THE QUIET

2. Mariana

2

MARIANA

Another three years passed before I saw Zac again.

I mean, until I had another actual encounter with him.

I’d spotted him here and there around town, of course. He had continued to do odd jobs until Mitchell Harvey, who owned the auto repair and towing shop on the edge of town, lost a leg and reluctantly had to hire Zac as a last resort to help him out.

Zac had been there a little over a year and seemed to be working out just fine as Mr. Harvey’s assistant, even though he was usually scowling over something or other whenever I passed by the shop and saw him clunking around with some tool in hand. But I think that was just because Zac was naturally a frowny, grumpy guy.

I hadn’t conversed with him one-on-one since our hug in the cemetery, except for one time that we’d nearly collided with each other in the grocery mart check-out line. But all he’d done then was jar to a surprised halt and motion me on in front of him as he mumbled, “Go ahead.”

But I wouldn’t call that valuable conversation.

So when he entered the diner during my first week on the job, my stomach twisted into immediate, tangled knots and I blasted him with a big smile, hoping finally we’d get to talk again.

I always seemed to catch him so unaware, though.

As soon as he spotted me in my uniform with the little, black waist apron riding my hips, he jerked to a startled stop in the doorway with the bell still dinging overhead and blinked at me in astonishment.

I waved to him in welcome, then refilled a coffee cup at a nearby booth.

Then, decanter still in hand, I followed him toward the counter where he trudged over to sit on a stool next to the cash register.

Leaning into the stool beside him, I waved again and kept smiling.

He lifted an eyebrow in question, and I pulled out the pre-written cards I had tucked in my left pocket so I could flash the first one at him.

“Welcome to Ginger’s! Can I start you off with a drink?”

He tipped his chin toward the decanter in my hand. “I’ll have some of that.”

I nodded and then lifted onto my toes so I could lean past him and snag an empty mug from the pile of them lining the countertop. And in doing so, my breast oh-so-casually grazed the side of his arm.

He glanced down at the contact before lifting his attention to my face. “When’d you start working here?”

I waited until I had his coffee poured, and then I flipped through my notecards before I could show him, “This is my fourth day on the job. Please excuse my mistakes.”

His lips twitched with amusement, so I flipped to another card further down the line. “My lita said she’d let me get a job after I graduated from high school. And now that I have, I’m so excited to finally enter the workforce.”

He nodded slowly as he read. Then he lifted his cup to me in cheers. “Well, welcome to the sucky letdown of the real world. Hope you enjoy it more than I do.”

And he took a long drink from his cup, gulping it black. No sugar or creamer or anything. I wrinkled my nose over his tastes but kept watching him, beyond fascinated.

It was too early for the usual lunch crowd to start pouring in just yet, they were merely trickling now, so I only had two other tables with customers at them for the time being. And they both seemed fine with everything they currently had.

Giddy because that meant I could stay here longer with Zac, I hiked myself onto the stool next to his, making him glance over with raised eyebrows.

“Do you know what you’d like to eat yet?” I asked with another card.

“Oh!” He set his cup down and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ll just take today’s special to go, please.” Motioning with his hand, he added, “That’s pretty much going to be what I always order.”

“You got it!” I told him…through my notes.

Popping off the stool again, I slid my hand along his back as I passed by to go put his order in, and as I did, he sucked in a long breath, straightened his spine, and glanced over his shoulder at me briefly.

What I saw etched in the hazel depths of his eyes spelled heartbreak and longing. I could tell he liked human touch but wasn’t used to it. I figured he must not get much of it, and that made me want to spend an entire day just running my healing hands all over him.

I think that was one of the very reasons I felt so drawn to him. I liked touching things: surfaces, textures, fabrics, people. And he was like a dried-out sponge that needed a lifetime of tactile relief to make up for what he’d been lacking.

Well, that and the fact that he’d never been mean to me or treated me like I was lower than an actual human being.

Most people in these parts assumed I couldn’t think or reason like a normal person since I couldn’t talk like one. They mostly acted as if I was invisible.

But not Zac. As prickly and bitter as he was to the rest of the world, he’d always been as respectful and courteous to me as he was confused by me. I don’t think he understood why I was nice to him, to be honest.

It was obvious he wasn’t used to sunny and cheerful dispositions, which only made me want to smile at him more.

Returning to the stool next to his, I popped back onto the vinyl-covered, cushioned seat and rested my elbows on the counter barely an inch away from where he was resting his so I could grin at him.

He sent me a leery, suspicious glance. Poor, paranoid man; he was always so certain everyone wanted to do him wrong.

Admittedly, he had reason. He wasn’t well-liked around here and typically didn’t get the benefit of the doubt from anyone. But that, of course, just made me want to show him more kindness.

Slipping a new, fresh pad from my apron, I slapped it on the counter beside us and began to write.

“Your hair’s getting shaggier than you usually keep it. You need a trim.”

When I showed him the words, he reached up and smoothed his hand over his head. “Yeah, I reckon I do.”

I reached out too to catch a tuft of it that was beginning to curl, only to notice a tattoo on his inner wrist. Forgetting his hair, I grabbed his arm that he was beginning to lower, and I flipped his hand palm up so I could trace little black footprints that were stamped across his flesh.

They were freaking adorable.

The muscles under my fingers flexed and he started to pull away as if it were his basic instinct to shy from others. But then he paused, forcing himself to let me have my fun.

After his throat worked through a hard swallow, he slid his attention to the other occupants in the diner, but no one was paying us any attention, so he turned back to me.

I pulled my fingers away from his tattoo to write, “Do you usually go somewhere for a trim? Or does your mamá cut your hair?”

“Uh…” He cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“No!” I wrote. “Please don’t tell me you cut your own hair.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, wincing as he read. “I won’t, then.”

“NOOO!” I jotted down in all caps and then underlined the word. “I’m sorry, but I just cannot allow you to cut your OWN hair. Never again. This is not acceptable. I’LL cut your hair before letting you butcher another piece of those beautiful, precious locks. Do you hear me?”

When the entrance to the diner rang, admitting new customers, I glanced over to see a family of four enter.

Ripping the sheet I’d been writing on from my notepad, I left it with Zac to read, slapping it down in front of him before I popped off my stool and hurried to greet the family with a smile and sign that told them to seat themselves wherever they liked.

Most locals were already aware of my circumstances and used to it. It didn’t win me any popularity contests, of course, but it typically left me as a neglected kind of outcast that most simply overlooked and moved on from. So I wasn’t ever really bullied or harassed, just ignored.

But Peril was located only about a mile off the interstate that led up toward the lake, and travelers who were tired of fast food did occasionally find their way to us, wandering in and needing to stretch their legs as they escaped their campers or boat-hauling trucks for a while.

After setting up the family with cups of iced water, I started in with my flip cards, welcoming them and asking how I could help them.

The parents blinked in puzzlement, clearly confused, and one of the little boys came right out to ask, “Mom, why isn’t she talking?”

Flushing, I realized I’d missed a card, and I flipped back to it, showing them, “My name is Mariana, and I’m mute. But I can help you get whatever you need here today. Promise.”

The mother seemed disgusted about being forced to read, and she immediately started glancing around the restaurant. “Isn’t there someone here who can actually speak to us?”

She wasn’t very quiet about her request either.

So, at the counter, Zac glanced over to scowl at her.

Feeling my face heat with mortification, I pulled out my blank notepad and quickly jotted the words, “Of course, ma’am. Naomi should arrive at 11:30 to help with the lunch shift, if you’d like to wait.”

After a glance at the clock on the wall, however, the woman let out a disgusted breath. Apparently, she didn’t want to wait another ten minutes for Naomi, who could talk.

“I just wanted to get out of that damn SUV for half an hour and enjoy a warm, fresh meal,” she muttered bitterly.

Her husband covered her hand to comfort her and took over the ordering, addressing me directly. “Well, I know I want a cheeseburger with the works, French fries, and ketchup. The kids always go for chicken strips and mac and cheese. And…babe…?” He glanced at his wife. “Cobb salad?”

She huffed out a sigh and rubbed at the center of her forehead. “Sure, fine, whatever.”

When the man returned his attention to me, he offered me a small wince. “And a Cobb salad, please,” he said weakly.

I nodded my understanding and almost felt too bad to show him the card that asked which kind of salad dressing she wanted. But we suffered through, and by the time I made it over to the window to clip up their order on the wheel, Sal was ringing the bell to let me know another meal was ready.

Brightening immediately when I spotted cubed steak and gravy with corn pudding and green peas on a plate—the daily special—I snagged it up immediately, giddy that I was about to have another encounter with Zac.

Eek!

Cue an internal happy dance.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling as big as I wanted to, and I carried Zac’s plate over before setting it down in front of him.

He’d been playing on his cell phone so he could block out the rest of the diner. But when the platter scraped to a stop next to his elbow, he pulled back and gaped at it in question before lifting his face to me.

“I, uh, I wanted this to go.” He motioned toward the door, letting me know how eager he was to bolt.

I sent him my begging eyes and even batted my lashes hopefully before scribbling out a new note that I promptly flashed him.

“But I really need you to stay.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, so I flipped the page. “It’s only my first week on the job,” I reminded him. And then I turned to another card. “You have no idea how much I need a friendly face right now.”

With that, he snorted and sent me a dry glance, letting me know he didn’t agree that he should be considered a friendly face.

But I was already prepared for this response. I showed him the next card. “You are! That family over there wasn’t the only customer who’s treated the mute girl like a total freak. But YOU never have.”

His back straightened to attention as he read, and when he glanced over at the four waiting for their food, his eyes narrowed. Then he came back around and lifted his gaze to me, flashing me sympathy and understanding.

So I showed him another card. “Will you stay if I throw in a complimentary piece of jalapeño cornbread?”

“Ah, Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. Heaving out a breath, he picked up his fork and sent me a moody scowl. “Fine. You win. I’ll stay.”

I glowed, sending him my happy face, and then signed, “Thank you.”

He must’ve remembered what it meant from three years past because he grumbled a gruff, “You’re welcome,” and then tucked into his meal.