“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 shouted 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 there. 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.”
He nods.
I take a step but then stop again. “Did you apply for the assistant chef job there?”
He shakes his head.
“Why not? You’re on a culinary path, right?”
He nods and then covers his mouth with his hand and shrugs.
“They wouldn’t let you work in the kitchen because you can’t talk?”
He shakes his head and then pulls out his notebook, writing something inside and tilting the page in my direction.
Didn’t try.
I stare at the words for a few long seconds. “You know, there’s an option on most cell phones to have it read text out loud. If you were wanting to have a conversation without having to use a pen and paper, I mean.”
His eyes widen.
I shrug. “Might be another way to communicate. If you wanted to. Thanks for . . . I don’t know. Good night.”
I rush inside and then up the stairs without looking back.
After getting ready for bed, I open my window and hoist myself onto the roof.
And it’s here that I can finally breathe, looking up at a blanket of stars so overwhelming and vast, all my worries are miniscule by comparison.
Inevitably, my thoughts return to Beast.
Why can’t he talk? I didn’t notice any physical scars.
I should be contemplating my future, my plans to save money, my successful return to New York. But instead I’m contemplating dark eyes and a silent man.
Maybe we’ll spend more time together at work. Carpooling, at least. A frisson of something skitters through my belly. Part nerves, part anticipation.
All will be well. As long as I keep my mouth under control.
I scowl up at the gorgeous sky above me.
Such an impossibility. Nothing will be well.