“At least you have more options. Ugh. Men get everything,” she said.
“Listen.” I reached for anything to distract. “Let’s just not think about it. Tell me a story. Uh, tell me …” I frantically looked around for a topic as if it would be written on the walls.Why were you cutting your hair? Why are you so determined to get back to the top of the mountain? Why do you have an overnight bag filled with panties and candy?
“Do you like working at the cat café?” I settled on.
Her expressive brows shot up. “Yeah. I love the cats.” I made a mental note that she hadn’t said the people. She frowned a bit and asked, “How come I’ve never seen you in there?”
I had tried a few times. I’d wanted to get to know her better, but my conversation skills always held me back. That and my cat allergy. I shrugged. “I’ve thought about trying some coffee, but I’m allergic to cats.”
“Oh.” Her gaze went hazy as her mind processed something behind the scenes. “Well. If you ever want to come by, I can make you a cup with zero steps inside the building. Just come to the to-go window.”
“There’s a to-go window?”
“There isawindow that opens, and I can put coffee through it.” She smiled so fully that my heart lurched as if the tram shook again.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a warmth spread into my chest. I didn’t get a lot of offers for unplanned visits around town. Usually, when people saw me, they assumed there was a debt to be collected. I suddenly hoped that we would see each other after tonight.Whenwe got through the night. “That’d be great.”
“I won’t even charge for the cat hair,” she said so flatly I almost missed the joke.
We shared a quick smile. She was funny. Weird. But funny.
“You didn’t really come from work, did you?” I asked.
“Why?” she asked defensively.
“No cat hair on you.”
“I don’t lay on the floor with them in a big furball pile.” She waited a beat. “Not all the time,” she mumbled. “I have a question for you.”
There were a thousand things I didn’t want to think or talk about. I would see what her question was before committing either way.
“Why Soupy?” she asked, taking my silence as permission.
I laughed once without humor. “I imagine breaking down the evolution of my nickname would be like trying to break down a really bad joke, but here goes.”
She leaned forward eagerly; the nylon singing the song of its people.
“I was never Owen. I don’t know why. People have never called me by my name.” She watched me with wide eyes, rapt in attention. “I was always Big Guy or Gigantor or BFG. Ever since I was a kid, I was always given a nickname because of my size. It was worse when there was more fat than muscle and before I joined the football team.”
She frowned, her eyes going hazy with memory. “Kids can be so cruel.”
I nodded. “I decided that I didn’t want that anymore, so when I joined football in high school, I convinced them to call me by my last name. So it was Campbell at first. Then Campbell’s Chicken Soup. Then just Chick Soup. That was very short-lived. Then The Soupman to Soupy, because I guess it rolls off the tongue better? Sometimes it’s Cam Cam the Soup Man if they feel particularly feisty.”
“So, you’re not like, really into soup?”
“I am the normal amount into soup.”
“I thought maybe it was that, or you liquefied people’s insides.”
I frowned but pressed on. “Ironically, the longer people know me, the longer the nickname gets. Counterintuitive. Better than Big Guy,” I’d admitted without thinking.
“You don’t like that?” Her eyebrows furrowed.
“My size will always be the most defining thing about me.”
Her face twisted in thought. “It is strange, now that I think about it. If I had a birthmark on my face, people wouldn’t feel comfortable using something like ‘Spot’ as a nickname.” When I nodded in agreement, she added, “Sorry I called you Big Guy earlier.”
I shrugged. “Sorry if I scared you.” I held her gaze.
