Why?
Let’s see. So far, I’ve ripped my new dress (I have no idea to explain to Sasha), had to rush to exchange it for an even frumpier version, wait for Benedict to finish primping, smear my make-up in a localized drizzle, and then go all the way to the center. Of course, the Bakerloo had to be an utter wash too.
Thanks to construction work, everyone’s who is anyone in London is on the same bloody, sweltering train as us. And none of them, I can tell you this, are happy with the large woman in their midst.
Discreetly as possible, I mop at my chin. In all the excitement of the last two days, I’m still colossal now, a fact the other commuters don’t let me forget as they lean away. Every one in three stops, someone inevitably starts whispering about the virtues of staircases and long walks through a freezing city, and why doesn’t the fat chick get up and leave.
I roll my eyes.
“Are we there yet?” Benedict grumbles, not for the sixth time. Clearly, he hasn’t had to spend much time on the tube. He scowls as he dangles from a rail, waistcoat draped over an arm. His outfit today is surprisingly low key. No thousand-dollar brand names, as far as I can tell. Instead, he’s got on an elegant pastiche of stripes and indigo velvet, with the most beautiful two-toned wingtips. “No.”
“How about now?”
“No.”
“Now?”
“No.”
Claws push against the skin of my fingertips. “You sound like a child. If you didn’t want to be in the tube, why didn’t you spend some of that trust fund to get us a cab?”
He shrugs, elegant despite exhaustion, the only blemish in his impeccable attire being the blue scrunchie he’d borrowed from a massively unhappy Zora. “I was curious.”
“Well.” I adjust my top. “Deal.”
Eventually, we creak to a halt and the doors screech apart. Benedict goes out first, easily wafting through the ropes of people. I’m not quite so limber. I wait until the last commuters have gotten up and meandered to the doors before I power-walk towards escape. There’s a science to it. You get a gap of two seconds before the next wave of tired Londoners shamble in. If you make it within two feet of the doors before that happens, they’ll slow down to let you through.
Fail, well…
“Excuse me! Ex—could you please let me through—I’m sorry, if you could just move—ouch!”
I escape the crowd with a stubbed toe, elbowed ribs, and a few disparaging comments. Pulling my coat around me, I inch up to Benedict, who is dramatically posed against a pillar.
“What took you so long?”
“Shut up and keep walking.”
“Temper!” Benedict chortles, before darting up the steps two at a time. If Francesca wasn’t my boss, prince or no prince, I swear I’d throttle his scrawny little neck.
Even if his arse is an impressive view.
We find our way to BAO (spelled with capital letters, I discover, rather than with grammatical accuracy) about half an hour late, both slightly sweaty from effort.
Janine and Jake, on the other hand, look amazing. Jake’s in a long-sleeved white shirt, nicely pressed, and distressed grey jeans, with candy-trimmed Adidas superstars for a note of color. Very simple, and almost forgettable if it weren’t for the fact it looks like someone’d painted the shirt and jeans on him. Who knew that cloth could cling to oblique muscles like that?
And Janine, well, Janine’s basically Jessica Rabbit on her night off: fresh highlights, cream-colored clutch by Louis Vuitton, black sheath dress, cut extraordinarily low, and gladiator heels. Every man in a twenty-feet radius is staring at her, and I don’t blame them.
“You look fabulous.” I blurt out.
She titters nervously, eyes bright and endearingly vulnerable. “Thanks.”
“You do too.” To my surprise, Jake turns from Janine to gawk at me, full of naked lust. He strips me with his eyes, carefully, methodically, until I can almost feel the wind pimpling my flesh. My world contracts into a pinpoint of raw, eager desire. “You look better than I remember, really.”
Wait. What did he—
But now Jake’s got an arm out like a proper gentleman, and there’s just no room to be indignant. I loop my fingers around his elbow. He beams down at me, dark curls flopping over his eyes, smile widening. Mine, his posture says. All mine.
“What? No one’s going to say how lovely I look?”
I hear Janine’s laugh again, slightly forced, and heavy with notes of, “What the hell am I doing?” Instantly, guilt rustles over me, mingling with a flicker of spiteful hope. Is it wrong that I hope this will escalate massively and end with Janine daintily splashing champagne in Benedict’s face, before storming out like Scarlett O’Hara at her best.
Probably.
I squash my fantasies and shepherd the group up to BAO, which proves to be positively darling. White wood on the outside, golden warmth on the inside, big glass windows advertising a cluster of eager diners, their tables rife with tiny plates and fluffy artisan buns.
We step in.
A discordant murmur of greeting eddies through the room, before a spritely waitress, laser-cut razor bob accenting the stark red lipstick, bounces in front of us.
“Sorry!” She beams. Her accent’s got just enough French in it to make every remark a question. “How many people?”
“Um. Four.” I respond.
The waitress nods once, quite sternly, before gesturing at the door, even as she begins to amble forward, arms stretched like the wings of a mother hen, herding us out. “It’s about a twenty minute wait. Not too long at all! If you’d go park yourselves across the street, we’ll be done.”
And just like that, she marches us back into the damp chill, where we then shuffle up behind a pair of well-dressed men, both in matching grey Hugo Boss suits, their hands intertwined.
Benedict’s the first one to speak.
“Tell me again why you didn’t make reservations.”
“Ben!” comes Janine’s hushed, scandalized rebuke.
I shrug a shoulder, after glancing at Jake, who has now apparently tuned out the whole mess and is fixated by football statistics. “Because they don’t take reservations.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Really sure?”
Deep breaths, Zel. I slot my hands under my armpits and count to ten, before cocking my head. “Listen, buddy. First off, do you really think I’d rather be in here in the cold, arguing with you, instead of snuggled up inside there? Secondly, you invited yourself to—”
Benedict rolls his eyes and moves his attention to Janine, not even bothering with a comeback. Arse. And then I feel it. The gossamer, glittery presence of his glamour as he extrudes it like a web. The world thickens with it, a lushness, a sultry richness of being that makes every color brighter, more breathtaking, a ring of courtiers surrounding the natural fulcrum of all existence: Benedict.
Except he isn’t as handsome as I remember.
Or as deliciously svelte.
Just a little bit pale.
And far too skinny.
And slightly vegetal-looking, come to think about it. With pinched features and a mouth like a slit.
He reminds me of those plants mums give their college-going kids, those reedy things that look like they’d survive the bloody apocalypse.
It hits me that my initial attraction to Benedict was probably manufactured, a byproduct of his ambient glamour. Something’s thrown him off his game today. Maybe, the weather. Maybe, the hour in the tube. Whatever the case, I’m no longer in his sphere of influence, which means I get to witness Benedict in all of his natural perfection.
Ew.
Horror swells in my breast, subsuming even the pleasure of Jake’s renewed focus, his nonsensical compliments. I shoot a meaningful look at him. Can’t he see what I’m seeing? Doesn’t
he care?
The expression on his face says no. I clench my teeth and look about. Just yesterday, this would have been my dream come true. To monopolize all of Jake’s attention, to have him drooling after me like a prime cut of beef. But right now? Right now, all I want to do is get a giggling, glamour-drunk Janine away from Benedict.
Why can’t life be simple for a change?
“Your table is ready!”
It doesn’t take too long to seat us. Note the sarcastic emphasis. BAO was apparently built with straw-thin hipsters in mind, as opposed to anyone possessing your typical British waistline. The waitress ends up playing Tetris with a few patrons, rearranging them to make room for me, all the while apologizing, even as the affected diners glower at my circumference.
But soon, the ordeal is over, and we’re all plunked into our chairs at a corner, one big dysfunctional family. I’m squeezed between Benedict and Jake, with Janine sequestered between the wall and everyone’s favorite arsehole faerie prince.
“‘Bout four and five dishes should do you good. If you’ve got any questions, let us know!” The waitress flounces away.
I barely pay any attention to the listing. Janine, for all my concern, seems perfectly happy, the vision of flirtatious good will. She picks out the vegetarian options (obviously), while Benedict laments the lack of sophistication. Jake ignores both of them, and shoots straight for the meat-arian options.
“And you, ma’am?”
“What?”
I look around to see the bright wedge of a professional smile. “What’s your order?”
“Oh!” I startle, banging my knee against the countertop. When did she get back here? Stammering, I pick out a cluster of dishes.
“Are you sure?”
“Y-yes?”
“Three house pickles?”
“Did I say three?” Damnit, I sound like I’ve swallowed helium. “I meant two. One! Actually, how about you get me your favorites.”
Expression betraying mild concern, the waitress bobs her head, and withdraws into the bustle, leaving Jake to stroke my back.
“You okay?”
“Yes.” No.
“You look like you’ve got poachers on your tail.”
“It’s that—you know. It’s that time of month.”
Comprehension illuminates Jake’s gaze. “Yeah, I know what that’s like. It’s… hard for me too.”
I scan the restaurant, brow rucked. “Really? How so?”
“Appetites,” His fingers write lines of fire down my arm as they travel to my hand. My breath catches, hitches. “It’s hard to be inside here and not think of everyone else as food.”
At that last word, his eyes flash a lurid yellow, just for a second, like a cat’s eyes in the headlights of an incoming truck. I stiffen in riposte. It’s no secret that werecreatures will occasionally snack on a drunk, but the fact that the compulsion’s creeping up on Jake in a crowded restaurant, well, that’s not good at all. Especially given that there’s also a hungry werebear here.
“Don’t you dare eat anyone.”
Jake laughs breezily. “Please. It’s too public. Can’t say I’d hold back the claws when we’re alone, though. You know, I’m really glad you asked me out tonight.”
“R-really?”
He rakes his nails over my skin and I’m abruptly, infuriatingly turned on. Right. I’d pretty much propositioned him at point-black range earlier, hadn’t I? This is why I stay home watching Netflix. Because the outside world is a terrible idea.
“Really.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I think we might have missed an opportunity. I didn’t pay you enough attention in high school.”
“Crap. You remember.”
“Uh huh.”
Something crystallises inside of me. “So, why didn’t you ask me out?”
He twitches a muscular shoulder. “Appearances, I suppose. I had a… type. A territory to carve out. I had to keep up appearances. Make sure people knew who I was, and what I was capable of.”
“And that meant sleeping with all the cheerleaders?”
His smile is dazzling. “All at once.”
“And ignoring the fat girl.”
“You were big-boned. Not fat.”
“No. ” I frowned. “I am fat. I am large. I am whatever you’d like to call me. Bears aren’t built small. I don’t think I like how you’re–”
“However you’d like to put it. Regardless, you weren’t what people would have seen as ‘my type.’” He draws circles across my palm, utterly unaware of how his words were lancing through me. “But we can make up for it now, can’t we?”
Anger throbs. “We can?”
“Tonight and maybe, every alternate night for the conceivable future. We could have a lot of fun together.”
The urge to loathe him is immediate, but Jake’s just operating on instinct, isn’t he? He’s an animal. I’m an animal. It should all be fine.
Except it’s not.
“It’s—it’s a thought. We’ll see how the night goes, won’t we? Then, maybe, you could come up, um, across the hall and maybe, we could. Talk.” I squeeze his arm reassuringly, more out of a lack of inspiration as to what to do next rather than any real urge to offer comfort, even as his eyes widen in confusion.
Really, though, tonight can go cram itself into a bin.
“Janine?” I lean cautiously back and look to Janine, dropping my conversation with Jake like a hot potato. “How are you doing?”
She peers back. “Fine?”
“Like, how fine?”
Janine glances surreptitiously at Benedict, who is suspiciously disinterested in our dialogue. “Very?”
“On a scale of one to ten—”
“I don’t see how this has to do with anything.”
“Six then?”
Her mouth clacks shut. “Eight?”
“Seven point five?”
“Zel—”
We’re interrupted by someone delicately clearing their throat. I look around to see our waitress, platters of food balanced along her arms. Her smile is mildly pained. “Sorry,” she says, in a way that suggests she’s not sorry, but in fact would rather I be sorry.
She sets our orders down, a neat jigsaw of earthen bowls and indigo plates. The smells hits me immediately and despite the knot of worry in my stomach, I’m salivating.
Pork confit, dribbling a piquant sauce. Fried chicken sandwiched between kimchi and Szechuan mayo, practically crackling from the fire still. More sauce-drenched fried chicken. Exquisitely cooked lamb shoulder, dressed in what looks like jalapeno sauce. Miso soup. A mandatory serving of sweet potato chips, drizzled in plum salt.
“And this is your pig’s blood cake.” The waitress sets a slab of black, atop which has been set a runny blob of golden yolk. “Bon appetit!”
Chapter Seven
“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
“What?”
Zora’s voice through the phone is tinny, slightly tipsy. In the background, I hear the swirl of laughter and bad EDM, thump-thumping furiously. Someone says something to Zora and she laughs, a fake and glassy sound.
“I said: this is all your fault!” I croak, a finger jabbed into my ear.
“Can’t hear you!”
“I should have never agreed to this date—”
“Please. Like you weren’t drooling over Jake.”
“I was! But it’s also the reason I did something awful,” I begin pacing the length of the women’s bathroom, which is to say I take about two steps, turn around, and repeat. A distant part of my head takes note of the fact it’s actually quite nicely appointed for something so small. The sink’s even adorned with potpourri. Seven point five. Good job, BAO.
“Pardon, Zelda, but you did the something awful. Not me,” Zora sniffs, d
isdainfully, ripping me from my appraisal of the bathroom.
“But you started the ball—oh, fine. You’re right. You were always right. I should have told Benedict to bugger off. This double date is a nightmare,” I crack open the door to the outside world and look out to see Janine daintily feeding Benedict a sliver of roasted meat, and Jake nonchalantly flirting with a waitress.
“Wait.” Zora’s voice sharpens. “Double date?”
“Yeah.” I reply, distracted by the realization I wasn’t terribly jealous. If anything, I’m a bit relieved to see Jake getting interested in someone else. It’s like the universe’s way of saying I’m not losing points with Mr. Perfect, just Mr. Perfect Abdominal Muscles. “So, I tried to get Benedict off my back by introducing him to Janine because no one can resist Janine. They hit it off and before I know it, they’ve invited themselves to a double date with Jake and I.”
“Why didn’t you say no?!”
“Because he’s Francesca’s nephew,” I whine, as I dodge back into the bathroom. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can! Two letters. N and O. Just put them together. Easy! That’s all you had to do.”
“Anyway,” I raise my voice, desperate to get a word in. “Anyway, I realized it was all a mistake and Benedict’s actually this hideous tree-thing and he might be using glamour to get his rocks off with Janine, and I don’t know what to do.”
Silence.
“It’s your mess. Dig yourself out of it.”
“Zora, please—”
“Merde, what am I supposed to do with you? Ugh. Okay. Try this.”
And then she dispenses the most inanely, breathtakingly simple solution anyone could possibly think of.
“What if that doesn’t work?”
“Well, you’re a motherfucking werebear, aren’t you?”
I am a werebear.
I am a werebear.
I am a mother-fudging werebear.
I slam the door to the bathroom, drama thundering in my bones. The wooden panel whumphs into the wall, causing, just for a moment, all activity in the restaurant to cease. Everything. Not a whisper, not even the tinkling of silverware scraping over clay, or the telltale bloop of someone Vine-ing my humiliation. Just the stark, awkward silence of the baffled.
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