Chapter 15
fifteen
The Chubby Radish
Bastian looks over his shoulder every few seconds as we walk down the street. His milky eyes follow every passing car, and he fists his hands at his sides. He’s spring-loaded, like the first sign of danger and he’ll explode.
I touch his forearm gently and he flinches. “Why are you so nervous?”
His lip curls back. “Dragon hunters.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me and he glares me down.
“I’m sorry, you’re serious?” I ask.
“Deathly.”
If the supernatural is real, if this fantastical dragon exists—along with those evil dust mites—then of course it’s possible there’s more. So much more…
“Have you encountered hunters before?” I ask.
He pulls his hands out of his pockets and gestures to the long scar running up his left arm. “You think I did this reading?”
The other scars on his body take on new meaning. He’s been hunted all this time. Of course he doesn’t like humans and he wants his solitude.
“I’m sorry this happened to you.”
He shoves his hands back in the pockets of his poorly sewn sweatpants. My hands were made for sewing book spines, not ripped clothes. I did the best I could with what I had.
“Can I ask more about you?”
He shrugs. “If you so wish.”
“Where do you come from?”
“We just came from the hoard.”
I tsk. “No, Bast, where did you originally come from. Where were you born?”
“I was not born.”
A scowl wrinkles my brow. “You just manifested from thin air?”
“No.”
I’m ready to give him what for, but my phone chimes to tell me we’ve reached our destination. I turn off the navigation app and look up at the building before us. It’s just as cute as it looked in the Boogle pictures.
It’s a white, two-story building that may have been a house at one point.
It has red shutters framed by green leaf designs, and the glass front door has a big, chibi radish holding a knife and fork with a hungry smile.
My stomach groans in desire at the scent of something smoky and sweet beyond the door.
Bastian reaches for the handle slowly, gaining more confidence as he gets closer and I assume he can actually see it. I don’t want to ask him about his eyes. It seems like it would be a sensitive subject but…
“Did hunters harm your vision?” I ask.
He holds the door open for me, placing his hand on the small of my back to guide me in. The heat of his palm through my sweater has me sucking down a tiny gasp as nerves fire all the way up my spine. A shiver trails down in its wake when his hand leaves me.
“Two?” a woman in a red top with a white bow in her hair asks as she holds up menus.
I nod, my lungs still holding on to that little gasp as if keeping it inside me might make the feeling of his hand linger. The hostess leads us into the restaurant with dark wood floors and kitschy walls—but not in an eyesore kind of way, but a vibrant acceptance of the theme sort of way.
Radishes everywhere.
The tables are covered in radish themed clothes, with red napkins and a short cup filled with water and a pair of live radishes.
The greenery sprouting from the top makes a lively bouquet.
Even the mystical Radish Spirit from one of my favorite movies sits on the wall at the back, pointing the way to the bathrooms.
“Here you are,” the hostess says, gesturing at a booth near the kitchen.
I sit on the side facing the door and slide to the middle. Bastian sits on my side, forcing me to scoot to the wall. The hostess blushes as she grins, setting the menus down in front of us.
“Have a great lunch,” she says, confusing Bastian’s choice of seat for something it isn’t.
Or is it?
I don’t know what’s happening.
“Ehm, don’t you want your own side?” I ask, gesturing to the other bench.
He licks his lips, stalling. “I want to be able to see the door.”
I’m sure it’s nothing more than a blur of light to him, but…
“What happened to your eyes?” I prompt again.
“You’re hard set on ruining your lunch, aren’t you?”
I tsk. “I read dark romance and horror. I’m not squeamish.”
He takes a long breath as he fiddles with the napkin roll-up beside his menu. The sigh that comes out of him next is filled with defeat.
“With the help of a warlock, they bound me and poured acid on my face.”
I suck a sharp breath through my clenched teeth.
“For weeks…so that as I healed, the fresh flesh was damaged, too.”
I wince, blinking tears from my eyes.
“Bastian, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, touching his hand.
He doesn’t flinch this time, easing against my side at the contact. Our thighs press together and a hateful memory spikes through me. I scoot a little farther away, but his hand comes down on my leg.
“No,” he whispers. “Stay.”
His fingers dig into me with more desperation than his words. As if my nearness is a comfort he can’t do without in this moment. I sigh, letting my muscles release. His hand relaxes too, resting on my mid-thigh.
“Hi there, something to drink?” a cheery woman asks and I jump like I was caught in the act.
I mean, I was caught in the act of cozying up to the dragon from my bookshop, but she doesn’t know that. We must look like we’re dating. Sitting on the same side, his hand on my leg.
She’s in a cute radish apron, her blond hair bundled up behind her with an alligator clip.
“Chai?” I ask hopefully.
“Whole milk or almond?” she responds without missing a beat.
Oh god, yes.
“Almond.”
“And you?” she asks, looking at Bastian.
Her smile wavers as they lock gazes. She stares at him, her face hauntingly still, as if she’d been turned to stone. She stays that way for too long, and I have to break the silence.
“You okay?” I ask.
Her face turns to me, then her eyes, and a plastic smile warps her cheeks. She blinks a few times and her posture changes as she curls in on herself, hiding.
“Fine. Brain fog is all. What was it you wanted to drink?”
“Chai, almond,” he says.
She glances back at me with a repentant wince. “Anything else?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“I’ll be back to get your order,” she says as she turns away.
I glance at Bastian to gauge his response. His milky gaze follows the waitress to the drink bar.
“Chai, huh?” I ask.
He nods.
I’m not delulu enough to think that his favorite beverage is also my favorite beverage, but the fact that he ordered the same thing as me makes my heart a little fluttery. It’s all underpinned with something awkward, though. He’s uncomfortable.
“What is it?” I ask, touching his hand on my leg.
“She’s afraid of me,” Bastian murmurs. “Her aura is very dim.”
I shake my head. “She’s just worried about you, I think. Your scars, and your eyes.”
He looks at me curiously. “And you’re worried? Is that why you ask so many questions?”
“I just want to know you better.”
“And you think knowing about my past pain will reveal pieces of me?”
There’s an undertone of disdain in his voice, but I ignore it and push on.
“Every scar tells a story. Even the invisible ones.”
“What story do your scars tell?” he asks.
A twinge of fear strikes me in the chest like a mallet smacking a gong.
The waves of it spread through my body, lighting up all the things I know he won’t like.
Revealing more than the damage I suffered from others, but also the physical and emotional harm my own body has perpetrated against me.
And continues to…despite all my efforts.
“Jerry,” Bastian warns. “There’s no place for you here.”
I huff a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, I know.”
He waits patiently, his hand still resting on my thigh. I focus my attention on that anchor point.
“I have a disease that makes things really hard for me, like the Jerry thoughts and some other things, and that makes it hard for other people, too,” I say.
“The verbosity of your vagueness has not gone unnoticed,” Bastian says, and I laugh for real this time.
I fiddle with the corner of the menu, my eyes scanning all the letters but seeing none of the words.
“I have PMOS, Polyendocrine Metabolic Ovarian Syndrome, and PMDD, Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. They’re both not well understood, so treating them is extremely difficult. Most of the treatments are diet and lifestyle related, and I do my best…”
The waitress brings the chai and I bury my face in the cup to avoid saying something else, or crying, for god’s sake.
“Ready to order?” she asks.
I’d already looked at the menu online, so I nod. “The cauliflower gnocchi with roasted asparagus, please.”
She looks at Bastian.
“I’ll have the same.”
She grins overwide as she turns away. It feels uncanny, almost unnatural.
I feel bad for her and what she might be thinking.
Like she has to pretend to be happy or that she doesn’t notice his pain.
Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on in her head, but I hope she doesn’t come back more than she needs to.
We sit in silence for a while, sipping our chai.
In the quiet, I clear the discomfort from my mind and focus on being present.
I take notice of the flavors of the drink, enjoying the subtle cardamom, and the powerful cinnamon.
It’s just the right sweetness for my liking, and the almond milk is extra creamy, making the drink almost cocoa-like.
“It’s good,” he says as he pulls the cup from his lips. “Can you tell me its story?”
“I know it’s traditionally a drink from India, but I don’t know much more about it.”
I pull out my phone, setting it between us, and look up “the origin of chai.”
“Interesting,” I say, noting that my flavor assessment was spot on. Though, I don’t think this cup has any serious peppercorn in it.
“Read it to me?” he asks.
“Legends annotate its origin back five thousand years. It’s based on Ayurvedic wellness techniques of mixing herbs into hot water to extract their healing properties.”
He hums. “Perhaps we should make this ourselves to help with your wellness.”
We.
His hand is still on my thigh and suddenly I’m warm inside, and not from the tea. I try to squirm away, but his fingers dig into my stockinged leg, holding me in place. A smirk tugs on the corner of his mouth.
“Aroused, in public?”
“Shut up,” I whisper.
“Miscreant,” he says, the tone of his voice sultry.
The gnocchi arrives, saving me from any further embarrassment. He asks me to tell him the story of the little pasta balls as we eat, and I regale him about ancient Rome and the creation of the pasta “knot,” or “knuckle,” the historians can’t decide the true root of the word.
The creamy, spicy sauce with the sweet potato dumplings is an absolute delight when paired with the chai. The roasted asparagus is so green and fresh I know my pee is going to smell potent in the next twenty minutes.
He asks me about the book I’m binding while we eat, and for the first time in a long time, Jerry doesn’t bother me. I know I shouldn’t attribute it to him. It’s probably just my workout routine, and getting to do something I love all morning, but…
It feels like it’s him.
Like he’s smoothing over the rough edges. Like he’s gravity, pulling me closer to center in my emotional ups and downs. Maybe it’s more like an umbrella in a downpour. I can still see the rain, but I’m not getting wet.
Does he know that’s what he’s doing?
Can I trust it?
Can it last?