by Mary Frame
“You should do something with your degree.” Reese hands me a clean plate and I dry it with a dish towel.
“I have a bachelor’s degree in psychology. There’s literally nothing I can do with that, unless I go for my master’s. I might as well have majored in English lit.”
“What’s wrong with English lit?” Reese frowns.
I shrug. “Nothing, if you’re not concerned with gainful employment. It’s a good thing I have experience in food service. Not only because food is awesome, but because at least I can do something. But unless I want to go back to school, I have no chance of getting a job that could support myself with my bachelor’s degree.”
“Something will come up,” Reese says.
“I have no real plan. Everyone has a plan. I’m a loser.”
“You’re not a loser.” She hands me a bowl.
I take it and scrub at it with the towel. “Says the genius.”
“I’m not a genius.”
“Sorry, says the person who’s like a bajillion times smarter than me and knows exactly what she wants to do with her life. I don’t know anything. All I know is that I need to prove that I’m not a useless drain on society.”
Annabel rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic. You’re only what, twenty-two? You still have time to figure things out.”
“I guess. It just feels like everyone else my age has dreams, goals, aspirations . . . I don’t know what I want to do other than go to Comic-Con at least fourteen times before I die.”
“Fourteen?” Reese’s brows lift to her hairline.
“At least.”
Annabel laughs. “That’s pretty arbitrary. Look, Fred, don’t stress. It will all work out. We’ll help you search for jobs, right, Reese?”
Reese nods encouragingly.
Well, if Annabel and Reese believe in me, that makes two of us.
“Hey.” I tap on the partially closed door before pushing it open. “Where’s Granny?”
“Granny went out,” Grace says, her fingers not missing a beat at the keyboard, eyes fixated on the computer screen.
“Where did she go?”
A half shrug. “Oh you know. Wouldn’t say.”
She’s been disappearing a lot, but I don’t question her anymore. At first, she would say it was “none of my never mind,” and then she told me I was “more interfering than a wet noodle.” Which didn’t make any sense and didn’t really sound complimentary either.
“I’m going to take a walk to the tree house. Wanna come?”
“No thanks.” More tapping. “Beast is still around. Maybe he’ll want to go. Have you seen him?”
I shrug. “Not since dinner.”
She frowns. “Maybe he’s in the barn then.”
“He’s staying tonight?”
Grace nods, distracted by something on her computer screen, so I leave her to it.
I need to clear my head anyway. It’s easier to do that alone. Normally, when I need alone time, I crawl out my bedroom window and onto the roof above—there’s a level spot perfect for stargazing, but the stars aren’t out yet. I try to soak them up when I can, since I never see anything like it back in the city. Too much light pollution for stars, let alone a sky full of them.
There is no sign of Beast as I exit the back patio. He’s hard to miss—a cursory glance is usually sufficient to locate him.
I take the narrow footpath between some trees and through the tall grass, shrieking and swiping at giant bugs flying around trying to attack my face.
The heat is oppressive and the bugs are plentiful, but still . . . Texas is expansively gorgeous. The sky is a giant dome that stretches on forever, a blue so brilliant it can hardly be real. And I can see for miles. My destination is a grove of trees about a half mile away. No concrete jungle here.
As if to punctuate that thought, a rooster crows nearby. Nope. Definitely not in New York anymore.
But I’ll be home soon, within the next two months. It doesn’t smell like fresh grass and wild flowers there. It smells more like sewer and hot dogs. It’s not quiet, not even at night. It hums with energy and opportunities. It’s where my family is. It’s where I’ve spent my whole life. It’s a city full of life and possibilities and, you know, jobs and a future.
Sometimes I wish I could stay here forever and just never go back. But what would I do in Blue Falls? I can’t live with Granny forever. As beautiful and quiet as it is here, as much as I’ve loved it, it’s not home. I don’t quite belong.
As I approach my destination, a weird bleating trills through the air, coming from somewhere inside the grove of trees.
Did Kylo Hen get out again?
I hesitate at the edge of the tree line for a moment and then step faster. What is that? There are other noises now . . . and it’s most certainly not a chicken. Growling and other odd sounds.
Maybe it’s an animal. Is it injured?
Injured animals can be dangerous. I slow my steps when it’s apparent the sounds are coming from around the next bend—near the tree house.
Someone coughs, not like choking but almost like forced coughing. It’s not an animal, it’s a person.
Leaning against the trunk, I peek around the tree toward the tree house and then jump back.
It’s not just any person. It’s Beast.
Is he trying to talk? Or make noises? He can make noises?
He’s sitting in the tire swing that hangs off of the thick branches. It’s a big tire. Hefty enough to support even Beast’s imposing frame, although he fills the space and then some.
What do I do? I can’t just stay here. I have to make my presence known.
Careful and quiet, I tiptoe back up the path a few yards and then turn around, stomping and whistling as loud as I can.
Except the song that breezes between my lips is the creepy one from Kill Bill. Which is also from the 1969 British horror film Twisted Nerve. Either way, I basically sound like a psychopath and a serial killer.
“Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were here.” The words jangle with insincerity even in my own ears. “Uh, what’s up?”
I am so, so bad at this.
What’s up? What’s up? Have I lost my mind? I should just shut up. Forever.
A flush of red creeps up his neck. A muscle in his hard jaw ticks.
We scrutinize each other across the short distance of crab grass and errant white and purple flowers that are probably weeds. A narrow creek winds through the trees about twenty yards off, the trickle of the water and the buzz of insects the only sounds between us.
He stands suddenly, forcing the tire to sway behind him, and then it swings back and hits him in the ass.
He flinches, using one beefy arm to still the spinning tire. For a long beat, he stares at me, the tips of his ears going red. Then he paces away, disappearing behind another tree.
Well, that was brilliant.
I sigh and walk over to the vacated swing.
Sitting in the center of the black rubber circle, I push myself back and forth with one extended leg.
I guess that cinches it. Yes, I do suck. Yes, Beast hates me. Or at least strenuously dislikes me. And he’s within his rights. I hang out on the tire swing for long minutes, pushing myself back and forth, closing my eyes to enjoy the trickling water flowing nearby.
But then a thumping noise invades my meditative thoughts. A pounding thwap thwap thwap getting closer and closer. Twigs snap, cracking in the hot air and then Beast comes barreling around a tree at a full run.
I stand up, heart hammering. What could make Beast run?
Feathers shimmer behind him, broad and angry red flapping wings.
Oh no.
Chapter Six
“I’m trying to become a bigger Star Wars fan.”
–Overheard at Comic-Con
* * *
“To the tree house!” I yell at Beast—feeling very suddenly like I’m in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and Sheriff Nottingham’s men are attacking—but there’s no need for the shou
ted command because he’s already hoofing it toward the ladder and flailing a hand for me to go before him.
Typical Beast. Even though he hates me and would prefer to sacrifice me to the demon chicken, he sends me up first. I don’t argue, scrambling up the wooden structure as fast as my hands and feet can take me.
I clamber into the tree house and Beast swoops in behind me, shutting the door behind us in one move. He’s forced to hunch in the cramped space, peering through the star-shaped cut-out opening in the door, and I move to the side to look through one of the square windows, squatting down over my toes.
“Oh, it’s Cluck Norris.”
Beast casts a sharp glance my way.
“The rooster,” I explain. “He gets really protective of the hens but I don’t see . . . oh. There she is. Yeah. That’s totally Kylo Hen. She’s always breaking out of the coop. He must have followed her, and now he’s—” Cluck Norris flaps his broad wings, herding Kylo Hen toward the base of a nearby tree. “Oh dear. I think it’s a mating ritual.”
Cluck Norris is bobbing and weaving around Kylo Hen, who’s unusually subdued while she waits for him to . . . do whatever it is roosters and chickens do.
Uh-oh, he’s mounting her. I avert my eyes.
“This should be over soon.” I have no idea what I’m talking about and that point is punctuated when aggravated squawks and flaps sound from below. I peek out the window. Cluck Norris is prancing around again. Dammit, Kylo Hen is probably playing hard to get.
Chicken porn. I yank my gaze away and check out our refuge. The tree house is about ten by ten and made entirely out of a light-colored wood. Faded drawings speckle the far wall, remnants of Reese and Scarlett’s childhood. A weak breeze circulates through two open-air windows opposite the door. It’s empty, just a bit dusty and dirty from disuse.
Beast straightens into a sitting position in front of the door, fixated on the antics of our chicken friends.
The small space is filled with the heat of the day. It’s also crammed with Beast and me and the silence that stretches between us tighter than a rubber band about to snap.
I won’t be the one to break it by opening my mouth and sounding like a lunatic.
After a few more minutes of stony silence, watching the chickens flirt, Beast moves, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. Which is actually rather large. He has large pockets. And you know what they say about guys with big pockets . . .
I shut my eyes. Fred, stop thinking.
Nothing. They say nothing.
But curiosity eats at me. What’s in the notebook? He has a pencil, too. Besides, there’s nothing else to look at. Except fornicating chickens.
He opens the spiral-bound book, scribbles something down, and then hands over the whole thing.
My heart rate picks up.
We’ve never had an actual, legitimate conversation. It’s always just me jabbering on in my nonsensical fashion, or him handing me something to drink.
I’ve never thought to pass him a note, and a flash of guilt sweeps through me. Why haven’t I tried to communicate beyond my own big yapping mouth?
But this is exciting. I feel like I’m being handed the Marauder’s Map or something.
The handwriting is neat and concise. There are remnants of paper poking through the spiral binding, pages ripped out in the past.
Cluck Norris? it reads.
A grin spreads across my face. “Yeah. I named all the chickens.”
He lifts his brows, dark eyes probing and steady. I still can’t believe we’re actually having a two-way conversation.
“And there’s Kylo Hen. She’s down there being . . . uh,” I tilt my head toward the window, “courted. There’s also Hen Solo. Princess Laya.” I smirk. “Get it? Lay-a?”
He doesn’t make any response, so I shrug. “Yeah that one isn’t as good. Oh, and Emily Spinach.”
He frowns, then sticks out his hand and after a beat, I hand him the book. He writes something and passes it back.
Emily Spinach isn’t a Star Wars reference.
“No. It’s the name Alice Roosevelt gave her pet snake. She was Teddy Roosevelt’s daughter.”
He stares at me. His head cocks to one side.
The notebook moves back and forth again.
Why?
“Why did I name one of the chickens after a dead president’s daughter’s pet snake?” I clarify.
He nods.
“Because it’s funny and random and I find it amusing.”
Beast, however, doesn’t smile. I shift from my crouched position to sit cross-legged on the floor. I no longer have a view of the chicken liaison, but Beast can keep an eye on them. Even sitting, he’s tall enough to see out the hole in the door.
“Alice Roosevelt was a total badass,” I explain. “In a time when women couldn’t even show their ankles without rebuke, she was smoking, jumping off boats, and riding in cars with men. She was banned from the White House after her father’s tenure was over by not just one but two subsequent presidents. She’s basically my idol. She gave zero fucks.”
He watches me with wary eyes like maybe I will flaunt my ankles at any minute. Which is too late since I’m wearing a tank top and cut-off jeans.
I fidget, sitting up to glance out the window and down at the chickens again, anything to escape the heat of his gaze.
Hm. Doesn’t look like Cluck Norris is getting anywhere. He’s prancing around Kylo Hen and she keeps skittering away.
Beast has his notebook in one hand, his pencil in the other hanging loosely from his fingers.
“It’s my parents’ fault,” I say.
He raises one brow.
“They always talked about random stuff like that at the dinner table. Emily Spinach, Emily Dickinson. Lots of . . . Emilys.”
He makes no response. Not even a nod of acknowledgment. I turn my gaze to the corner where someone scratched a formula of some kind. I squint at it. The Pythagorean theorem? Definitely Reese’s handiwork.
I wish he would ask me something else. But he doesn’t. So of course I have to fill the silence.
“I’m sorry about last night.” At least now I have the opportunity to apologize. And if he wants to tell me how terrible I am, he’ll have the means. “I shouldn’t have tried to . . . do whatever I did to your chin.” Heat fills my face. This is terrible, but it needs to be said. “It was wrong and I shouldn’t have tried to force you to do something you didn’t want to do. You should have thrown me out with Slobber Man. I deserved it.” I count the lines in the wooden plank underneath me, unable to witness his nonreaction.
But he’s not unresponsive. He’s writing something. I hold my breath, waiting. The scratching of the pencil will render my judgment. The scribbling stops and after a few long seconds when he still hasn’t handed over the notebook, I risk a glance.
He’s holding the paper up, the words facing me. I can’t be forced. Have you seen me?
I choke on a laugh and meet his dark eyes. There’s something in there I haven’t seen before. He’s always big and dark and difficult to read, but right now there’s a spark of humor crinkling the edges.
He writes some more and then turns the notebook back around.
You are not worthless.
I stare at the words in stunned silence.
I didn’t say . . . oh, but I did. Last night. After Dan/Dave/Dwayne took off, yelling about how I wasn’t worth his effort. I tried to repress those memories, but apparently Beast remembered.
It might not be Shakespeare, or Emily Dickinson, but those simple words wrench something free in my chest that I didn’t know existed until this very moment.
So of course I ruin it and talk without filter.
“I wasn’t laughing at you earlier,” I blurt.
His brows crease. Hmm. A reaction. Not necessarily a good one, but I’ll take it.
“When you got to Granny’s and I was coming down the stairs. I wasn’t laughing at you. I was thinking something funny, and you just happened to be th
ere. My brain is weird, in case you weren’t aware.”
I can’t meet his eyes. I stare down at a hole in the board near my foot and trace a finger around it and the sound of the pencil scribbling on the paper gives me both anxiety and hope.
The notebook is thrust under my face and I take it, meeting his eyes warily before reading what’s on the page.
What were you thinking that was funny?
I bite my lip. I shouldn’t tell him, but I’ve never been a good liar.
“Honestly?” I hand the pad back and look up into his eyes.
He nods.
“I was imagining our lives as a musical. Hamilton, specifically. In my head you were sashaying across the floor and . . . it was funny in my head, but probably not actually funny, and I’m going to stop talking.”
Dear Lord. Kill me now. If there were mercy in this world, lightning would strike. The apocalypse would arrive to distract us both from my ongoing ineptitude.
I study the window. Through it, the sun is setting, the sky getting dark enough a star glimmers on the horizon. Chickens are still squawking and cavorting below. Who knew they could go on this long?
Eventually, Beast taps me on the leg and I startle at the contact.
He points toward the door. It’s silent. I peer out my little window. The chickens are gone.
He lumbers to his feet, hunching over and opening the door to go out first. I follow him down the ladder.
At the bottom, the final rung is set a few feet from the ground. I turn to look before I leap and Beast is there, arm extended.
After a brief hesitation, I take his hand. It engulfs mine, holding me securely as I jump to the ground. Warm. Strong. My breath catches on the descent.
I release him as soon as my feet settle on the ground. “Thanks.”
We pick our way through the leaves and branches and bramble to the path back to the house. The cicadas are buzzing, the sun is gone, and a soft glow on the horizon casts its final residue of illumination.
Once we reach Granny’s, he opens the door for me to precede him into the house.
I stop at the entrance and look up at him. “I’ll see you at work. Maybe.”
