Speechless(105)

                I click the send button before I can agonize over it any                     longer. Instead of satisfaction, all I feel is mild nausea, and when my cell                     phone rings suddenly, I nearly jump out of my skin and scramble to pick it up                     off my desk. I don’t recognize the number on the front screen, but I pick the                     call up anyway.

                “Chelsea?” It’s Sam, the sound of dishes clattering and water                     running in the background. He must be at Rosie’s. “It’s me. Sam.”

                I almost answer on pure instinct, but then remember and shut my                     mouth. Why would he call? He knows I can’t speak.

                “I know you can’t talk,” he says, like he’s reading my mind,                     “but Dex has this errand he wants me to run for him… I don’t know, he’s in one                     of his moods, he’s decided he wants to redecorate and asked if I’d go out and                     pick up paint samples. I could use a second opinion. You want to come?” He                     pauses and laughs a little. “Cough once for yes, twice for no.”

                Well, let’s see. It’s a Friday night, and my choices are either                     sit around the house on edge waiting to see if Kristen replies to my email, or                     go shopping for paint samples. I can’t even go downstairs to watch television                     because Dad is fixing the garbage disposal and making a racket. The answer here                     is fairly obvious.

                I cough once, pointedly.

                Sam laughs again. “All right,” he says, “I’ll be over in a                     few.”

                * * *

                “Oh, God, shut up! You have no idea what you’re talking                     about!”

                Sam keeps yelling at his car radio like the hosts on NPR can                     hear him. I wonder if he does this all the time, or if he’s doing it for my                     benefit to keep this car ride from being dead silent. I’m too anxious to pay                     attention to his constant grumbling. I stare out the window and watch the                     buildings slip by, wondering if Kristen’s seen my email yet. On one hand, I’d                     pay to see her face when she reads it—on the other, I’m suddenly feeling like                     maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to antagonize her. Who knows how she’ll                     respond?