Chapter 8: The Oyster

In the first few days of having James around, I notice a new unfortunate habit of mine: watching him. Seeing him fiddle with his ring, his shirt seams, the way his mouth moves while he's reading, leaning up against the end of my bed. Each little twitch is fascinating and I'm too embarrassed to admit how lucky I've gotten, catching my dumb ass every time before it gets weird.

It's easy to understand my fascination. While the beach kiss does add a... complicated flavor to my observations, it's more than that, of course. I haven't seen someone else, someone from outside, in years. He doesn't have the little quirks I'm used to. No Lynn Caspen face pinches, no Beck Faysol heel-rocks. To me, he's like an.... alien.

Yeah, that makes sense!

He's the first alien I've ever met. How can I keep my eyes off of him?

I will admit, once or twice he maybe has caught me staring, but it doesn't get that weird. Shocking, right? Because I'm always half-ready to throw myself off the balcony if I turn into red cheeks and the etcetera. He's honestly just so... relaxed. Instead of theatrics, he'll just nod, smile, adjust his glasses, then go back to reading.

Today, he's reading Jane Eyre.

Only so much observation can sate my curiosity, though. His worn clothes, messy hair, and carry-on library are only part of the story. There's so much underneath his skin that I can't get ahold of, no matter how much observing I do. I want to ask him about... everything.

Like I often complain to my professors, everyone would have an easier time studying marine biology if they learned to talk to the animals. Here, at least I don't have to pretend I don't know how to ask my subject a question.

But at the same time, why does the thought of questioning make me feel tongue-tied?

Scooting towards the edge of my bed, I hang my head off the side and peek at his page. The line that caught my eye read: Flirting is a woman's trade. My cheeks feel a little hot. Is that the expectation, flirting? And what even really counts as flirting? I watch enough movies to know there's this chemical spark between characters, but sometimes its blatant compliments and other times its caustic barbs. What's the magic that makes both of those just... work? It doesn't make the concept any easier to understand.

Good thing I'm not exactly a woman, I guess. I indeed don't flirt, asking, "What's your plan?"

James pulls a bobby pin out of his unruly hair, puts it in the book, and shuts it. But unlike his chaotic curls, when he turns to me his brows stay tightly knit. "What do you mean?"

I snort and gesture around the room. "Well, I don't think you want to live your life on my floor."

"Maybe I do, you don't know me." I blink, and his bright smile turns into a grimace, fast. "Right. You don't know me. The joke doesn't quite land with strangers, does it?"

His eyes and nose do this weird little synchronized scrunch that I've noticed, where he seems to be amused and embarrassed all at once. I've filed that under my favorite expressions of his. I'm up to seven or eight by now, most of them involving his eyebrows.

I almost sigh aloud. Who am I kidding, how could I not end up staring at him all the time?

While I look at the world through foggy glass, his expressive face accidentally invites the universe inside him. The longer I spend with him, the more I notice the warmth that oozes into his posture, his vocabulary. He's the kind of person that could be comfortable anywhere.

Even on my old, somewhat dusty floorboards. Over the past few nights, he's organized the sleeping bag and pile of blankets I gave him into a little makeshift bed. He's used an empty side table of mine as a bookshelf. Hell, he even fixed a broken lamp and put it above his sleeping spot like a nightlight. He could make anywhere home.

And then if you look at me... Well, I still struggle feeling at home inside my own home.

When I realize he's opening his book again, I snap back into focus.

Tapping his shoulder, I say, "You didn't answer my question."

James dramatically sighs, but doesn't tense up or frown. "I don't know. I guess find a way to get some money together, leave the state. I'd prefer to keep borrowing from your stash a last resort. But I'm going to figure it out. And you better know I'm going to pay you back, if I do use it. Even though I know you don't know, but still, I mean it." Looking over his shoulder, he adds, "You?"

The magnifying glass suddenly turns, and I don't like it. It's the beach all over again. Are Astra and Kai both special or is this man just really into Q&A's? I scoff and hold my favorite pillow close. "What do you mean, me? I'll be here."

He gets this weird look on his face and I can feel my heart squeeze. I know why he mentioned it and he knows that I know why it's even a question. But I don't want to talk about it. There's a point in your life where you haven't talked about something for long enough that instead of being real it lives under your bed like a mythic beast, the kind you toss a few snacks every so often and accept "well, this is what my life is like".

And James is just sitting there staring the monster in its eyes with his pretty face and I'm not comfortable with that. I'm not sure right now if he keeps poking, if I'll toss up a nice little blockade around the bed or i"ll let him see every single one of the monster's pretty little teeth up close and personal.

I don't like either option.

Much to my surprise, though, his brows finally unfurrow, his face relaxes, and he turns back to his book. "Right." I hold my breath as he adds, "So what food are we going to make today? I'm still dreaming of gravy."

I have never been so relieved to hear about gloopy, greasy gravy in my life.

Finally exhaling, I hop off the bed and fake a smile he's not even looking at. "I will go see the downstairs situation and get back to you."

He doesn't respond, or even pull his eyes off his book, just waves a long arm at me as I exit the room.

Again, Mom and Beck are nowhere to be seen. It feels a little less hollow this time, though.

I hop back upstairs and tell James, "Coast is clear!"

He gives this concerned, annoying eyebrow raise, but gets up and dog-ears his page. As Shell is an easily persuaded traitor, she's already warmed up to him and lets him carry her downstairs with us. She doesn't even let Beck carry her, and he's been trying to win her favor for years now.

Guess James' charm is effective on more than just socially starved cuttlefish. Perhaps its an animalistic instinct?

Not exactly comforting, when I've been trying to puzzle through his every expression the past few days and all that's come from it is a terrible case of finger-taps. It's like I've gone from picturing myself to the cool scientist in an action film to the goofy, awkward, desperate Riley Poole in National Treasure type at the speed of a boulder trap.

Speaking of desperate, I noticed perhaps three seconds too late that I've made it all the way down the stairs in my normal, bouncy fashion just to find myself standing at the bottom, staring up at James. Waiting.

Before my cheeks get too red, I turn away and sit myself on a stool. That's what a normal person would do, right? Just put themselves in a logical place?

Who was I kidding, I know absolutely nothing about what normal human behavior looks like.

Fish out of water, indeed. And I hate fish out of water movies.

James, however, is absolutely unphased. It's a trait I'm starting to admire in him. Not because I want to be that way, but because I feel like an idiot so often that it's nice to not feel like he's noticing every little misstep I make. The way he reacts, it's not even like I'm an alien.

Maybe that makes him a little thick-skulled and oblivious, but like so much else about him, I find it.... Charming.

Darn it, Kai Caspen, pull yourself together.

Thankfully interrupting my thoughts, James says, "Time for gravy, eh?"

I desperately shut down every expressive instinct recoil in disgust. Faking a smile won't kill me, so I beam and say, "Awesome!" Before he can try to pry any more gravy input out of me, I add, "I'll just use my laptop so that we can work on your exit strategy."

Collecting pots and ingredients, because of course he's a natural at cooking, James frowns. "Is there a point? We probably should wait a couple weeks for my father's ridiculous arrest warrant to chill out."

He's not wrong, but I couldn't not focus on the game plan. One, I needed a plan. That's who I was as a (not-so) human being. Two, I was not going to leave an open space for gravy talk, because there were only so many gravy lies I could tell. And three...

Well, I had to focus on him leaving, didn't I? Because if i got too comfortable with him being around, it would make him leaving all the harder. This house was just going to be a very weird stop on his way to the rest of his life. For me, it was all I had.

And I couldn't let adapting to the presence of one human boy ruin that. I shrug, nonchalant. "Never can be too prepared."

"Agree to disagree." He goes on, pouring oil into the pan.

I barrel forward in the conversation, with or without James' support. "This was my initial plan back in the day. To start, I figured that slipping a melatonin in my mother's tea might help her pass out. After all, just waiting for a night she's out isn't too safe of a choice since she could come back any time and if I'm not transporting by then, she could collect me at any time. Now, since I don't have the keys, I also made this ladder out of wood project scraps that's hiding in my closet. It's not very sturdy, but it's good for at least one use. From there, biking to the ferry isn't too big a deal. Of course, i need someone else to buy my ticket to decrease what can be traced back to me, but-"

Leaning across the counter, James interrupts me and pats my hand awkwardly. "Okay, Mission Impossible. Calm down. It's really not all that complicated."

I don't know what it is, if it's the amused grimace on his face, or the brush of his fingertips, but I snap, saying. "It is if your house has a dozen locked doors and you don't have a phone and your mother is bloodhound, it really goddamn is."

James looks so startled that all the things he's put in the pan start to sizzle and make weird crackling noises before either of us blink. He hurriedly goes back to his gravy, but I'm in such a crippling state of mortification that I just want to erase the last five minutes of my life.

Trying to back-track, I say, "But, uh, it's okay. The whole thing should be easier for you since you can climb well and any cop would be slower to catch up to you." I need to say anything, so I ask, "Once you get to mainland Seattle, would you want to go by plane or train?"

After a few more stirs of his gravy, James looks up at me and says, gently, "Take some deep breaths, Kai. I know you promised to help me out, but you're not the best help when you're hyperventilating over transport schedules." I almost go to argue him, but two factors get in the way. One, my mouth is so dry that it feels like a puff of dust will come out of my mouth instead of words. Two, on cue, Shell hops onto the counter and rubs her face on my hand. Damn psychic cat, I think, but I pet her nose affectionately.

Giving a soft smile, James offers, "How about in exchange for helping me, I help you learn to relax a little? Like cooking and reading and- we'll think of other things. For now, c'mere."

He's gesturing over to his side of the counter, but I don't feel particularly confident about what he might be offering.

Apprehensive, I say, "Last time I listened to you, you blindfolded me and made me stab a book."

"Stab is a hyperbolic way of saying it." He waves me over again, and like a helpless, charmed snake, I get off my chair and stand next to him. "Here." He offers me a full spoon and my stomach falls through my stomach. Out of fear or seppuku, one may never know. But he's just standing there, smiling wide like the handsome, wonderful, twisted human that he is. "What does it taste like?"

Taking the smallest sip I could manage, I swallow before the taste can really hit me at all. "Mmm. Tastes like... gravy."

"Astute." He snorts, but pries, "What do you think it's missing?"

"...Salt?"

Shaking his head, like I told him something absurd, he spoons more gravy and offers it to me again. "Yeah, no. Taste again."

I can just picture the weird texture, the flour-y gloop, the glorified, seasoned livestock sweat. "Nah, I think I'm good, I'll just-"

"Oh my god." His eyes light up and he looks torn between offended and amused. "You hate gravy."

"I don't-"

"You do!" James shakes his head and puts the spoon back. I don't mean to, but my chest relaxes, and he absolutely notices. Brows furrowed and curious, James asks, "Do you do that a lot? Agree to do shit you hate because other people want to do it?" When I don't answer, I hope he drops the subject. But it's clear that my silence is just as damning as any fake excuse I could ever muster. "Yep, I'm helping you relax. Maybe even put yourself first."

And then, he does something I never would've expected. James pours the entire pot of hot gravy down the drain.

Blinking, I ask, "Why did you do that?"

"Because you hated it. And we're making food for both of us, not just me." He says it like it's that easy. It's not- I don't-

But he just smiles at me and says, "What do you want to make?"

I fiddle with my hands and feel this heavy weight on my shoulders. "You should make the gravy."

"Nah, I really shouldn't. And you can't make me. But if you're really going to be stubborn, you're welcome to try to make this awful, arbitrary point by yourself. The gravy recipe is on the counter." At my involuntary look of disgust, he laughs out of his nostrils and askes, "What do you want me to make, Kai?"

That heaviness on my shoulders only feels stronger, like this pressure building up in me that makes me want to scream that he should make gravy. That I would make new gravy for him. He wanted gravy and deserves gravy, so what did my opinion matter?

But looking at him, a hand tucked under his chin looking at me, I go out on a limb and say, "I haven't had homemade potstickers and sticky rice since I was 8."

I expect him to say it's too much work, because it is. It's an impractical want and i regret saying it the second out of my mouth.

James says, "That sounds delicious."

In the end, I don't really know what to say, except: "T-thanks."

Once more, James starts collecting ingredients and cookware, from a skillet to flour to rice. Without even looking at me, he starts saying, "Maybe it's just the entitled asshole in me, but I don't think people should always put everyone before themselves. Even my mom still had opinions and boundaries, and she was a saint. You don't have to be a pushover."

"I'm not a pushover."

"Clearly not." His voice is dripping with sarcasm, and it hits me straight through the chest. Well, what was I supposed to be? An asshole to everyone around me, making a big deal about my flimsy ideas?

Maybe there was space for that in a rich lifeguard's house, but not quite here.

After a few minutes of silence, James sighs. "Sorry. You're... You're fine. I just don't like the idea of you getting shoved around." I still don't answer, so James moves on, however reluctantly. "We're going to have to get creative with these potstickers since I don't think your fridge has ever seen fresh produce in its life. How about loaded mashed potato potstickers?"

I crinkle my nose and say, finally, "Weird."

"Yeah, well you're weird. You guys will be perfect for each other." He's so awkward, for a charmer. But then he flashes that smile, the genuine, good one, and he's got me all over again. "Help me out with my new mission. What do you like to do, other than science and cat-petting like a movie villain?"

I almost let it all fall out of my mouth. A verbal dissertation on Indiana Jones. A catalogue of my favorite household pets and samples. The last ten fascinating things I researched on Google. But then I remind myself: he's not staying.

Aloof, I say, "Nothing. I'm not interesting."

James frowns, but doesn't push me. But not because he's a pushover, it's more like... he makes where he stands known and then stays there, solid, but doesn't push other people,either. Damn him for being even more admirable.

Turning back to the food, he starts trying to jazz up some instant mashed potatoes. "Fine. If you insist."

We stay like that, silent for the rest of his work. Which is excruciating, from the potsticker wrapper dough to the hunt for seasoning he goes on in the cabinets. He practically cheered when he found a giant thing of soy sauce, and it took all of my effort not to bust out into laughter.

It's like that baby bird that Mom and I nursed to health, though, and I just have to keep thinking about that before I let myself get in too deep. I can't let him stay long enough to get in too deep.

After some impressive frying, James offers up a plate of rice and potstickers. "Try it."

"I don't know-"

"Trust me." I get a flashback of the beach, where Astra asked James the same thing and he agreed. I could do that much for him, right? I pop one in my mouth. "Good, eh?"

Letting the warm, comfy memory of very different potstickers fill my head, I don't care how different they are. I say, "They're delicious."