Chapter 9
Owen
The longer I studied Bee, the more contradictory she became to me. She wore bright patterned clothes (usually), yet nobody seemed to know who she was. She was impulsive and hotheaded but listened to rational explanations and seemed naturally curious. She was stubborn in her mysterious pursuit but then thanked me for teaching her something new.
To think that I could be capable of teaching anybody anything was a laugh.
And based on her inability to sit still under my assessing gaze, she didn’t appear to like that I was studying her. But I liked looking at her. Even with her new hair and her ridiculous snowsuit. I liked the playful gleam in her dark eyes and how expressive her features were. I swore every thought that passed through her mind played out on the pout of her full lips or the scrunch of her pert nose.
Within five minutes, her foot began to tap. Not long after, she looked around, eyes never settling on me, desperate for something to comment on. Her body was never still, like a kid in the waiting room of a doctor’s office. It was as though words were bubbling from her gut up into her mouth, and the longer we sat there, the more I expected a verbal onslaught would come exploding out.
Sure enough, the words came.
“A game?” I repeated.
Bee nodded, rubbing her hands gleefully. The good news was there wasn’t a chance that Bee was afraid of me. The bad news was I hadn’t had a full conversation with a person outside Ivy in … a really long time.
I had nothing against it, but most people assumed I was not the chatting type. They assumed stringing more than two words together was a challenge for me. Then, when I did speak, the pressure not to sound like a moron usually manifested in exactly that. I stumbled over words that I read often and knew well but somehow sounded wrong when said out loud. Sentences I’d rehearsed in my head only to fumble, firming the perception of me as a big dumb idiot who only communicated through violence.
But I had taught Bee a new word.
I blinked at Bee, face placid. If we played a game, would she see me trip over my sentences? Would she mock me if I struggled to say the five-dollar words I could say perfectly in my head but only to stumble in execution? I didn’t think she would, but I wasn’t ready to find out.
“No,” I said. Her mouth snapped shut into a tight line. “Thank you,” I added when that line of her mouth turned into a pout.
“Fine. I’ll just play with myself. And I will have the best time.” She crossed her arms and lifted her pointed chin. After a second, a frown formed, and her eyes widened comically. “I said that wrong. I’ll play a game by myself. I won’t play with ? — ”
“Go for it.” I interrupted before she could dig herself any deeper.
Maybe I shouldn’t have picked the seat right across from her, but it was that or sit right next to her, and the situation wasn’t so dire for that. Not when she just talked about playing with herself.
I eyed her wearily, trying to get a grip.
She bit her lip and tucked her hands under her legs—or where I thought her legs most likely were. At this point, she was more of a brightly colored amorphous blob with a face. Amorphous was a perfect example of a word I knew, but when I tried to verbalize it, it would inevitably come out completely wrong—like amphibious or something.
“This game is called ‘Name all the cats from the cat café.’” She cleared her throat, still not looking at me.
“What?” I tried so hard not to smile.
“Shh. I’m not talking to you.” She leaned back and closed her eyes in thought. “There’s sweet Simon, who’s probably older than me and yells for food all day. There’s Slider, who randomly attacks me. It’s how he expresses his love. Then Maverick, the strong silent type.” She opened her eyes just long enough to shoot me a pointed look. “You’d get along. Then we have Binx and Callie, who are total opposites but madly in love. There’s Bear, who manages to shove all fifteen pounds of himself in places he has no business being. There’s Zeus, who thinks she’s a dog. And Francois, who actually is a dog that thinks he’s a cat. Don’t tell him otherwise.”
On and on she went. Listing names until they were swirling around my head like birds in a cartoon. Dachs and Socks, Pepper and Pudge, Tommy and Zombie … I didn’t think the café was that big, but when she was on her twentieth cat, I was ready to be done.
“Lena and Dallas?—”
“What type of game would we even be able to play?” I asked, interrupting her.
Her eyes brightened, hopeful. “Oh, we’ve got lots of options. We could play twenty questions or two truths and a lie. We could list notable historical figures in alphabetical order. Or we could try to name every country. Really, the options are endless,” she said with pep.
“Truth or dare?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said right away, happy I’d contributed to the ideas. “I feel like the dare options would be somewhat limited since you wouldn’t even let me open the door. But I’m sure we could think of something,” she added and then suddenly blushed furiously red at whatever thought just flashed into her mind and tried too late to hide it. Just what sort of things would she want to do if we played together? “We don’t have to play a game. It was a stupid idea.” Her mouth tugged at the paracord, tightening the hood around her head.
“A distraction is a good idea.” I swallowed.
“Right.” Her blush faded away, but I still fixated on where her thoughts had gone.
We settled on a game where one of us would name a celebrity, and whatever letter their name ended with, the other person would have to think of a different celebrity starting with that letter. The problem with that game was that we quickly learned how many names end with s and n .
“I met that actress once,” I said when she started throwing out random names.
Bee gasped. “No way! Did she visit here?”
“Nah. I went to LA to visit my cousin, who is a bodyguard there. Or was. He quit, I think. I’m not sure exactly.”
“So cool. So big, tough guy energy runs in the family?”
I shrugged.
“Was she nice?”
“No comment. But my cousin did say Emma Flynn is as amazing as she seems.”
“I believe it. I wish a celebrity would come to Slippery Slopes. I would be so chill, like fame was no big deal.” She sat back, blowing out a breath. “Should we try twenty questions?”
We played twenty questions next but found it even less challenging. For being almost strangers, we guessed each other’s answers within a few questions. After the fifth round, we gave up.
“Damn, these psychic abilities,” she said.
“Seriously, get out of my head.” I relaxed and leaned back, feeling peace I hadn’t had since Benny Jr. called.
It was like being with Ivy. I wasn’t overthinking every sentence. I didn’t have time. Bee verbally bounced around topics like a Ping-Pong ball, and there was no time to overthink or feel judged.
It was unexpected.
The only thing that took my attention now was how my mouth had grown tacky with dehydration. I regretted all the times I didn’t drink when water was right in front of me, the way I missed being able to breathe out of my nose when I was sick. I promised I’d never take it for granted again. I leaned my head back and let out a long sigh. “Tell me that took at least three hours.”
The shoosh-shoosh of her nylon snowsuit was audible as she checked her phone. “Not quite. Forty minutes,” she said with a groan.
“How?” I asked, genuinely shocked.
“Time is relative, and apparently, it goes at a fraction of its normal speed in this box.”
“I’m so thirsty.” My voice sounded even raspier than normal.
“Here.” She thrust me a water bottle from her bag.
“Thanks.” I smiled at her, and she lowered her head to dig through the bag. “How many more do you have?”
“Hmm …” She disappeared into the Mary Poppins’ bag, counting to herself. “Six, including that one.” That explained some of the weight, along with all the sugary snacks.
“Okay. We’ll pace ourselves, just in case. Just a few sips here and there.”
She chugged half her bottle before my words sank in. She stopped with a sheepish look and wiped her mouth with a nod. “Good idea. Starting now.”
She noticed me holding out my bottle, waiting for her.
“Cheers,” I said.
“To a better next year,” she said.
It could only get better.
Another contradiction about Bee that had been nagging at me just clicked into place. She was here on New Year’s Eve alone. She mentioned her parents were out of town. Deckard Sparks was something to her, wasn’t he? Why wasn’t he here? Where was her family? How could anybody so interesting and pretty and full of life be alone?
Alone like me.
I wanted to ask her about her wild plans or her family, but instead, I just said, “Cheers to that,” and tapped against her bottle.
She took a little sip this time, licking her lips and humming slightly in contentment as she did. I cleared my throat and looked away. I guess I hadn’t noticed what a nice mouth she had earlier. She used it so much that the full curve of her lips was lost in chatter, but it was such a pretty little mouth.
Her eyes suddenly widened, and I worried she really could read my thoughts. I flashed with guilt over ogling her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She shook her head, a few strands of the shorter tufts of hair coming out to frame her face.
I waited patiently for the silence to get the truth out of her.
“I might need to pee!” She looked around wildly. “I shouldn’t have drunk that. There aren’t any, uh, you know, facilities.”
“Do you have to go?” I asked.
“Not right now.” She gnawed at her bottom lip before stopping herself. “I went before you kidnapped me”—I frowned in confusion—“but it’s gonna become an issue. I can’t just whip it out and go off the edge like you.”
I felt the world spin around me at the thought of opening that door. It occurred to me then that I hadn’t thought about being this high off the ground in a while. Maybe the monotony of hearing about all the cats numbed the fear center in my brain.
“I wouldn’t do that.” I looked around, feeling anxious again.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” she said, rocking back and forth. “I can’t pee on this tram.”
“That’s true. You cannot,” I said. She moaned. “Don’t think about it,” I tried to reassure her.
“Oh, sure. That always works.”
“Maybe help will come before it’s Situation Critical,” I said. Her worry nestled into my own mind, though. “Damn. Now, I cannot stop thinking about it.”
“At least you have more options. Ugh. Men get everything,” she said.
“Listen.” I reached for anything to distract. “Let’s just not think about it. Tell me a story. Uh, tell me …” I frantically looked around for a topic as if it would be written on the walls. Why were you cutting your hair? Why are you so determined to get back to the top of the mountain? Why do you have an overnight bag filled with panties and candy?
“Do you like working at the cat café?” I settled on.
Her expressive brows shot up. “Yeah. I love the cats.” I made a mental note that she hadn’t said the people. She frowned a bit and asked, “How come I’ve never seen you in there?”
I had tried a few times. I’d wanted to get to know her better, but my conversation skills always held me back. That and my cat allergy. I shrugged. “I’ve thought about trying some coffee, but I’m allergic to cats.”
“Oh.” Her gaze went hazy as her mind processed something behind the scenes. “Well. If you ever want to come by, I can make you a cup with zero steps inside the building. Just come to the to-go window.”
“There’s a to-go window?”
“There is a window that opens, and I can put coffee through it.” She smiled so fully that my heart lurched as if the tram shook again.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a warmth spread into my chest. I didn’t get a lot of offers for unplanned visits around town. Usually, when people saw me, they assumed there was a debt to be collected. I suddenly hoped that we would see each other after tonight. When we got through the night. “That’d be great.”
“I won’t even charge for the cat hair,” she said so flatly I almost missed the joke.
We shared a quick smile. She was funny. Weird. But funny.
“You didn’t really come from work, did you?” I asked.
“Why?” she asked defensively.
“No cat hair on you.”
“I don’t lay on the floor with them in a big furball pile.” She waited a beat. “Not all the time,” she mumbled. “I have a question for you.”
There were a thousand things I didn’t want to think or talk about. I would see what her question was before committing either way.
“Why Soupy?” she asked, taking my silence as permission.
I laughed once without humor. “I imagine breaking down the evolution of my nickname would be like trying to break down a really bad joke, but here goes.”
She leaned forward eagerly; the nylon singing the song of its people.
“I was never Owen. I don’t know why. People have never called me by my name.” She watched me with wide eyes, rapt in attention. “I was always Big Guy or Gigantor or BFG. Ever since I was a kid, I was always given a nickname because of my size. It was worse when there was more fat than muscle and before I joined the football team.”
She frowned, her eyes going hazy with memory. “Kids can be so cruel.”
I nodded. “I decided that I didn’t want that anymore, so when I joined football in high school, I convinced them to call me by my last name. So it was Campbell at first. Then Campbell’s Chicken Soup. Then just Chick Soup. That was very short-lived. Then The Soupman to Soupy, because I guess it rolls off the tongue better? Sometimes it’s Cam Cam the Soup Man if they feel particularly feisty.”
“So, you’re not like, really into soup?”
“I am the normal amount into soup.”
“I thought maybe it was that, or you liquefied people’s insides.”
I frowned but pressed on. “Ironically, the longer people know me, the longer the nickname gets. Counterintuitive. Better than Big Guy,” I’d admitted without thinking.
“You don’t like that?” Her eyebrows furrowed.
“My size will always be the most defining thing about me.”
Her face twisted in thought. “It is strange, now that I think about it. If I had a birthmark on my face, people wouldn’t feel comfortable using something like ‘Spot’ as a nickname.” When I nodded in agreement, she added, “Sorry I called you Big Guy earlier.”
I shrugged. “Sorry if I scared you.” I held her gaze.
She snorted. “No offense, but you haven’t scared me once.”
My head shot up. “No?”
“I’m more scared of the guinea pig gangs around town.”
“That makes sense. They’re terrifying.” I thought of the time I came across five of them in the alley behind The Tipsy. They stopped and looked at me like I’d interrupted an important business meeting. “They just stare at you with those little beady eyes,” I said.
“And make those chittering sounds.”
We both shuddered.
“I remember you in high school,” she said quietly, not meeting my gaze.
All at once, I felt sick again. “Oh?”
“Yeah. It was a big deal when you made the team.”
I swallowed with effort. “Yeah.”
“Not a lot of sophomores made varsity.” She nodded.
“Those guys I hung out with at the time weren’t the best. Sorry if there was ever any bullying,” I said, meeting her eyes.
I hated high school. I hated the reminder that I hadn’t felt comfortable in this body in decades. I needed to turn this conversation around. Nausea crept back up my throat.
“No.” She blinked and then toyed with her hands in her lap. “You’d have to be noticed to get teased.” Again, I wondered where were the people who cared for her and looked out for her? “I shouldn’t have called you a big dumb brute,” she added.
“You didn’t.”
“Not out loud.” Her brown eyes flicked to the side.
“I didn’t have the best crowd in high school, so I wouldn’t have blamed you for thinking the worst of me. At least until I quit the team.”
“Why did you quit? It was quite the drama around town.”
We weren’t talking about this. No matter how long we were here.
“Ah, you know,” I answered noncommittedly, scrambling for a distraction when a shiver wracked her body. “Are you okay?” I asked, changing the subject.
Her teeth chattered. “The heater sucks.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty old.” I tugged off my gloves and hat and leaned across the aisle to hand them too her. “Here, take these.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” She already had her hands in them when she asked. She sighed, eyelids almost closing. “So warm.”
“Go ahead.” I felt a rush of relief to watch her pleasure.
“I really wouldn’t want to impose,” she said, tucking the beanie on next. Her shoulders did a dramatic shimmy as she tugged it down over her ears. “God, that’s amazing.”
I chuckled. “I don’t mind.” I rubbed my quickly cooling hands together before tucking them under my arms.
She frowned at me, looked at the gloves, and then back at me in confusion. A question formed on her lips, but she closed her mouth again. She looked up from her lap and finally said, “We’ll take turns.”
I cleared my throat with a nod. “We could, uh, also sit closer if you want.”