Rory
I am so, so mad at myself. For thinking, even for a second, that I could have this.
That I could have her. For getting lost in the warmth of her smile.
For forgetting that I’m not the kind of man who gets to keep nice things—I’m not that kind of man at all.
In fact, I’m not a man; depending on your interpretation of genetics, I’m three-fourths a man at best. The other fourth is a minotaur—the type of creature that breaks things and sends women like Scarlett running and screaming.
I should say something. I should at least try.
The words won’t come. It’s not that I don’t have them; it’s that all of them are bad.
She asked me out and then turned away from me, flashing that cute smile I now know is her flirting with me. I was revving up to ask her how she felt about tea. Then, if she responded favorably, I was going to suggest a tea date—even though I don’t know if that’s a thing.
But, we turned the corner, and I remembered who—what—I am. And like everything I touch, I shattered the tiny, fragile moment we’d built between us.
Scarlett’s light seems to have dimmed in response to mine, as she peruses the prominent display of my mother’s work. Her fingers no longer trail flirtily along teacup rims as her eyes scan the shelves and tables.
I want to reach into my throat and yank out something—anything—that would patch the mood, but every time I try to speak, I just hear my mother’s voice, acid and loud: You’re scaring the girl. You’re just like your fucking father—no sense of boundaries. Back away. Give her space.
“You okay?” she asks, soft, with that kind of sidelong glance humans have given me my whole life—weary, confused, unsure.
“Fine,” I lie, but she doesn’t look convinced, which is fair, because I am not okay. I am a biohazard spill of need and shame, and I want to melt through the floor and die underneath the lowest shelf.
“You sure?”
I shift my weight from hoof to hoof, tail flicking once, then rigid, then curling down tight. My arousal is a memory, the painful pressure replaced by a different kind of ache—higher up, somewhere near the heart—if I even have one.
“You don’t have to pretend,” she says, and her voice has this sneaky tenderness I know I don’t deserve. “If I said something—”
“You didn’t,” I say, and my voice comes out so loud it rattles a teacup on the next display over.
I step back, lowering my head. “Sorry, Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”
She doesn’t even flinch. She should, though…I’m a thing to be feared.
“It’s okay,” she says, squinting at me as if she’s trying to read me.
I can feel her running through the possibilities in her mind. Did she say something wrong? Did she touch the wrong thing? Did she somehow offend the minotaur by making a butt joke? None of it is her fault. It’s mine. Only mine.
I want to tell her. I want to say, “You are perfect. I am the problem.”
Instead, I glance at the shelf in front of us, lined with my mother’s work—the children she wanted—all bone china, hand-painted, and all bearing her name.
“That one’s from her third line,” I say, nodding at a red teapot. “Up to this point, she worked in multiple colors, but this was the series that marked her move to only working in reds and greens—it’s what she’s known for.”
“Red and green?” Scarlett asks, her smile now twisted with confusion. “I thought minotaurs couldn’t distinguish red and green.”
“We can’t. We’re dichromats—we only have two cone receptors in our eyes. We see similarly to humans with red-green color blindness. Everything’s in shades of yellow, blue, and grey. It’s why I wear these.” I say, pointing at my glasses. “Well, part of why. I’m also nearsighted.”
“Oh, so your mother wore the corrective lenses, too?”
“Oh, no, my mother is a human.”
The shift in color “coincidentally” aligned with when my mother discovered I couldn’t see red and green naturally—of course, it wasn’t purposeful, at least according to her.
“She’s…really talented,” Scarlett says. “I mean, I don’t know anything about ceramics, but this is pretty.”
“Yeah, she’s one of the best ceramicists of her time,” I say, and the words sound like they’re being squeezed through a tube. “She sends me new pieces every month. I get them at a slightly discounted rate.” I laugh.
The silence grows between us again.
“Sorry,” I manage, because it’s the only thing I know how to say.
She shrugs, but the motion is smaller than before. “No worries. I get it. My mom’s a piece of work, too.” She glances at the display, then back to me, and I can see she wants me to jump in with my story.
I can’t. The silence lengthens.
Don’t get attached, Rory.
I can’t stand it. I turn away and start fussing with the cups on the next shelf, straightening them, aligning the handles, doing anything to keep my hands busy.
Scarlett hovers for a few seconds, like she’s trying to decide whether to say something else. Instead, she sighs—a little noise, barely audible—then walks a step closer.
I can feel her behind me, watching me.
I wish she’d leave. I wish she’d stay forever.
I want to tell her how badly I want to be good enough for someone like her. How the second I smelled her, I knew I’d never be the same, and how the idea of ever losing her, even in this tiny, almost-not-real way, hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt.
But I am a coward, and a brute, and I am not allowed to have the thing I want most.
Not allowed. Not allowed. Not allowed.
Finally, she says, “I should probably get going,” and it feels more like a death sentence than a spoken one.
She hesitates, just long enough that I could say something—could ask her to stay, could invite her out, could do anything except what I actually do, which is stare at the cups until my vision blurs.