Chapter 2 #3
By the time he marked his place with a finger and lowered the book, it was dark outside. The display on his phone said it was six fifteen. His stomach decided then that it wasn’t satisfied with the half-carton of ice cream he’d eaten a few hours earlier; it demanded sustenance.
Pushing the footrest down, he stood up and strode to the dining room table, shifting around unused placemats and finally lifting the cardboard box to find the Payette Lake bookmark he’d purchased from a local giftshop.
He slipped it between the pages, closed the book, and set it down before continuing into the kitchen.
Broxen opened the refrigerator and freezer.
Cold air flowed over him as he stared at the fridge’s contents.
He had frozen meat on hand; beef was a particular favorite, though he was also fond of many of the species of fish he’d tasted.
It wouldn’t take much to cook a steak or a salmon filet.
He could even fry some pork chops. He’d bookmarked a few new recipes on his phone that he’d been meaning to try.
Steaming a bag of frozen vegetables would be easy, too, and would pair well no matter what meat he chose, but…
With a sigh, he reached into the freezer and grabbed one of the frozen microwaveable meals. Meatloaf and potatoes or something like that—for brawny men with big appetites!
Closing the fridge and freezer, he stepped to the microwave, opening the package as he walked. He poked holes in the plastic covering with a claw and put the tray in the microwave, punching in the recommended time.
He braced a hand on the counter as the microwave hummed.
His eyes itched, desperate to shift toward the front window again even though the reflection of the interior lights on the glass would make it impossible to see Gabriela’s house.
That he knew it was there was enough, right? That he knew she was there.
Instead of looking toward the window, he dropped his gaze to his hand and drummed his fingers on the countertop, counting the microwave timer in his head. His claws clicked against the surface. He stilled his fingers when he reached zero and awaited the beep.
Brow furrowed, he glanced at the microwave. It still had six seconds.
Even after two and a half years, Broxen hadn’t quite synched with the human tracking of time.
He pressed the end button at the microwave’s first beep, popped the door open, and removed his tray of food.
The plastic was fogged with steam and condensation.
He peeled it back, stirred the mushy potatoes—mashed potatoes—and placed the tray in the microwave to finish heating.
As soon as it was done, he tossed the plastic film in the trash and carried his meal to the couch.
Broxen sat down and turned on the television, switching it to a random channel.
While he’d never been disappointed by selecting a random book, the TV had proven far less reliable.
It felt like half of it was advertising and the rest was often watered-down.
For all their vices, humans seemed to recoil from their own true nature, finding it distasteful to depict on the screen.
Still, he left this movie—something about stealing cars, apparently—on as he ate the microwaveable meal. Within a minute, he’d burned his tongue on the potatoes despite gently blowing on them and stirring them thoroughly to release the excess heat.
Were Gabriela and Ana eating their own dinner now? Was Gabriela truly feeling better, or was it just the joy of being around her daughter that had uplifted her?
Should he drive into town and pick up some hot chocolate to bring to the two humans? He wasn’t sure if such a gesture would be considered kind or creepy; it was surprisingly difficult to tell the difference between the two a lot of the time.
What would it be like to have Gabriela and Ana here with him now?
To have cooked dinner for them, to be sharing it with them?
What would it be like to watch TV with them?
Perhaps even this outlandish movie, which seemed to have little regard for the laws of physics, would be entertaining if he had Gabriela sitting beside him.
“Ah, fuck.” He shoveled the last few bites of food into his mouth, stood up, and brought the empty tray into the kitchen to throw it away.
He attempted to continue the movie afterward, but found his attention constantly straying to the window; he could just make out the glow of Gabriela’s porch lights through the reflections on the glass.
So he did all he could think to do—picked up Prisoner of My Desire, returned to the recliner, and continued reading.
By ten o’clock, he was more than halfway through the book.
He put the bookmark in place, tipped his head back onto the recliner’s headrest, and stared up at the ceiling.
The situation in the book was…complicated, to say the least. Kidnapping, nonconsensual sex, a controlling and cruel relative.
Broxen couldn’t guess how the two main characters would overcome the obstacles set in their path—would overcome what they’d done to each other—to reach their happy ending.
Yet no matter how wild the circumstances, reading about a blossoming relationship between two made-up characters only turned his mind back toward Gabriela. If Rowena and Warrick could overcome their circumstances, that had to mean Broxen and Gabriela could overcome their own, didn’t it?
Broxen wasn’t sure how to approach her. He wasn’t sure how to tell her what he felt, what he wanted. That was nothing compared to the things these fictional characters were facing.
There was some way to make it work. There had to be.
He had to believe that. A few years ago, he would’ve thought it was all a load of what the humans called bullshit, but now…
What else was there for him to do but hope?
Releasing a heavy breath, he pushed himself out of the chair, turned off the lamp, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.
His house was quiet. Still. Empty despite all the furnishings. He scanned his surroundings slowly, wondering what would be different if he shared this place. Humans were fond of decorating; how would Gabriela decorate Broxen’s home?
He gulped down the water, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rinsed the glass and placed it in the drainboard.
The gentle clink of glass on metal was amplified by the relative quiet.
Broxen didn’t know this world, didn’t know its people, didn’t even really know where Earth was other than unfathomably far from the place he’d been born.
There were other nonhumans on this planet, but they were undoubtedly in situations like his own—they were here to hide.
But there was something like seven billion humans on Earth. How was it possible to feel so alone among so many people?
Broxen flicked off the kitchen light and headed for his bedroom. His bed, though barely long enough to fit his tall frame, looked huge and empty now, seemed cold despite the heavy blankets atop it.
He unfastened his belt and unbuttoned his pants, finally letting his tail free and stretching it out behind him, but he dared not deactivate the holoshroud. He couldn’t allow himself to get that complacent. The safest thing was to assume he was always in sight of someone or something.
“Need a shower,” he muttered as he kicked off his pants and tore off his shirt. A hot shower, and then bed.
Because even though so much was uncertain, even though so many things were beyond his knowledge, Broxen knew that Gabriela would come out to start her car at about seven twenty tomorrow morning.
At seven thirty-five, she would leave to bring Ana to school.
For that precious fifteen-minute window, he’d have a chance to glimpse her two or three more times.
And he wouldn’t miss that for anything in this world or any other.