So, yeah, there we go. Didn’t matter what Caden O’Dae did, me and him were not going to happening.
Once you’ve had your heart ripped out and stomped on, once you’ve had your defect thrown in your face as the reason for the decimation of your heart and any Happy Ever After you’d planned, you know it’s just better to be that girl. You know the one? The prickly, stand-offish, sarcastic girl who never dates and spends her time scoffing at the ridiculousness of the world. I’m that girl, with the added bonus of being defective.
The thing is, I’m okay with the defective bit. I was born that way.
I overheard my father call me that when I was twelve. I’m using the term heard in an ironic way, of course, given the reason I’m faulty. I have profound sensorineural hearing loss in my left ear and moderate conductive hearing loss in the other. Or to put it more simply, I’m completely deaf in one ear and can hardly hear with the other. The “officially” recognized term is Hard of Hearing.
I was born with the profoundly deaf ear, thanks to a serious case of being premature and Mom being rushed into an emergency C-section that almost went horribly wrong. The almost-but-not-quite-working ear came about thanks to some nasty, nasty reoccurring ear infections as a result of being premature. Essentially, my pressing need to get into this world earlier than planned kind of fucked me over somewhat. Go figure.
Sometimes I wear a hearing aid in the ear that almost works, but it irritates the hell out of me, and frankly, the second people see it pity fills their eyes. Have you ever been looked at with pity? Yeah. Not fun.
My hearing, or lack thereof, also means I tend to tilt my head a little to the left when people talk, so that I can pick up their voices, even as I watch their lips move. I also get annoyed when people don’t look directly at me when they’re speaking, which – what with the hypnotizing power of cells phones and the seeming inability of the average person to exist for more than five seconds without looking at one – happens more often than you realize. We really are, as a species, becoming enslaved by the ubiquitous devices.
I’m amazing at reading lips. Amazing. I can also sign, and do so whenever I want to swear or tell my sister something I’d rather not share with the world when we’re with company, but I don’t rely on it for communication. Because the moment someone realizes you’re deaf, they treat you differently.
That sucks.
It’s never stopped me or slowed me down, my defect. It’s never really bothered me. Sure, going to the movies is a pain (it’s just too damn loud for me, which is also ironic when you think about it), and getting treated like I’m sub-human and intellectually deficient, or fragile and helpless, has a way of bringing out the bitch in me if I’m not careful, but it’s never stopped me from living the life I want to.
Most times, I should point out, I’m not careful. That helps deal with the people who treat me like I’m less than them. Keeps them at arm’s length. Keeps them wondering. Keeps them on guard. When people are on guard enough they tend to eventually move away from you.
I’m good with that.
Essentially, I don’t do people. I don’t do relationships. I definitely don’t do romance. Not any more. There’s nothing romantic about someone whispering sweet nothings in your ear when you can’t hear them. They get antsy when you don’t whisper something back. (I’m not good with whispering. Unfortunately, it’s a volume thing I’ve never gotten the hang of.)
The few times I tried to do romance when I was a teenager ended with the intended recipient of my affections giving up and finding themselves a date with someone who didn’t have to wear a hearing aid in one ear; who didn’t ask them to repeat themselves when they whispered said sweet nothings in said ear. Who didn’t get irritated in crowds and parties, and snarky with people trying to communicate with her when she couldn’t decipher what they were saying.
The one time I got really serious about romance, the only time I sincerely believed the person I was with loved me for everything I was, including the faulty hearing, ended up with me sobbing ugly tears in my closet and dropping out of college.
Apparently, dating me is hard and, according to Professor Douchebag, an inconvenience. Have you ever been told you’re an inconvenience, not just by a stranger who doesn’t like how long you’re taking to order your coffee at Starbucks, but by someone who you’ve given your heart to? Have you been told an integral part of what makes you you is an inconvenience? It freaking rips your emotions to shreds and makes you feel like shit. As a result, I stopped dating.
No dating. No falling in love. No decimated heart. It was a win-win for everyone concerned, right? I just needed Caden O’Dae to get with the program and stop being so . . . so . . .
Damn it.
Why had I agreed to pick him up from the airport again? I knew what he was going to do – see me through the crowd, grin, wave, weave his way toward me with an emotion in his eyes I didn’t want to acknowledge, even as my tummy tightened at the sight of it.
Every time I’d collected him from LAX to date, my tummy told me my body liked the way he looked, and the way he looked at me. Every time I told my tummy to tell my body to get a grip. Every time, my body refused to comply.
Stupid body. Hadn’t it learned its lesson with Professor Douchebag? Apparently, I was as defective in the head as I was in the ears.
I didn’t need an annoying Australian making my life complicated with his sexy accent and smiling eyes and relaxed laugh that vibrated through me regardless of how little I could actually hear it. I didn’t. I didn’t need anyone. Not in that way.
I had my family, who I love beyond words. My mom (she of the witty sarcasm and addiction to running marathons) and dad (he of the over-protective coddle-swaddling and zero tact), my big sister Amanda (The best sister ever, even if she does like Coldplay) and her husband Brendon (The Wonder from Down Under, with a heart as big as his biceps, which is saying something), and my nephew Tanner.
Tanner is my world. A fighter to the nth degree, at the age of three Tanner has already fought and beaten leukemia, learned to say g’day like the half-Aussie he is, and spent more time in hospital and tolerating doctors and needles than any adult should, let alone a child.
But apart from those people, and a friend or two here and there, I don’t do human interaction. It’s easier. Less frustrating. Less exasperating.
Less . . . painful.
Caden, however, has refused to read my fuck-off-and-leave-me-alone vibes.
Didn’t matter how many times I ignored him, or rolled my eyes at him or swore at him (signing, of course – I figured if I sign at him enough he’ll do what everyone who’s not my immediate family do when I’m signing and get all uncomfortable and weird and just go away), he seemed hell-bent on not taking the hint.
Didn’t matter that the one time we almost kissed, I damn near sprinted from the room and pretended I was asleep in Tanner’s bed. Seriously, the guy can’t take a hint.
If it wasn’t for the fact he’s so freaking smart, I’d think he was stupid. He’s definitely not stupid. Stubborn, yes. Obstinate, yes. But stupid? No. You can’t be top of your class at college and be stupid.
Caden O’Dae is far from stupid. Caden is . . .
Jesus, why am I talking about him so much? I don’t want to talk about him. I’ve said my piece. I was not – repeat not – falling for him, no matter what he did.