18. Pippi #2
“Don’t get me wrong, though”—I waved my arm, hoping I hadn’t just stuck a barb in his feelings—“you’re gorgeous.
Really. It’s just…” I clutched a hand to my chest when my heart gave a nervous flutter.
“I think it’s that survival instinct humans have, you know?
Our senses know we can’t fight a monster, so our brain starts pushing us to run.
Not that you’re a monster, though. Well, you are, but not a bad monster.
And I know that. But my nerves are taking a while to get the memo. ”
Alistair blew out a chuckling breath that fluttered his nostrils and sent a warm waft of air over my wet, and very cold, feet.
There were gills, on either side of his neck, just underneath his cheeks.
I hadn’t noticed them before—and likely wouldn’t have noticed them now, if his breathy laugh hadn’t set them fluttering like streamers tied to a fan.
“I’m sorry”—I threw him a wry grin—“I’m still a little frazzled. And very tired. And I sometimes lose my filter.”
“You always say sorry for talking.” Alistair tucked his head slightly to the side—almost like a dog, tilting and craning and trying to figure out when it would get that tantalizing piece of cheese. “Why?”
“Because I do it too much when I’m nervous or excited or whatever. Jackson calls me ‘motor mouth’ sometimes.”
“Your b-boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Does he not like your talking?”
“Oh no, he does. He gets a kick out of it, mostly. But sometimes I think he wishes he could get some words in.”
Another warm breath fanned over my toes. “I don’t mind you talking,” Alistair said. “I remember…words when you speak. Words that have slipped. Some that slipped so long ago, I don’t remember forgetting them.”
Pain kicked my gut. Emotional pain. The sort of distress someone got when they found an old photo album and started flipping through the pages, seeing the faces of all the loved ones they’d lost.
You poor thing.
I stepped forward. He watched me, his eyes going a bit crossed as they tried to follow my movement.
“May I?” I stretched my arm forward, fingers curling toward the tip of his snout.
His nostrils fluttered as he nudged his head forward, gently meeting my hand.
“You’re sad, aren’t you?” I rubbed at the hard, spiked scales atop his snoot.
He blinked again.
“I hear it sometimes, with the way you say certain things. You sound sad.”
I feel your sadness too, but I usually don’t tell people that. They think it’s weird.
“Do I?” He billowed, dancing thin tendrils of his hot breath over the sleeves of my blouse.
“Not always. Or even most of the time. But sometimes, yeah, you do.” I ran my hand up and down the gap between his nostrils, marveling at his face’s textures, which were hard like granite in some areas, where the scales jutted into spikes, but squishy and pliable in others.
Alistair whuffled.
The knot of distress he left in my gut loosened.
“I don’t mean to pry,” I said. “Believe me. I know if I’ve got something gnawing at me, I don’t always like strangers poking around. But sometimes it helps to talk about it, even if it hurts at first. So if you ever want to slough off some of your pain onto someone else, I’ll listen.”
The gills along his neck ruffled as he bobbed ever so slightly up and down in time with the sea, but his eyes remained stationary, fixed on me.
“I think…” he started and then paused for a long beat.
I said nothing, intent on giving him time. But when I stopped stroking his nose, he pushed his snout forward, seeking the contact. So I kept going, running my hand up and down along the ridges of his face.
“I think,” he started again, and paused, but only for a moment this time. “I think I’d like to wait until I…can find the words. Too many have slipped.”
“Of course.” I rubbed his muzzle. “We can keep it light tonight. Maybe you can tell me how you heard about Cinderella. And then I can tell you about the retelling I wrote when I was in high school.”
“R-r-retelling?”
“Yeah. Like, I took the story of Cinderella but put my own spin on it. And it was terrible. ”
“You wrote it?”
“Uh-huh. I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid. Still do, if I’m being honest. I’ve always had a big imagination—which isn’t always great when you start imagining bad things.
” Like you whipping that snakelike head around and ripping me off these rocks, dragging me to your underwater realm, and keeping me as your sex slave.
I shook that nasty thought off and said, “But I haven’t actually written anything since college. I just haven’t had the time.”
Alistair must have noticed my shudder, because another one of his hot breaths fanned over me. This one was unfortunate, though, because it hit me in unison with a breeze, which lifted the hem of my blouse, and sent Alistair’s hot air dancing across my belly.
And it tickled. I squirmed and bit back a laugh.
The black slits of Alistair’s eyes narrowed. He cocked his head, aiming his next breezy breath into my neck, where it grabbed a big tuft of my hair, making it stand up on end.
I squealed.
One of those deep, sonic boom chuckles reverberated out of him, rattling the stone beneath my feet.
“I’d like to hear your story,” he said, bumping his nose apologetically against my hip when our laughter cooled.
“Uh-uh, no sir. You’re going first.” I cautiously lowered myself down, letting my feet dangle over the edge.
Alistair ruffled and rested his chin against the ledge beside me, his orange eyes fixed on my face.
When I touched him, stroking between the spikes on his cheek, he sighed, lavishing the contact.
You poor, poor thing.
I kept petting his face, giving him the touches and affection he was so obviously craving. “So, Cinderella, I have a ton of questions, but there’s one I’m gonna need you to be honest about, Alistair. You don’t turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight, right?”