

I can read lips probably about as well as you can hear. Sometimes I think, if I try hard enough, I can hear voices I’ve heard before. I don’t know what your voice sounds like, but I bet it’s beautiful. You look down. You can’t control the words that come out of your mouth. You think about shoving your foot in.

Well, I hope so, it’s kind of how I make my living. She smiles, and your smile in return.

Are you a singer?

I wish. I can sing, but, I realized when I was thirteen that the hope of a record deal wouldn’t ever pay the bills, and that's not an option for me. I’m a radio host, the morning show, on WIOQ.

Oh, wow. You feel a little bit of sadness pull your face down. She has a show on the radio. You wish you could hear it. You hate when you feel wistful like that, but— But it hits you sometimes, and you always try quickly to shake it away. That sounds really fun.

I like it. Her fingers sort of dance along the table, and you flex yours, resisting the unexpected urge to reach out and touch them. What is it that you do, Bellamy?

I paint. For children’s books, professionally. But. For me, too.

That’s awesome. I can’t even make stick figures.

We all make art in our own way. You shrug a little. Thank you, for not being mad anymore. I am really sorry about your jacket.

Don’t worry about it. My New Year’s resolution was to stop overreacting.

It’s June? You can’t help but tease.

Slow starter, sue me.

I won’t, if you won’t.

I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure a lawsuit over spilled coffee won’t hold up well in court.

I hope not. Feeling bolder than you’ve ever been, you reach across the table for her hand. Your nerves jump, and you— You didn’t expect it, and you force yourself to continue the pretense, turning it over and inspecting the skin there. No physical damage.

Except to the jacket.

Which I offered to pay for. How much is it, by the way? Can I write you a check? Or— Or I’ll get you cash, or, I’ll give you my card and you can—

How about dinner? Sofia doesn’t pull her hand away from you, and instead, you feel her thumb stroking the back of yours, making your skin tickle.

You want me to take you to dinner?

Actually, I was hoping I could take you...and, your dog too. You haven’t introduced me, by the way.

Oh, I’m sorry. You look down to Otis, and he lifts his head a little. Even he doesn’t hear your voice very often, so he must be shocked by how much you’re speaking. Sofia, Otis, Otis, Sofia.

Hi there, Otis. She continues to look at you when she speaks, something most people forget to do, and you appreciate it, you appreciate it more than you think she’ll ever understand. Something about her, it makes you feel— It makes you feel like you never even remember feeling, and you smile at her for what feels like the hundredth time in a half hour. What do you say to dinner with me and Bellamy?

I think...I think Otis would like that.

Just Otis? Sofia winks at you, and butterflies fill your stomach.

Not just Otis. You shake your head. I think I’d really like it too.

Good. I hate to leave now, Bellamy but I have a meeting in a half hour. Can I...um...can I text you, and we’ll make a plan?

Yeah, definitely.

You realize you’re still holding her hand, when she goes to take down your number, and slowly, you pull it away, shivering a little at the loss of contact. You don’t understand it, really, you’ve never been one for physical touch, or making plans, opening up, but suddenly, it’s like a new sort of color has come into your world. Suddenly, there’s Sofia. There’s Sofia, who’d yelled at you in the streets, who’d then taken a cup of coffee and a dinner date as repayment for what was looked like a very expensive jacket. There’s Sofia, the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever seen, Sofia, who’s known you for all of thirty minutes, and yet, has made more of an effort to treat you like a person than your own mother has in all the years after. There’s Sofia, who’s awakened something inside of you, who makes you smile. Sofia, giddy, as she taps your number into her phone, and immediately sends you a message so you’ll have hers, too. There’s Sofia, who somehow makes you feel, for the first time in twenty-two years, like maybe, maybe, you’re not so abnormal after all.

2. SOFIA

This isn’t like you. This isn’t like you at all. You don’t get nervous about women. You haven’t in more than a decade. You're not being conceited, you just have always had a way, a natural charm. You've been confident in yourself, because your mother taught you to be, to raise your head up and believe that you are worth it. And yet, here you are. You’re like your sixteen-year old self, standing in front of the mirror, trying to put on your makeup, and you’re sure you’re about three seconds from pulling a Bozo the clown, because your hands are sort of shaking. You can’t understand this weirdness. You can't understand this feeling. You can’t understand Bellamy Lawrence at all.

No. That’s a lie. You can understand Bellamy Lawrence perfectly. You can tell that even from a short coffee date. She’s beautiful. Those blue eyes drew you in, the instant you looked into them. They stopped your ranting dead in its tracks, like the whole world stopped when she looked at you. It's cliche, you know it's cliche, but that doesn't make it any less true. Those eyes, they're so expressive, and you think, you think maybe she needs to communicate more with them than other people, so they’ve adapted to reveal the entire universe in a single glance. She’s sweet. Had anyone else handed you a drugstore packet of tissues to dab at the large coffee spill that dripped down the front of your clothing, you’d have tossed them back in their face and lashed them for their insincerity. But that’s the thing. She isn’t insincere. She’s a little fumbling. She’s a lot adorable. She’s completely not your type, and what you don’t understand is the way your stomach flips at the thought of a woman you spent less than a half hour with.

You’re not sure if this is a date. You’re not even sure if Bellamy is interested in women. But the way your body sparked when she took your hand and (pretended, perhaps, though maybe that's wishful thinking) to check it for burns, you sure hope it is, you sure hope she is. Whether it’s a date or not, you’ve put a lot of thought into the evening. You’ve put a lot of thought into the evening, and not in the way you usually would. You’d spent yesterday afternoon scouring reviews on OpenTable, and not for somewhere that you could wow her with your impeccable taste in wine, where your usually frugal tendencies would be put to rest. No, instead, you'd sought a place she could feel comfortable. You sought a place that wasn’t too dark, because you wanted her to be able to read your lips without having to struggle. You sought a place that wasn’t too loud, because you wanted to hear her soft voice. You love her voice already, though you can tell she’s self-conscious about it. You love it, and you’re so wholly impressed with the way she speaks. You love the way your name rolls off her tongue, unfamiliar to her, a little different than how other people say it, So-fi-ahh, but perfect, nonetheless. After narrowing your list of places down, you ended up throwing it all away. You changed your mind. Instead of your usual, you decided you wanted to find somewhere you could sit outside. You’d seen her hesitance about bringing Otis into the bakery. You understood that, and the back of your neck had burned a little in shame, thinking of the time you’d muttered under your breath about dogs in restaurants. You understood that, you understand that, and you don't want her to feel uncomfortable on this date—or, this not date, whichever—not in the slightest.

You find a restaurant with outside tables, a restaurant that isn't too romantic, yet isn't too casual either, and you make a reservation for two. You call ahead, you tell them about Otis. You don't want Bellamy to worry, not at all. You don’t want her to do that thing she’d done a few times two days earlier, where she looks down in shame because she’s embarrassed of who she is. You hated that. She shouldn’t have to feel shame; she should never have to feel shame for who she is. You think she’s brave and strong, you can tell that already. You think you couldn’t go through the world and be successful like she is, even if you only had to go five minutes without your hearing.

When you’d found the courage to ask her to dinner—to really ask her to dinner, not just a hey, maybe we could go to dinner like you had in the bakery—you’d sent Bellamy a text message with a smiley face (who are you? You’re not sure) and asked her to meet you there tonight at eight. Your stomach flipped again when she’d replied OK! Great! OK. Exclamation point. Great. Exclamation point. Something’s wrong with you, you’re sure, with these reactions you’re having to punctuation. Something’s wrong with you, and you sort of think that you don’t want whatever it is to go away.

It’s not like you, but you leave an hour early to get to dinner. You don’t want her to have to wait. On the way, you debate stopping for flowers. But you’re still unsure if it’s a date. Maybe she’s just enthusiastic about having dinner with a friend, what with those exclamation points and all, and you’re positive you don’t want to come on too strong. Instead, when you walk past a pet store, you pop inside, and you end up with a plastic bag filled with odd shaped treats for Otis. You’re not even sure he’s allowed to have them, you’re fairly certain you’ve heard that service animals aren’t treated like pets, but — you can’t believe you’re even thinking this— you really want him to like you. A dog. You want a dog to like you. No. You want her dog to like you. You’re quite possibly losing your mind.

When you arrive at the restaurant, you wave off the maitre’d’s offer to seat you while you wait for your dinner companion. You want to wait for Bellamy at the entrance. You don’t want her to have trouble finding you. But you also don’t want her to think that you think she can’t. Because you know she can, it’s just that you want this all to be perfect, especially if it’s a date. No, actually, not even especially if it’s a date. You want it to be perfect no matter what. There’s just something about her. She’s under your skin already, you haven’t stopped thinking about her for thirty-six hours, and even if it’s not a date, even if she’s totally not at all into women, or, just not into you, you still want it to be a perfect night. You want it to be perfect, so you wait on the bench outside. You wait, and you check your emails, and you feel your heart race and your hands grow clammier by the minute.

Hi, Sofia. You hear from above you. You hear that way she says your name, the way you want her to say over and over again, and your eyes snap up, just as she’s pulling her headphones out from behind soft blonde curls and tucking them back into her purse.

While you take her in, you need to remind yourself to breathe. There aren’t even appropriate adjectives to describe her, you’re positive about that. Radiant, maybe, is as close as you can come. But even that doesn’t do her justice. She’s in a deep blue dress that stops mid-thigh, and you notice how she fidgets a little with it, her fingers trying not to tug at the ends. She smiles a little, before wringing her hands. She’s nervous, though not as nervous as you, you don’t think, and you smile in return, watching the tips of her ears turn red.

Hi. You stand up to greet her, your heels bringing you almost to her eye level. You look really nice.

Thank you, Sofia. She says your name again, and you shift your eyes around, thinking maybe those butterflies have burst free of your stomach and are flying around above your heads, watching this strange moment transpire. So do you.

Thanks. You look away for a moment, a little shy, and then you look to Otis, who seems to be regarding you carefully. You hold out your hand, but then your eyes snap back to Bellamy, asking her permission to touch him. Her eyes crinkle as she nods her consent, and you pat Otis’s head, scratching behind one of his floppy ears, continuing to look at Bellamy, so she can see your words. Hey Otis, thanks for coming to dinner with me. It’s pretty nice out tonight, I thought you might want to sit outside.

That sounds really good. She speaks for both of them, and you’re met with this unexplainable surge of affection for her.

The maitre’d leads you over to your table, surprisingly intimate, considering you’re dining al fresco, and you thank him when he pulls out the chairs for you and for Bellamy. Otis lays at her feet, his head up and alert, and she pats him to settle him down. You’re taken by it, you can’t explain it, but something about the whole thing just, it gets you, and you can’t stop staring.

I’m sorry, he’s just a little on edge tonight.

Don’t be sorry. You shake your head. I hope it’s not because of me.

No, no, not at all. She promises. I think he’s just picking up that I’m, I’m kind of nervous. I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to say that, am I? It’s just. I’ve never been on a date. I mean, I don’t mean this is a date. Or, I don’t know if I mean this is a date. Oh, God.

Hey, Bellamy. You tap the back of her hand when she buries her face in it, and then repeat your words again when she pulls them back and can see you. It’s alright, I’m a little nervous too.

But why? You’re beautiful. She blurts, and before she can cover her face again, you hold out your hand to her, letting her take it, if she’s comfortable enough to do it.

Bellamy. So are you. You tell her, and you hope she can see that your words are soft, meant only for her.

But I’m—

A little awkward? Very likely to spill coffee on strangers? You tease, not wanting her to ever think her deafness is any sort of reason you wouldn’t want to be on a date with her. I think I can work with that. I’d really like this to be a date tonight, but, if you’d rather it just be dinner between friends, I’m okay with that too.

I think— Bellamy hesitates, but her hand is still on yours, warm, soft, absolutely perfect. I think I’d really like to be on a date with you, Sofia.

Well then, Bellamy. A smile spreads across your face, and the butterflies calm, before starting up again, stronger than ever, the current their wings create rippling through your body. I think we should make the most of your very first date.

You think that had you met anyone else who was twenty-nine years old, two years your senior, and had never been on a date, you would have been wholly freaked out, you might have been an awful human being and fled the restaurant. But not with Bellamy. You’re enchanted by her. She makes it clear she doesn’t want to be pitied, and she gives you no reason to pity her. She’s brave, she’s strong, she’s passionate. You can feel it all in the way she tells you about her life, the way she shows you her paintings that she’s snapshotted with her phone. The paintings, they’re more vibrant than anything you’ve ever seen, and you see the pride in her eyes when you express your appreciation for them.

She listens—or, perhaps, you need to find a different word, you’re not sure— intently when you tell her about your radio show, about how people call you up for love advice, and you’ve been responsible for three weddings, all of which you’ve attended. You tell her about your childhood in Brooklyn, how your mom raised you alone, working three jobs, so you could have all the opportunities that she didn’t. She asks you if you sound like Fran Drescher, because she remembers that voice, and after you remind her that she’s from Queens, not Brooklyn, and tell her less Fran Drescher, more Rosie Perez, you both laugh until your stomachs hurt.

When you show her the treats you brought for Otis, your heart is in your throat with the way she looks at you. You can’t quite describe it— you can’t describe anything about Bellamy, really, she’s so much bigger than words— but you’re sure no one has ever looked at you quite that way. She lets you feed him under the table, just one, because he’s on a pretty strict diet, but then he looks at you too, and you think maybe that crazy you were feeling earlier could be what heaven feels like.

You finish a bottle of wine, and you order dessert to share. A passionfruit cheesecake that Bellamy makes the cutest sounds over, sounds that cause you to push more in her direction, because anyone enjoying something that much deserves to have all they can. She tries to fight you for the check, but she’s not as fast as you, slipping your credit card into the leather wallet and passing it off to your server without missing a beat. She pouts a little, and you just can’t help but bat your eyelashes, telling her if she wants to pay, then she’ll have to take you on a second date.

Can I walk you home? You ask, when you finally, reluctantly stand up. You don’t want this date to end just yet, and, even more so, you feel protective of her, no matter how safe the neighborhood is. It’s late, and you want to see her safely to her door, her and Otis.

You don’t have to. But— She purses her lips. If you want to, I’d like that a lot.

It’s not a long walk, but once Bellamy slips her hand into yours, her fingers finding their home in the spaces between yours, you slow your pace, wanting it to last forever. You can’t exactly talk and walk, because it’s nearly impossible for her to look at you then, but that’s okay, you don’t even need words to fill the comfortable silence between the two of you. It’s the best date you’ve ever been on, you’re sure of it, and you’re even more sure that Bellamy Lawrence is the most interesting person you’ve ever met. As much as you’ve learned about her, you find yourself wanting to know more, more, more, and you sigh a little, hoping that she feels as eager for another date as you do. This isn’t you, not at all, but strangely, you’re completely okay with that.

This is where I live. She tells you when you reach a brick townhouse with big bay windows, windows you immediately picture her sitting in and painting. Without dropping your hand, she turns so she’s facing you, so she can see you, and Otis lays down on the sidewalk, giving you two a moment, apparently. Thank you for dinner, Sofia.

Thank you for having it with me, Bellamy. Your lips twitch, when you watch her eyes glance down at them.

You want to kiss her, you want to kiss her so badly, you want to feel those gorgeous lips, the ones that speak your name like you’ve never heard it before, moving against yours, but you won’t. You’re not sure if anyone’s ever kissed her before— though you don’t know. Just because she’s never been on a date before doesn’t mean— your thoughts are cut off when she reaches up, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, her palm, warm on your cheek as she holds it there Your senses are filled with her, she’s everywhere. She’s under your skin. She’s in your veins. She’s just, something, something else. Her eyes flicker back to yours from where they’d trained on your lips, and you see the universe again, burning bright, bright, trapped in blue.

Hi. You whisper, the fingers of your free hand flexing at the side of your body. You’ve never felt like this. You’re always full of bravado, but now, now you’re just, so captivated that you can’t even think straight.

Hey. She speaks back, and you think maybe, maybe, she’s smirking at you. Is it okay if I...

It’s okay if you...

And she