My fingers switch to the First Aid Kit song “Emmylou,” and I sing along. Their songs are in the American folk style, complete with American folk instruments and accents. You’d never in a million years guess that they’re Swedish.

From the first time I heard that song, I’ve always dreamed of being someone’s “Emmylou.” Half of a duet. My eyes drift to a picture stuck to the wall—Carter with his arm around me. Both of us squinting into the camera. He will never sing with me. I’ve never even heard his spoken voice. I haven’t even heard him laugh again—not since that night at dinner. Does he know how much I loved it?

I push those thoughts away and find that my feelings have spilled over into the music, switching from “Emmylou” to a different song—about a girl missing a boy who’s gone forever. Where did that come from? I stop fingerpicking and jam on some bright chords. I speed it up to distract me. Less contemplative, more demanding. The melody works its way into my hands and my ears, pouring into and filling up my soul. I smile and belt out a harmony, even though nobody’s on melody, but the heart of the message is in the music. My fingers speak better than my mouth does—like Carter. But he’ll never hear the language my fingers speak and his heart language will always be my second one.

My phone buzzes, saving my spiraling thoughts. It’s from Carter again.

“Dinner tonight! You’re coming, right?”

“Of course,” I text back. “Want me to bring anything?”

I wait for a second but he doesn’t answer immediately, so I put the phone on the bed and Bender on her stand and move to my ancient desktop. I wiggle the mouse and my new homepage, the ASL dictionary, pops up.

“Hi,” I practice signing, although that particular one is second nature. “What’s up?” “I’m fine,” “I’m sorry, can you slow down?” “I love music,” “I’m a singer,” “I’m a waitress,” “Tell me about yourself,” “How do you know Carter?” “So what is Carter like at school?”

All too soon it’s 5:00 p.m., and my mom calls up the stairs. “You going soon?”

“Yeah.” I throw on the pair of jeans and black tank top that I wore when I first met his family.

“Does he want you to bring anything?” My mom is standing in my doorway, leaning up against the doorjamb.

“Um…” I check my phone. He never answered. “I guess not.” I glance up at her. “I don’t know why, but I’m a little nervous.”

“You’ll do fine,” she says, and gives me a hug. “Say hi to Carter for us, honey. Tell him it’s our turn to have him over! We don’t get to see enough of him!”

“Will do, Mom,” I say. I grab my keys from their hook by the door and turn around to say good-bye to my mom, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s looking out the window, her arms crossed. Her face is distant.

“See ya, Mom,” I say. “Love you.”

She turns the smile back on and looks at me. “Love you, too. Have fun.”

I dial Jenni on my way out the door.

“How was work today, working girl?” I ask.

“Good! They love me. I’m the only one who doesn’t steal bites in between cones.”

“Ha!” Of course—lactose intolerant—I never thought of that.

“Tonight’s the big night, huh?” she asks.

“Yeah. Meeting the infamous Denise and her friend. I think her name is Jolene?”

“Nice. You nervous?”

“A little, actually. So, you and Barry. How are things going?”

I can almost hear her roll her eyes as the smile creeps into her voice. “He’s walked me to the ice-cream shop every day since I started, but he never comes in! I tease him about being seen with the help. Anyway, we’re having dinner on Thursday. Some swanky place that he doesn’t think is swanky.”

I laugh. I never thought they’d hit it off, but Jenni calls him on his rich-boy act and he just adores her. It’s a good match. At least for the summer.

I wonder if that’s what people think about me and Carter.

We discuss her outfit for Thursday, deciding on the ever-popular little black dress. I was there when Jenni picked it out. It will blow his mind.

I’m at Chautauqua before I know it. I park in the lot and walk up to the gate, giving a nod to the high-school-age gate attendant. I think she’s in Chautauqua Lake’s select singing group, but I’ve seen her more in the past couple weeks than at any music festival. She scans my pass, bored, and I start the walk to Carter’s house. He usually meets me at the gate. But it’s okay, I know the way.

I brush imaginary lint off my clothes before ringing the doorbell. The lights flash and in an instant, the door is hauled open by a girl with creamy brown skin, brilliant green eyes, and bright-white smile. This goddess is his sister’s friend?

“Hi!” I sign, and gulp, trying to smile.

“Hi!” the girl (Jolene?) signs. “Come in!”

I walk into Carter’s bright living room to find it empty. Apparently, everyone’s in the kitchen. I follow Jolene in her New York City clothes and her bare feet and perfect pedicure. A cute Indian girl is texting. Denise—I know her from Carter’s pictures. She looks up. “You must be Robin! It’s so good to meet you!” she signs and says. Her speech is excellent—the R’s are a little soft, but I wouldn’t know she was deaf unless I noticed her hearing aids.

“Hi,” I sign. “Nice to meet you, too.” It’s easier for me to sign if I’m talking. Carter said that it’s okay for me to do both at once. I guess it messes with the grammar or something, but a lot of hearing people do it.

Jolene grabs a stool and sits down, turning to face me. “I’m Jolene,” she signs, mouthing the words but silently, like Carter. I glance at her ears—no hearing aids, no CI. Like Carter. “I’m a friend of Denise and Carter.”

“Cool,” I sign.

There’s a pause. We look at each other and I give a little smile.

“Carter’s in the bathroom,” Jolene signs, filling space.

Denise says, “Probably blowing it up in there. He’s been gone forever.”

The girls laugh, and I join in reluctantly. I’m not really a bathroom-humor person, and I just met them. Plus they’re talking about my boyfriend. Awkward doesn’t begin to explain it.

“Where is everybody?” I ask. I’d expected Carter’s parents and Trina to be hanging around.

“Trina’s got a thing tonight—some kind of performance or something. Anyway, we have the house to ourselves,” says Denise, signing along.

“Cool,” I sign.

No hearing people. None. Except me. I am an island.

I hear footsteps running down the stairs and Carter steps into the kitchen. He is gorgeous as always, and a smile lights his face as he sees me. I smile back.

“Robin!” He signs the songbird-sign name that he gave me on the carousel.

“Aw so cute!” Denise signs. She signs my sign name, and I feel inexplicably violated. That’s mine. Nothing to do with her.

I smile at her. “Thanks,” I sign. She’s just trying to be nice, I remind myself. Inclusive.

Carter hugs me one-handed and kisses the top of my head. “Pizza?” he signs.

I snuggle into him, the warmth from his arm enfolding me for a second. “Okay,” I sign, and he gets on his phone, ordering online.

“Twenty minutes,” he signs.

He and Denise start signing rapid-fire to each other. I have no idea what it’s about. Jolene turns to face me.

“Come on, let’s chat in the living room,” she signs slowly, an encouraging smile on her gorgeous face. “Those two are fighting about who’s leaving their clothes on the bathroom floor.” That sentence is so out of left field, she has to repeat it twice. I follow her to the living room and sit on one pristine white couch, curling a leg under me.

“Tell me about yourself,” she signs and says.

“I love music,” I say first. “I’m a waitress. I live in Westfield and I’ve lived there my whole life.”

“Tell me about Carter! How did you two get together?” She’s too nice. This is not okay.

“He… came to my… diner.” I spell it because I forgot how to sign “restaurant.”

“On his motorcycle?” she asks, a glint in her eye.

I nod. I can’t find the words to say that he was charming and funny and his handwriting was perfect and we waved at each other like first graders through the whole meal. So I just nod.

“Isn’t that motorcycle hot?”

I nod again. “We… went to an… overlook.” I have to spell the last word again.

She grins. “And that’s where he kissed you?” she asks.

Am I seeing this right? Did she just ask where he kissed me? Do I have to answer this?

“No,” I sign. Then I remember that he pulled me to my knees and kissed the back of my hand. It must show on my face, because she gives me a look.

I cave, signing “kiss” and pointing to the back of my hand.

She puts a hand over her heart. “So cute. Isn’t he—” and she signs a word I don’t know.

“I don’t know that sign,” I sign, a phrase I use way too often.

“R-o-m-a-n-t-i-c,” she spells, then signs it again: “Isn’t he romantic?”

“Yes.” I nod. Wait. How does she know he’s romantic? My eyebrows crinkle without my brain’s permission.

“We dated,” she signs. “A long time ago.” She brushes it off, but he never told me. I stare at her again—cut cheekbones, naturally curly hair that’s lightened in the summer sun, and those eyes… They dated?

She waves to get Carter’s attention and he ambles over, a strained smile on his face.