Page 140 of Flint’s Strike

Grace’s eyes soften, and she spells out E-R-A-S-E-R.

“She ate an eraser? Like off a pencil?”

“N-no.” Shaking her head, she makes a small box with her hand, about the size of an old cigarette lighter. “I…uh…” Another frustrated sound, and she spells out D-R-A-W.

“You draw. I knew that. I think.”

Grace’s shoulders drop. Her jaw unclenches, and she leans against the counter behind her. “Sorry. Happens when…I’m tired.”

“You don’t have to apologize. That’s why I started learnin’. No one should have to speak to be heard.”

Maybe that’s why this matters so much to me. Why I’ve been practicin’ in the middle of the night for almost two weeks. With Parker, I know what it’s like to finally have someone listen.

Her eyes shine, and a small smile curves her lips as she passes me the fork. “Parker…is special. Glad she…found you.”

“So am I.”

“When did you learn ASL?” Parker’s voice from behind me is so quiet, I almost miss it over a peal of laughter from the living room.

Grace darts out of the kitchen with the speed of an Olympic athlete, and I turn. Parker’s cheeks have flushed a deep red, and she steps close enough to press her palm to the center of my chest.

“Been studyin’ since she came to the station a week or so back. Don’t have much more than the alphabet yet. A few words. House. Car. Banana.”

“But…why? You met her once. We hadn’t even gone on a proper date yet.” There’s a hitch in Parker’s breath that turns the space between words into something fragile.

“She matters to you. You matter to me. That’s reason enough. And Grace shouldn’t have to go without a voice because I don’t know the one she needs sometimes.”

Parker wraps her arm around my waist, melting against me. She doesn’t say a word. Neither do I. This silence doesn’t need filling.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Parker

Eliot’s headlights stay in my rearview mirror the whole way back to my apartment.

I can’t stop thinking about his hands. About watching him spell out words so Grace would feel comfortable.

You matter to me.

The tears start at a stoplight, silently rolling down my cheeks. Eliot learned ASL in bits and pieces in the middle of the night. He didn’t talk about it. Didn’t go up to Grace in the middle of the party and announce that he was learning so everyone could hear. He just…did it.

I swipe at my face, annoyed when the tears keep coming. This is ridiculous. I don’t cry. Not like this. Not because a man learned how to sign a few words.

Eliot’s been showing me the truth our entire relationship. We’re not just “dating.” This isn’t a casual fling. This is so much more.

“You matter to me.”

Not just when I’m strong or useful or in control. But when I’m tired or scared or feel like I’m carrying the weight of the whole world on my shoulders.

I want the life taking shape between us. The one where he buys a tray because he wants to bring me breakfast in bed. Where my morning drive is half an hour longer because I know he prefers hemp milk in his coffee.

But that’s not all I want.

I want to watch This Old House while he knits and I do my physical therapy exercises. I want to come home to a place that’s ours, with his boots by the door and my mom’s cookbooks on the shelf. I want to walk through the farmer’s market holding his hand.

I want the boring Tuesday nights. The bad mornings when one or both of us are in pain. I want to see him laugh when Nate is being…Nate. I want to hear more about Zack, even when the stories hurt. I want to know what he was like before I knew him—and learn about the parts of his life that have nothing to do with me.

I want him in my life when there’s no case bringing us together. To wake up beside him because it’s Wednesday, not because one of us has nowhere else to be. To find out if my rolling the toothpaste tube drives him up a wall, or if he leaves his socks on the bathroom floor. I want all the highs and lows of a life together, and the perfectly ordinary days in between.