by Ware Wilkins
“I’ll try. I think that’s why Benji’s been out so much.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Something just, I don’t know-- it smells off.”
I know what he means, now that he’s said it. We nod our goodbyes and I have to be satisfied with the non-answers he’s given me. Let’s be real: they aren’t satisfying. Pretty soon I’ll be angry again and nothing is going to stifle the ache I feel for Abe except the man/wolf himself.
Moving a bit more quickly, I try and keep groceries healthy but cheap. Bags of ramen and some broth base, so we can ditch the packets. Frozen veggies that are five for five dollars. A huge canister of oatmeal. I’m not fond of oatmeal, but it’s less than half the price of cereal and I bet it’s good for the pregnant lady. Just in case, though, I splurge on some maple syrup to mix in with it. Finally, knowing I’m hitting the high end of our grocery budget, I get the pickles from the deli. I’ll eat the ones from the shelf and Ingrid can have these all to herself.
Ingrid. She’s actually being a huge trooper, for all my complaints. She almost never complains about the things I’d expect her to, like feeling vulnerable after learning the guy she’d been screwing was actually a hunter. Or that he was dead and she’d have to raise the baby on her own. No, she complained about the things she could also laugh about, like how awkward it had been to do pole tricks with her bump and the vicious nausea she continues to deal with. And while pickles might be cliche, she actually doesn’t make demands of me. Not really. She just asks that I be there for her if she needs me.
My heart swells with fondness and I grab a second jar of pickles, budget be damned. Ingrid has a craving? I’ll try my hardest to make sure I can help.
Checking out is hard. As the cashier scans each item, my gaze remains locked on the register and the rapidly increasing bill. I have exactly fifty dollars to feed us for a week. As she scans the second jar of pickles, it puts me over by two dollars. Told you they were two dollars more expensive, I think, remembering my earlier frustration. But instead of asking the cashier to put back the second jar, I point to the deodorant I added for myself. It’s getting cold and I’m wearing layers, so I don’t think I need it as much as Ingrid needs to feel special right now.
“May I take that off?”
It’s just enough. I pay in cash and leave with scarcely a handful of pennies, but I feel good about it. It takes four cranks to get my car started. The cold has long since set in and I was having trouble in the autumn. Now, just after the holidays, the mornings are spent defrosting my car and the nights spent trying to figure out what I’ll do when my vehicle finally and irrevocably craps out on me.
The engine turns and I zoom to my apartment. I speed on the regular now, even knowing I can’t afford a ticket. It’s some subconscious thing, I think, where I hope Abe will stop me. The blue lights will illuminate our faces as he asks me to get out of the car and finally plants the kiss I’ve been waiting for on my eager lips…
Could you be more pathetic, Salt?
You know you’re in un-cool pining territory when even your mind gets on your case. Pulling into the parking lot, I grimace when I see Ms. Nickles wave to me. She told me her name was Beth, but she’s definitely a Ms. Nickles kind of lady. It’s the faux pearls and the graying hair pulled into a messy bun. She’s also a bone witch and has offered to help teach me bone magic. I haven’t taken her up on it because I swore to myself (and Uncle Oliver and Benji) that I’d stay clean of the magic. If I’m honest, I’m also a little scared of the answers she has. I want them, but… I’m putting them off. Cowardly, I know.
It’s dark, though. Stars are blooming across the sky like white winter buds, the night so clear that I can see the brush strokes of the Milky Way. My view is only partially cut off by the black, jagged outline of surrounding trees. There are at least three cats sitting on the hoods of various cars. Probably soaking up the last bit of engine-warmth. Still, I remember what Ingrid said about the cats and seeing five, content and watchful, is disconcerting. Their eyes track me as I go to pop my trunk.
Ms. Nickles gives me a more insistent wave. As I waggle my fingers at her, I give a subtle shake of my head. Nighttime is when Benji is out and, while I’d never suspect him of doing something majorly creepy like watching me while I sleep, I’m not one hundred percent sure he doesn’t check up on me from time to time without my knowing.
It’s okay, really. I asked him to, initially. Just because I was worried I couldn’t control myself and keep from casting more spells. I’ve got a finite amount of spells left in me, anyway, and the large glyph-like cyrillic tattoos on my leg remind me each time I shower that I’ll never be able to wear shorts or a swimsuit in public again and that a large chunk of my skin has already been used up.
Ms. Nickles knows the importance of secrecy. Hell, she managed to be my downstairs neighbor for over a year and I never suspected her of anything but being a busybody who liked to call the cops on me. She catches my nod and knows I’m not coming over tonight, though her scowl says plenty about what she thinks of it. Maybe I should talk to Benji about not needing him to look out for me anymore. Tensions are high, though, among the entire paranormal community. Rumors of hunters are never treated lightly.
Besides, Benji looks out for me because I was being hunted before. Me, specifically, because my mother was (is?) a bone witch. Before he helped me with a dead werewolf, we’d been more acquaintances than friends, anyway. We could keep the friendship and go back to using phones, like normal people, instead of stalking. Even if neither of us is, well, normal.
His presence since kissing me has been sporadic at best, though. In fact, it’s been a week or so since I’ve seen him. Which, shamefully, I’m grateful for. Since the kiss, I haven’t known how to act around him. The fact that he’s been acting the exact same, like nothing happened, is even more confusing.
Two cats run in front of me as I try to finagle too many bags in my hands, and I curse as I struggle to maintain balance. It’s precarious, but I manage to avoid a grocery-spilling disaster.
Carrying the groceries up the stairs, I find my burden quickly lifted. I didn’t hear him appear, but then again, he’s had centuries to practice stealth. It jolts me, my gasp loud. “Hey, Benji.” My heart lifts a little. “It’s been awhile.”
CHAPTER THREE
There’s a touch of pout in my voice that I wish wasn’t there. Judging by Benji’s deepening smile, the one that shows me all of his teeth in their pointy-vampire glory, he didn’t miss it.
“Well some people decided to light a beacon in Grimloch to all the hunters that flashes ‘Hey, we got monsters here, come on down.’ Keeping an eye on the town takes a bit of time. And, of course, I’ve had to widen my feeding grounds.”
“What are you talking about?” I unlock the front door. “You mean it isn’t safe to feed in town anymore?”
“I mean someone took offense to my eating cats, and now I’m looking for other sources.”
Ah, right. “Well, I guess I appreciate that.”
He shrugs. “How’s the pregnant lady?”
Ingrid shouted from the hallway. “Hungry and going to punch the next person who calls me ‘the pregnant lady’ in the kidneys. My name is Ingrid not incubator.”
I stifle my laugh as Benji throws me a face full of mock terror. He can joke because he doesn’t live with her. Sometimes she really is terrifying. He follows me inside, grocery bags in hand, and we meet Ingrid in the kitchen. The bags barely hit the counter before she starts tearing through them, looking at our week’s groceries.
She tries to hide her disappointment, I’ll give her that. There’s not a lot of inspiration in boxes of pasta and bags of frozen veggies. I get it, I do. But there’s still a part of me that twists as her face falls for the briefest of moments. “Let me fix us some pasta,” I offer.
“Is there any parmesan?” she asks, going to the fridge. I know the answer before she even opens the door.
“No,” I sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s just that che
ese is too--”
“Expensive. I know,” she rushes. “I’m sorry. I’m really not trying to be so needy and awful.” Her voice cracks and I grit my teeth, preparing for the tears that are coming in five, four, three, two, one… “Please don’t be mad, Sadie,” she sobs, her cheeks beginning to glisten. “Thanks for g-g-getting the f-f-food.” Her lip quivers too much to continue. Stepping toward her, I open my arms and try to tug her into an embrace.
As if my kindness burns her skin, Ingrid withers from my touch and flees, practically running, to her room. The slam of her door echoes through the apartment. It’s a kick in my gut, deep and knocking me breathless. “How did we ever survive as a species if that’s what happens to us when we get knocked up?” I breathe to Benji, knowing he can hear my whisper and desperate that Ingrid not hear it.
He slides up beside me, the lengths of our bodies gently pressing as we lean on the kitchen counter. If it was anyone else, I’d feel the heat and spark of the touch. But Benji’s cool flesh sends a shiver rippling through me. My heart beats a beat quicker, though, something I’m sure he hears it. Ever since his declaration of love or lust or whatever, and the kiss beside his car, he’s been normal. Like, to the point where I’m crawling out of my skin to figure out what he’s up to.
Why did he kiss me? Did he mean any of the things he said? Was he, despite all the other crap going down, just screwing with me?
Most important, I should be asking myself, is do I want him to act more directly?
Instead of doing any introspection, I do what I’m more practiced at: avoidance. Shifting myself up, I turn and grab a box of pasta, shoving into the far corners of my mind the thrill created by the whisper of his skin on mine.
He chuckles, not missing a beat with me. “Ingrid’s really not bad, considering.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble as I begin filling a pot with water. “You don’t live with her.”
“True, but she’s in a tough place. If she’s only crying over wanting cheese, I’d say she’s handling it quite well. How long does pasta take to cook?”
Turning the box over, I read the back. “Um… ten to fifteen minutes, depending on whether you want it al dente. We eat ours softer, so the latter. Basically, I take a piece out and throw it on the wall and if it sticks, I know the pasta is done.”
The horror on his face is real this time. “Maybe I don’t miss real food as much as I thought. I’ll be right back.”
Before I can ask where he’s going, he’s gone. The sound of the front door shutting is the only noise, other than the water now spilling out of the pot and into the sink. Sighing, I turn off the faucet and tip the excess out before moving the pot to the stove. He’s right about Ingrid. Why is it so hard for me to remember that she’s actually being a fucking champ? I only remember the bad, but I need to remember how, after her initial pee-on-a-stick discovery, she was upset, but resolved. She’s been cleaning, too, like a crazy person. Our apartment has never looked better. She’s always here to listen to me, and she’s still the funniest person I know.
Ingrid’s been doing this with just me, deciding not to involve her family. Despite the hormones, she does try to be supportive. Her, supportive of me, even when she’s busy growing a person inside her belly.
Stop focusing on the stressful parts. She’d forgive you if the situation was reversed.
While I wait for the water to boil, I realize she never got to the bag with her pickles. Grabbing a jar that’s slick with condensation, I go to her door and knock softly. “Ingrid? Benji’s gone. May I come in?”
Her sniffled reply is hard to understand, but I gamble on it being a yes. Stepping into her room, my heart breaks a bit at seeing my tall, gorgeous, Amazon of a roommate cuddling with an old stuffed bear on her bed. Ever since we first met, Ingrid’s been this fierce, defiant, ethereal creature. Willing to say “screw you” to a father who was appalled at her choice to strip. Not afraid to slap the crap out of a patron who gets too ass-grabby. Able to cheer me up no matter how much the odds are stacked against me.
Now she just looks, well, vulnerable.
“I come bearing gifts,” I say, forcing a smile. Her bed sags under my weight as I sit beside her. Putting the jar on her bedside table, I reach out and start petting her blonde hair. It’s smooth and silky under my fingertips, its natural curl making it all the more inviting. I marvel at how the waves spring back into place after each pass of my hands, and how they spread, wild, when I comb my fingers through them.
The snuffling in her pillow slows and her back stops shaking with her sobs. Ingrid rolls to a seated position, putting her bear aside, and falls into my waiting embrace. “Sadie, how can you even be nice to me right now?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Ingrid,” I tease, letting it hang in the air. She stiffens. “It’s easy. I’m surprised you can still be nice to me!”
“But you’ve been so good to me! I’m the jerk, making everything you do to help seem like it isn’t enough.”
Shrugging, I press a kiss into her hair. “I’m struggling with knowing what to do, Ingrid. But I keep remembering that while this is new to me, it’s new to you, too. We’ve got to just keep helping each other.”
Her eyes are wide and still wet, but full of love. “Always, Sadie. I mean it.”
“I know, Ingrid. I mean it, too.”
I know I don’t need to explain away my love for her, or add caveats or addendums or any of that stuff. It just is what it is and I’ll always be grateful for it.
“I can’t believe you found your bear.”
“I think Commissioner Biscuit feels an affinity for my old stuffy.”
My eyebrow raises before I can stop it. “Commissioner Biscuit? That’s what you’re calling your baby?”
“Eh, usually CB for short. I figure lots of good names are CB, like Charlie Brown.”
“And Charles Bronson.”
Ingrid punches my shoulder lightly. “Either way, I guess sometimes it’s hard for me to feel connected to the baby. I know I’m pregnant, I have all the symptoms and the bump to boot, but it’s like… I don’t know. Like I’m out of my body, watching it happen, and I’ll catch myself thinking of it in this disassociated way. Worrying about David’s genes and my own parenting skills, but from a distance? I’m not making any sense.”
My throat clamps up, tightening on my own tears. Ingrid hasn’t said anything like this up until now. I mean, there was the initial few sob sessions of oh my god I’m pregnant and what am I going to do, but after that, things like the pickles have been her biggest complaint. “I thought you were, I don’t know, happy? About the baby?” My words sound idiotic in my ears, but Ingrid smiles to let me know I’m not a complete jerk.
“I am happy. And calling the baby Commissioner Biscuit helps. It’s a silly name, which makes me laugh. And it’s a name, you know? Names have power, it seems, to make things real. So by calling Biscuit by a name, I make it real. It’s helping me become attached. If only the little sucker would stop making me so moody and demanding foods we can’t afford.”
A light goes off in my head. “Ah, shit, I left the water boiling!” Dashing from her room, I make it to the kitchen, only to find Benji straining pasta into a colander in the sink.
“When did you get back? How do you know if it’s done?”
He doesn’t answer, just points to the ceiling. A strand of spaghetti dangles, definitely stuck and slowly peeling away. “Go get Ingrid.”
I don’t have to, though. She comes up beside me, the jar of pickles clamped in her hands. “You got me the right pickles,” she whispers. “I swear I’m not going to cry, I just wanted to say--”
I brush her away. “Don’t. I know. You and me, kid.”
Benji smiles as he looks at both of us. There’s a trace of something in his green eyes. It’s akin to longing, but he jerks his gaze back to plating our pasta before I can be certain. I pull out a stool at the kitchen counter for Ingrid. She places the pickles next to her with reverence before sitt
ing. I join her.
Her gasp of delight is like sunshine. Not just for me, either. Benji looks up in surprise. If he could blush, I imagine he would be. Ingrid’s clapping and practically drooling because Benji is grating fresh parmesan all over heaping plates of spaghetti. There’s green mixed in with the strands. “I added butter and parsley.”
“You don’t know how long pasta takes to cook, but you know to add butter and parsley in with the cheese?” I ask wryly.
“Don’t be snooty, Missy. I have a phone and I know how to use the internet. I’m old, not an imbecile.”
We all laugh and he puts the plates in front of us. Benji watches us consume every bite. Maybe that’s weird? I don’t know. We tuck in with gusto, though, and I can’t begrudge him watching us eat something he made. Something he himself can’t enjoy.
“If I let you drink my blood,” I muse, “will you be able to taste the good stuff? Does the butter make the blood fattier or the parsley, uh, herbier?”
“Are you offering?”
Ingrid gasps and turns toward me. Unfortunately, as she does, her elbow grazes the pickle jar on the counter. It slides with unexpected momentum, hurtling off the edge and smashing on the floor.
We all sit in stunned silence. Benji is the first to crack. “I’m so sorry, Ingrid. I should have caught that.”
“You’re on the other side of the counter,” she says, her tone robotic.
“That’s not the problem. I was taken aback by Sadie’s question and…”
“It’s okay,” she says, but she hasn’t stopped looking at the shards of glass and pickles on the floor.
Sliding from my chair, I pat her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She shakes her head. “You went through all that trouble and I’m so clumsy and--”
“I swear to you, Ingrid, if you apologize, I’m going to teach Commissioner Biscuit all the cuss words.”
