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.
“Ilovered,” I lied.
She smiled. “It’ssoperfect 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 extragrease 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 slidingand plate clattering.
CHAPTER 23
Nash
I swiped a rag across the counter before rinsing it and hanging it over the faucet. Bacon had turned into eggs, then toast. I felt satisfied having watched Sybil eat a horse’s ration of the feast I built.
Why was feeding a woman you cared for so satisfying? It was a caveman instinct to hunt and gather, something deep inside that gave me a sense of pride and accomplishment.
Sybil and Bee were sitting in the front room, Bee painting her toenails in the same hell-forsaken red as the bra I’d caught Sybil putting on last night. It’s as though she knew exactly what hid under that sweatshirt Sybil wore and what I’d gotten an eyeful of. The shade niggled at the back of my mind, reminding me of the pleasurable aftermath.
Bee was handling Sybil with such finesse and care, itimpressed me. When our mother passed away, my sister was a teenager. I was busy starting my career and regretted not being there to see how they interacted at the end.
I imagined it was like seeing her with Sybil now. What she said to her put the power and decisions entirely under Sybil’s control, and she was responding well.
This morning, I couldn’t help myself when I reached out and trailed a finger across Sybil’s shoulder blades. I needed to touch her to confirm she was actually there. She didn’t shy away at the touch.
The full extent of her parent’s neglect was unknown to me, nor did I know the reason for it. I wasn’t sure I could cope if they’d hurt her. To my deep relief, physical touch didn’t seem to make her squeamish.
Sybil’s talking bloomed as the day progressed, and I loved hearing her voice. It was melodic, soft, and a little shy. Some women, when they spoke, would rub me the wrong way. They were often shallow, self-centered, or single-minded. But these two? I enjoyed their banter.
Sybil and I had been messaging a lot recently, and it really helped us now. She wasn’t a stranger anymore. The familiarity made this entire transition a lot easier. We’d developed inside jokes and shared a bit of history. This playful dynamic seemed to work well.
