The Right Move (Windy City Series Book 2)
The Right Move: Chapter 11

Blonde hair and lilac-painted toes clouded my mind all practice. Imagining what that pink satin would’ve looked like on my bedroom floor last night instead of Indy’s.

I haven’t fantasized about a woman like this in years. Typically, if I’m attracted to someone, it fades within a few hours once I remember who I am and why someone would want to be with me. That thought alone douses any fire. But lately, I’ve barely recognized myself through the carnal thoughts invading my brain—Indy on her back. On her knees. On her stomach, ass in the air.

Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about every position I could take her in and I’m a piece of shit for it because she’s getting over a guy who only cared about the trophy on his arm. The last thing I want is to be compared to him.

There’s a nervousness thrumming through me as I open the door to my apartment, the one place I’m able to replace peace and solitude. But today, the peace is gone, replaced instead with uncertainty. Part of me hopes Indy is home so I can know whether she’s wearing her hair in a braid or a bun. Whether she’s wearing socks around the house or letting her bare feet enjoy the heated floor. Whether she’s still in the clothes she slept in or if she’s ready for the day.

And part of me hopes she’s gone so I can’t have any of those questions answered. They’re dangerous to our arrangement and they’re dangerous to me.

But every single one of those questions is answered when I walk into the apartment and replace Indy sitting at the kitchen island with her laptop open in front of her.

Braid slung over her left shoulder.

Bare feet dangling off the stool.

Oversized sweatshirt and cotton shorts that she clearly slept in.

“Oh, Ryan is home,” Indy says to the computer, all while she moves her hands in quick motions. She turns towards me. “Ryan, come meet my parents.”

Again, her hands move and this time, I pick up on the four letters of my name from my very minimal knowledge of American Sign Language.

Stepping behind her, I replace the camera, allowing her parents to see me. “Hi. I’m Ryan,” I say with a wave.

I replace those four letters that make up my name in Indy’s hand movements once again.

“Lovely to meet you,” her mom says, using her hands to speak as well. “I’m Abigale.”

Her dad waves and speaks with only his hands.

“This is my dad, Tim,” Indy says, signing as well. “Geez, Dad!” she says after her father signs something else. She turns towards me. “He said, ‘We hope our daughter hasn’t been too much of a pain in the ass.’”

She wears a post-giggle smile, awaiting my response. Indy must notice my hesitation. “Speak clearly,” she reassures. “He can read lips and I’ll sign for you as well.”

I’ve never met a woman’s parents before, not that this is a “meet the parents” type of moment, but their daughter does live with me and between that and the inappropriate images that have been flashing through my daydreams, it’s a bit terrifying.

But Indy’s parents seem kind and welcoming. Her dad must be where she got her height. I can tell he’s a tall man even as he sits on his living room couch in Florida. On the other hand, her mom is a petite woman, but that blonde hair and those warm brown eyes make me feel at home in the same way I do with her daughter who shares the same attributes.

Leaning forward, I split the screen with Indy. “She’s only a pain in the ass when she leaves her dishes in the sink or forgets her clothes in the dryer for days at a time.”

Indy signs all while wearing a gaping mouth in mock offense.

Her parents laugh. “Just wait until you realize she never screws the lids back on all the way or forgets to close cupboard doors behind her.”

“Mom! God, you guys, I’m right here.”

“Honestly, though,” I continue. “I’ve enjoyed having her here. You raised a good woman.”

Indy’s attention darts to me before she looks away, signing my words as she does.

“Thank you.” Even though Indy translates for her dad, I know the very basics of ASL. She clears her throat uncomfortably. “He asked if you’ll watch after me.”

I look back at Indy, but she won’t make eye contact. She seems nervous for what I’ll have to say and maybe she’s wishing her dad didn’t ask that at all.

But regardless of his request, I’ve been watching out for Indy since she moved in. I hate what she’s going through, and my understanding is partly why I’ve been so accommodating, but I think selfishly I’ve wanted Indy to be here since the first night she slept in my spare room. Why else would I buy her a bed to sleep in and add vegetarian substitutes to my order every time I get groceries delivered?

“Yes, sir. Always.”

Through the laptop screen, I watch Indy bite the corner of her lip, either to keep a smile contained or to hide a small tremble. You never know with her. Emotional girl, my roommate.

“He watched your game against Boston,” Indy continues for her dad. “He says you had an amazing third quarter. He’s a big basketball fan.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll be sure to get you some tickets next time you come for a visit or when we head down to Florida for a couple games.”

A pair of brows and a smile lift on Tim’s face before he signs once again.

“He would love that.”

“Ryan, we like you in case you couldn’t tell,” Abigale laughs.

Tim signs again, a small gesture I’ve noticed a few times already, but before Indy can translate, I ask her, “What does that sign mean?”

“Which?”

I repeat Tim’s hand motion. It’s a fairly simple one—a fist with a pinky extended, motioned in a small circle around his chest.

“Oh, that’s my name. My sign name.”

“Sign name?”

“It’s a special sign to identify someone,” Indy says, her hands continuing to move for her dad in the most beautifully elegant way. “That way we don’t need to spell out our entire names every time we speak. Not everyone has a sign name. My dad chooses who gets them and what their sign is.” She balls her hand, but her pinky stays straight up then rubs her hand in a small circle over her heart. “’I’ for Indigo and my dad says I’m his whole heart.” She repeats her sign name. “Indy.”

Her mom speaks up. “And I’m Abigale.” She uses her hand, forming the letter “A” and tapping it to her head. “Because Indy’s father first noticed my blonde hair.”

“He typically doesn’t give a sign name right away, but he did with my mom.” Indy smiles thoughtfully, her hands moving. “They’ve been together for almost thirty years, and I think he knew she was going to be in his life from their first meeting. Isn’t that right, Dad?”

A nostalgic smile lifts on Tim’s mouth, nodding to agree with his daughter.

Indy, the romantic. Of course, she would assume that, but watching her parents on the computer screen, I’m not sure that I can argue. They seem utterly in love even after all this time, and it’s no wonder my roommate has these idealistic notions of romance. She grew up watching this.

But most people aren’t like that. Most people can’t be trusted with your heart, and I’d assume she quickly learned that after losing the life she built with her ex.

We chat for a few more minutes, all three of the Ivers speaking a language I didn’t realize was so intricate and beautiful to watch until now, getting to see it in action. The way they make each other smile or laugh with simple movements of their hands. I replace myself envious that I can’t participate, and instantly wish I knew more than the basics so Indy’s dad could speak directly to me without his daughter having to translate.

Once Abigale ensures I have her number in case of emergencies, Indy hangs up the call.

“They seem great.”

She smiles. “They’re the best. I miss them.”

“It’s only you? They didn’t have any other kids?”

“They couldn’t. It was a small miracle they got pregnant once. My mom had fertility issues.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Indy brushes me off. “They got one perfect child out of the deal.”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum suspiciously, attempting to keep my wandering eye off her long legs and pajama shorts. “Did you just wake up?”

“Yes.” She yawns with a stretch, her hands in the air. “How was practice?”

The short answer? Terrible.

I’ve never had so many turnovers in a two-hour span, never missed so many free throws in a single practice. And it’s all because I couldn’t stop thinking of what might have happened if I knocked on Indy’s closed bedroom door last night instead of going to my own.

After hesitating with my hands on her doorframe, my chest moving with heavy breaths, and the overwhelming desire to end our night doing something that would be anything but pretend, I did the right thing and turned around. I went back to my own bedroom, back to my own shower where I took care of myself as I have for the last couple of years.

“It was fine.”

She stands, circling the kitchen island to my side and I automatically round in the opposite direction, needing to maintain distance when all I want to do is touch her.

“Have you always known how to speak like that?”

“ASL?” she asks. “I guess so. At home we’ve always signed. My dad was born deaf, and my mom learned the language when they met.”

“How would…” I hesitate uncomfortably. “How would an adult learn the language?”

Her head snaps around to me. “You want to learn how to sign?”

Oh fuck. Those glossy brown eyes are back. Indy, the romantic. “I want to be able to speak to your dad without you having to translate. That way I can let him know when his daughter is being a pain in my ass.”

A quick, non-feminine laugh bubbles out of her. It’s lovely.

“There are classes you could take. Or I could help teach you if you’d like.”

She doesn’t make eye contact, as if she’s new to the topic. As if no one else in her life has ever asked her how they could learn to better communicate with her family.

Indy opens the fridge, quickly shifting the subject. “Are you hungry? I can make you some—” She takes her pink coffee cup out of the refrigerator and holds it up to me. “What is this?”

“I uh…” I rub my hand on the back of my neck. “I made you coffee before I left for practice and put it in the fridge to cool so it wouldn’t get watered down when you added ice.”

Her head drops to the side. “Ryan, that’s really sweet. Thank you.”

I look away from the girl who probably assumes this is some grand romantic gesture. “It was nothing.”

She rifles through the fridge, her blonde braid cascading down her back. Those bare feet and long legs distracting me once again.

“Where’s the regular bacon?” she asks.

“I haven’t been ordering it. I’ve just been getting the vegetarian stuff.”

She looks over her shoulder at me for an explanation.

“I think it tastes pretty good. No need to order both.”

Another thoughtful smile pulls at her lips.

Dammit. I know she’s going to think this is deeper than it is. She’s going to romanticize me buying fucking breakfast meats because that’s who she is, but it’s nothing. Really.

I just want the fridge to be stocked with things she can eat. I want her to feel at home here because it’s her home too.

The realization rams into my chest.

I want her here. I want her to want to be here.

Fuck, when did that happen?