CHAPTER 22 #2
My eyes must have filled with terror because Nash put a hand up to stop her.
“Whoa there. That may be a lot for Sybil right now.” He gave Bee a look I couldn’t decipher.
Siblings were something I didn’t understand. Observing them, I found it fascinating. They often seemed to communicate without words, or even gestures. It’s like they possessed an invisible telephone cord running from one to the other.
“How about we start with breakfast?” He looked at me. “Then we can see how we feel after that?”
My eyes trained on him over the rim of my mug.
“Are you hungry?” His brows rose in question.
My jaw clenched. I was famished. One bowl of soup after a whole day without food wasn’t cutting it. But the idea of eating with them?
“What if I made some bacon?” he suggested. “Everyone likes bacon. Can we start with that?” The look on his face was so sincere, so inviting.
I nodded once. I could eat some bacon. Bacon was kryptonite.
He looked pleased.
“Well, then, we’re gonna sit and watch you cook,” Bee announced, but also gave me a similar sincere look as Nash had. “If you’re okay with that? If not, you can duck out, no questions asked.”
I loved that. I felt my apprehension melt away. She’d offered me a way out, and that’s all I needed.
I smiled. “Let’s watch,” I agreed.
She grabbed my arm, did a little trot dance, and pulled me to the opposite side of the center island where four sturdy stools with cushioned seats sat like sentinels.
Pulling one out for me beside the one she’d been sitting in earlier, she took my mug and placed it on the counter before patting the stool with her hand.
“Sit and be comfy, my girl.” She slid the magazine toward me. “You can even look at this. Let the gentleman feed us.” Leaning in, she added in a low whisper. “It’s his favorite thing to do, and we can’t let him down.”
I smiled, feeling—something. It was a warm and rich sensation, enveloping me like I’d never felt before—Inclusion?
Bee could not stop beaming.
Bill remained in the kitchen, snaggletooth on display when he saw the package of bacon leave the refrigerator. He licked his chops, sitting like a good boy but scooting around, eyes on the prize.
When the bacon hit the hot cast iron, Bill’s head tilted and his ears perked at the sizzle. Nash looked down at him; the sight of them together melted me right off the stool like an ice cream cone under a heat lamp.
A long, painful yowl echoed down the hall then. Ferrari noises revved up. We all looked toward the sound.
“Brr-wawawrow.”
Mr. Beans came ripping into the room, tail straight up and fluffed out like one of those kitschy dusters maids used. His toes spread, gripping to rug that started just inside the kitchen. He was in F1 beast mode.
My laughter bubbled up unbidden.
Without fear, Mr. Beans yowled again, trotting politely up to Nash. He pawed at Nash’s jeans, claws catching in the fabric where they stuck for a moment before he freed himself.
“He likes bacon,” I offered.
Nash chuckled as his big hand reached down, wrapping around Mr. Bean’s middle as if he were no bigger than a bag of Skittles. He plucked him from the rug, transferring him to his chest, never once having to put down the tongs he used to flip the bacon.
Mr. Beans cried long and loud, licked the shell of his ear, then looked down at the pan. His fluffy tail was snaking back and forth, Nash’s dark shirt now speckled with tufts of loose light fur.
I never knew Mr. Beans could be so social. I had no reference point. Nash appeared at ease with him, unfazed by his somewhat rude and gruff demeanor. They seemed like lifelong friends. Trauma buddies.
Bee leaned toward me to whisper something, her hand half covering her mouth.
“The nurses at the hospital said he held Mr. Beans under his arm like a game-winning football, and that the cat burrowed into him for dear life. They could even hear him purring when they’d check in on you.
No one wanted to interrupt them. They said it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen. ”
I was cooked. That was it for me.
Bee seemed pleased with herself, noticing the look of admiration that I’m sure lit up my face. She slid off her stool, slinking off behind me before returning with a basket. I chanced a look inside, seeing nail supplies. Maybe I didn’t need to get my own after all.
She put her hand out as though to instruct me to give her mine. With a decent dose of apprehension, I put my sleeved hand in hers.
Without ceremony, she rolled back my sleeve halfway up my arm. She inspected my bitten nails and sad cuticles but didn’t react. It appeared she was not about to take Nash’s words of patience to heart, moving head-on with her plans.
I liked this about her.
She picked out a file and scratched across a few of my nails. Then she extracted an alcohol pad and wiped them. After that, she pushed at my cuticles with a metal thing and then began extracting polishes.
Panic struck me again—what if she asked which color I wanted?
She looked at each, then at me, then back at the polish. “This red one,” she said.
I had to hide my relief.
“I love red,” I lied.
She smiled. “It’s so perfect with your skin.”
I heard Nash choke a little before coughing.
Attention going to him, he was facing the stove. Mr. Beans was in full rag doll mode, draped over his shoulder like a kitchen towel. He went on flipping the bacon, appearing unfazed.
When I glanced back down at my fingers, Bee had already brushed a coat of ‘red’ onto each of my nails. She motioned for me to give her my other hand. She repeated the process before applying a second coat all around.
By now, Nash had a plate with paper towels, and he was removing the crispy bacon from the pan and blotting the extra grease from each strip. I watched as he broke one piece in half, blowing on them before giving them to a very ready Bill.
Curious, he then broke off a smaller piece, crumbling it into even smaller bits before retrieving a small plate from the cabinet.
He turned toward us, glancing at my nails before reaching for Mr. Beans and extracting him from his shoulder.
He plunked him down on the island in front of the small plate of bacon bits.
Mr. Beans revved his engines and dove toward the plate, paws sliding and plate clattering.