All Downhill From Here
Chapter one
Bee

“You would tell me if I were a ghost, right?” I asked Deckard before blowing out a hot breath on the café window. The tip of my finger made little snowflakes in the fog.

“Aren’t you trying to clean that window?” he responded.

I spun to threaten my best friend with the bottle of glass cleaner. He flinched behind the safety of his laptop. He was a bit of a coward like that.

“You’re avoiding the question,” I said.

“Put the spray down.” He held up his hands in surrender.

I spun back to the window I was, in fact, meant to be cleaning.

Grizabella’s Café had been a pretty busy work day despite it being New Year’s Eve. Lots of locals and tourists alike spent their new Christmas cash in the many eccentric shops of downtown Slippery Slopes, New Mexico. It had slowed down now and I wandered around, very ghostlike, attempting to straighten up the cat café.

Anticipatory adrenaline made me restless. Maybe because I hadn’t made plans for the night, or perhaps that magic that came with the end of one year and the hopes of a new one beginning.

Or the three mochas I’d consumed during my six-hour shift.

Upstairs, the owner, Mel, was warming up her vocals on her piano by singing a rendition of “Memory”—a little on the nose, to be honest. She did that for the tourists. Occasionally, she’d hit a high note that would cause all the cats in the café to meow in unison.

Except for Einstein, the fluffy ginger cat currently chasing a piece of paper stuck to his tail in circles—

“Oop.” He fell off his wall perch. “He’s okay.” Sure enough, Einstein got back up with an annoyed sneeze and walked over to one of the beds lining the café floor.

All my homies at Grizabella’s were fosters from the local no-kill animal shelter, Whisker Wonderland, and were available for adoption. Between Mel and I, somebody was almost always here to keep an eye on them and feed them. I usually took the opening shift and her the closing. Sometimes, Ellie from next door at Trailside Treats would come in and check on them too if need be. They stocked the pastries we offered.

Grizabella’s was one of the two local cafés, in case you preferred your lattes sans cat hair. Just kidding, there was no hair in our coffee.

Usually.

“Deckard, I’m serious,” I said, wiping away my breath snowflakes. Ghosts couldn’t make breath drawings, right?

He turned from where he was perched on his stool, working on his laptop as always. He tilted his head with his classic half-smirk that drove the ladies wild and his brown flop of hair that fell into his eyes. He held my focus with his one green, one blue eye.

“I guess it depends on if I thought it would make you sad,” he said.

I sighed and went to set the rag and cleaner on the counter. That’s so typical. Trying to protect my feelings. But I was completely fine. This was why I didn’t tell him about my parents leaving on their newest adventure on Christmas Day and being alone all week. He’d just give me that sad, pitying face when it wasn’t even sad. My parents had me late in life, retired by my graduation, and have since lived their best life by cruising it up around the world most of the year.

Deckard looked at the half-cleaned, streaky window and back at me. “Aren’t you going to finish—”

“If I’m a ghost, you should tell me. That’s what friends do,” I said.

“Okay, Bee, if you were a ghost and I was aware of that fact and also not a ghost, I would tell you. What’s this really about? Does this have to do with your obsession with that statue?”

“I’m not obsessed.” I shrugged, getting that prickly feeling when he tried to dig for information from me.

“You’ve asked everybody in town about it.”

“You don’t think it’s weird that we have a giant statue in the middle of town, and nobody knows who she was or why we have it?”

“Everything about Slippery Slopes is weird.”

“That’s fair.”

“So you’re okay?”

I avoided his look.

“Of course,” I said casually.

It wasn’t about the statue, even though she was always on my mind lately. Not entirely. It was about the fact that all day long, I heard people discussing their exciting plans for the night, the new year bringing hope for the future and a new start. Not a single person asked me what I was doing or invited me, which I’d grown to accept, but for whatever reason, it wore me down today.

Deckard held my stare until I felt itchy. I carefully navigated my way through cats and back behind the counter.

“What are you doing on New Year’s?” I asked.

He blew out a breath through pursed lips. “I haven’t decided yet.” He started counting on his fingers. “My mom has her annual New Year’s Masquerade Party, but I don’t know if I’m up for that this year.” His mom was the mayor, and he had five, yes, five, older sisters. He switched to another finger. “Then there’s always the big party at The Tipsy.” The Tipsy Trekker was the bar the locals used, affectionately referred to as just The Tipsy. “I don’t know. I can’t decide. Why? Do you want to hang out? It could be like the old days, where we gorge ourselves on junk food and binge-watch Terraformative?”

I perked up hopefully. “Yeah? I’ll bring the Pop-Tarts and marshmallow fluff.”

(It would be difficult to believe that both Deckard and I were almost thirty based on this conversation.)

Deckard and I met in first grade, and by the time we were in fifth, we were inseparable. Much like most of the world, we became total Terraformative nerds and watched obsessively in high school. Even now, we returned to the old show as much as we could despite it having just celebrated its twentieth anniversary. One of the things we had in common was our ability to enjoy things that made us happy without concerning what others thought of us—him because he’s beloved by all in town and me because nobody ever noticed me.

But even those traditions were fading as we got older, and the sentimentality I felt for those old days sometimes gripped me so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“I’m getting dinner with Cass first, but then we could all meet up after your shift.”

I had played third wheel to many of Deckard’s “not real” dates over the years, and rarely did the women he went out with find it charming that he brought around his lovable, zany, perpetually single best friend. But at least I had plans now. I came around the counter to his table, feeling more excited. We could wear our old Intrepid Trio shirts, and maybe I could get him to be a model for my next knitting project—

“Crap.” His eyebrows crashed back down as his shoulders slumped.

The flame of hope burning inside me guttered out. I knew that look. Deckard, bless his heart, always double-booked himself. A downside to being the best friend of one of the most popular guys in town. He was always helping a sister or his mom or any of the residents around town.

In addition to the absolute lack of attraction between us, this was one of the main reasons we would never work out. He’s too busy. I needed at least three to four hours a day to sit and stare out the window in silence.

Thankfully, I had that in spades.

“I just remembered one of my sisters asked me if I would babysit after dinner.” He tugged on his floppy hair. “You could join me?”

“Which sister?” I asked suspiciously.

“Dottie,” he said, not meeting my eyes. I bore my glare into the side of his head until he looked at me. “Yeah, okay. Now, I remember why I didn’t mention it before.”

Dottie hadn’t liked me since we were in the eighth grade and I accidentally set fire to her bedspread. It was an honest mistake, a science experiment gone wrong.

And then again at twenty-three. In my defense, the conditions were perfect for a re-trial.

She’d never forgiven me.

“She hardly brings up the peanut butter incident anymore,” he said, but still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that too,” I mumbled.

Apparently, she didn’t believe I was “fit to watch her children” when I had the attention span of a—

“Look! Mr. Sparkles is snuggling with Godzilla. That’s adorable. Just last week, they wouldn’t even be on the same side of the café,” I said and crouched down to pet the two cats with their front paws wrapped in a hug. “Look at you cute wittle babies.”

“What are you going to do then?” he asked me.

“I’m just gonna let them snuggle. I should take a picture, though. Good idea.” I pulled out my phone.

“For New Year’s, Bee,” he said with another quirk of his lips before I looked back to add to my collection of cat photos for the adoption website.

I could be honest and say I had no plans, but Deckard would feel bad. Then I would get uncomfortable and probably do something stupid like knit little paw-puppets for the cats to perform a puppet show just to make him laugh. It would become a whole thing.

And I left my knitting supplies at home.

“Hard to say. I have so many options.” Lies. I had one option: be a loner. Deckard’s worry crinkled his brows. “I have big plans.”

I waited for an invite all day to anything, but nothing ever came, and now even Deckard was busy. I rubbed my palms on my jeans. It was fine. I had work early tomorrow anyway. It was just another day …

“Are you sure?” He was watching me intently again with his hypnotic heterochromia stare. He knew the power of that look. The door jingled with a new arrival. Saved by the bell.

In walked Cass, Deckard’s current lady friend. She was a pretty brunette with a kind smile who worked at the hospital in the town over. She was a year older than us in school, and last year, I gave her a ride to work after her car broke down.

They greeted each other with that awkward hug thing people who weren’t quite a couple did.

Then she noticed the third person standing there.

She extended her hand to me. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

We chatted three times last week. I shot Deckard a subtle look. Deckard refused to admit that the rest of the town could not see/remember me. He always told me that if I showed people who I was, they would love me. But I would have to be seen first.

I began to doubt his ability to even discern paranormal entities.

Deckard laughed. “Very funny. Imagine you just forgot she had lunch with us last week.”

I waved at her with a flat smile. Even as she looked right at me, I could see her already Ctrl+Alt+D me from her brain to save room for more important things.

Cass laughed awkwardly. “Right. Of course. Nice seeing you again.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and thumbed to the door. “Ready to eat?”

Deckard gathered his things and shrugged into his coat.

“Yeah. See ya, Bee. Happy New Year.” We were too good of friends to hug, so we just waved.

“Happy New Year, Deckard.”

He left without a glance backward. I stood at the door a moment too long, staring out the window past downtown. The setting sun cast a pinkish hue on the white peaks of the mountains surrounding our town. The one and only aerial tram slowly made its way up the side of The Slope, our only ski hill. I watched it creep its way up, a tiny dot, and wondered about the people in there now and their plans for the night.

“You can flip the sign to closed, Bee. I gotta start getting ready for the party,” my boss said.

I startled and turned to see her all decked out in what looked to be a 1920s beaded flapper gown. Mel lived in New York most of her life, making a living as a chorus girl for a ton of Broadway shows. She retired to Slippery Slopes ten years ago to open a cat café after a “life-changing” trip to Japan. Mel always spoke like a news reporter and rocked a lot of boas. She pulled it off.

“Sure. Ready for what?” I asked and flipped the sign. “You look great.”

“Thanks, Bee.” She spun and then did a little Charleston kick. “The party tonight.” My blank look led her to add, “‘The Shake Your Broadway into the New Year’ musical-themed costume party I’m having here tonight.”

“Tonight?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s why we’re closed tomorrow.”

“We’re closed tomorrow?”

“Yes.” She cocked a hip and rested her fist on it. “I swore I told you.” She pursed her lips in concentration, the beads on her gown making an appealing clicking sound in the silence. “Remember that online vlogger lady from Cozy Creek, Colorado, is coming? I want the café to get a mention in whatever her next story is. It’ll be a boon for the business.”

My ears began to ring, and I felt like I needed to sit down. My own boss forgot to tell me about a party at my job? I’m her only full-time employee.

What was it about me that made me so forgettable to everyone in this town?

I plastered a smile on my face. “Oh. Is there any help you need or anything?” I looked around the café, still full of cats and no party decor. “I have a few minutes to spare.”

“You’re a doll, but no thanks. I have the gals coming over to help. You go party it up with the rest of the young ones,” she said.

“Yep. Okay, cool. I have loads of things to do.”

I crouched and said goodbye to all the cats, one by one, taking my time even as the others arrived to set up the party around me. I wasn’t stalling in the hopes that they would invite me to stay. That would be pathetic, and I was not pathetic.

Eventually, though, I ran out of cats.

I collected my bag and jacket and made my way out to the town square to visit Jane Smith. The sun provided enough afternoon light, so I wasn’t in the dark, but heavy black clouds rolled in fast on the horizon. The lingering snow from last week had all but melted except for the parts in the shade that never got hit with direct sun. It had been a mild winter so far, but supposedly, that would change soon. There were rumblings of a storm coming, but I’d only half listened.

Meteorologists weren’t to be trusted.

I made my way to my favorite bench and sat down to share baby carrots with wild guinea pigs that roamed throughout the town. (That was a story for another time.)

There was a tight, painful squeezing in my chest. It was like this most days, but usually, it was easier to ignore. It felt worse this time of year—being a ghost in the town you grew up in.

I stared up at the statue I dubbed Jane Smith. She stood in her almost ten-foot (or thirty GPs, at least) glory just outside the roundabout in the center of town. (Important to note here that most people in Slippery Slopes measured height by guinea pigs or GPs. It was a fairly loose system and not really based on anything solid.)

Jane Smith was a bronze masterpiece of a woman who looked like she stepped out of the old-school computer game Oregon Trail with a baby clutched to her chest as she stared into the distance. I passed that statue on the way to work, long forgotten, covered in creeping vines and overgrown grass. Every day, I came here, ate my lunch, and looked up at her. I thought about the wind blowing her in perpetuity as the heavy strands of hair forever whipped along her face, the metal of her skirt tugged in the wind, and her ever-present maternal protection of the bundle in her arms. Was her baby okay? Who were they? Where were they going? And why did our goofy little tourist town have a statue of her? All my searching had led to dead-ends, and it was as though I was the only person who cared.

A group of passing tourists stopped to play on their phones in front of her, blocking my view. One of them almost sat on me.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” they said.

“You and the rest of the town, buddy,” I said.

They shot me a confused look before the group scurried away.

I sighed.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked Jane when I was alone again. “What would you do if you were me? If you lived in a place where nobody even knew you existed?”

I waited a beat, the cold air whipping through me, sending chills down my back.

“Probably not talk to inanimate objects,” I answered myself.

Good thing I had Deckard, or it might seem sad that the second person I talked to the most was a statue.

I stared into her fierce bronze eyes. Something was shifting inside me. I was on a precipice. Maybe it was the rolling over into the new year, or the massive clouds on the horizon, or the still potent caffeine thrumming in my veins. Whatever it was, I had a choice. I could do things exactly the same and continue to feel like I was disappearing, or I could make a real change.

Jane Smith wouldn’t put up with being forgotten. The weeds crept up her base, and dirt collected in her crevices. She used to be someone worth memorializing and now she was a Jane Smith. No plaque explained who she was. Another woman lost to history.

“No. I won’t let that happen,” I told her.

I stood and pushed off some of the dead leaves collected by her feet. “I’m not letting you be forgotten. And I won’t be forgotten either,” I said to her, my head tilted way back to meet her gaze focused on the horizon.

I couldn’t go on like this. I couldn’t roll in another year being forgotten about.

“If you wanna be noticed, then you have to do something noticeable.”

Decker told me once or twice that I could be impulsive, but it was hours until midnight, and I was formulating a plan.

I shot another look to the tram and checked my watch. I had enough time to go home and pack a bag before the last one went up.

I would not start this new year the same. I would not go on as I had been. Bee Perkins will make an impression on this town one way or another. I could have a pity party. But I’m going to have my own party. I’m going to change everything this year.

New Year, New Bee, started tonight.

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘! 

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