Page 18 of Below the Shadow of the City
CHAPTER 18
WEDNESDAY, EARLY OCTOBER
T he first thing Maddox asks me when we meet in the laundry room again is about my dad. His brows furrow in concern, but when I tell him that my dad is okay and got released on Monday, the dark cloud that hovered over him in the car all but vanishes.
The second thing he asks is, “you brought me cookies, again?”
In an instant, he’s back to his charming, sunny self. I want to apologize for dredging up all the feelings of emptiness and loss. I don’t know how to say that in a way casual fuckbuddies should. Now that I've been home and settled for a few days, and I have the relief of knowing my dad is fine, my thanks for him are incredibly overdue. And expressing gratitude through cookies is simple.
“To serve as a thank you, I guess? I didn’t know what else to do,” I shuffle my feet against the floor. “I felt like I couldn’t show up empty handed. There must be the ghost of some weird Midwestern grandma that possesses me and says I need to share my feelings through baked goods.”
I can’t show my feelings through any other normal avenue. I can’t tell him how those small acts he did for me meant more than anything any ex has ever done. It’s all still so new and unfamiliar, he shouldn’t be overextending himself to help me out. Even though he has no clue exactly how impactful he’d been during the days I was away.
He pries open the container and extracts one of the cookies with a grin before setting the box atop a dryer, “you can let that ghost hang around if this is going to keep happening.”
“I could probably make good on that,” I sigh.
“Is that a hint of commitment I hear from the elusive Sigrid Larson?” He bites his lip with a devious grin, “or are we still afraid?”
Commitment. Is that what I’m promising by offering future baked goods? Is that what I want? The word sends a flurry of movement in my chest. Is this panic or excitement? The two feelings are too close to differentiate.
“No, no, I’m not afraid of you Maddox?—”
“I didn’t say afraid of me.”
“Right, well, it isn’t because there’s the whole interspecies gap between us or whatever you want to call it—” I wave my arms around in an attempt to dispel how flummoxed I am.
“ Interspecies gap ,” he chortles under his breath.
“Oh my god, Maddox, I’m trying to be sensitive and sincere, this is incredibly rare,” I nervously laugh, fingers still trembling from the uncharacteristic outpouring of emotion I’d done.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” a smile upturns the corners of his lips. “It’s kind of cute how you beat around the bush like that. You’ve been very careful not to outright call me a beast or monster.” He winks. I melt a little bit. This was much easier when we were just having sex in his fancy apartment, not stiff, emotional conversations in the cold dark basement. I would say I don’t know why I let it progress past the one night stand, but I’d be lying.
Maybe, I like the complications and the drama. Maybe the emotional turmoil feels good because for the first time in months I am actually feeling something. Acting on feeling alone is what has gotten me hurt before, and truly, is it worth it to break what’s left of my heart?
There haven’t been rules for etiquette here. We haven’t talked much about it. And maybe ignoring his species was actually offensive. I’m afraid of the inevitability of heartbreak, not mythical creatures or guys with fur and claws. “It feels wrong to say,” I manage. “Like it’s, I don’t know, a slur or something.”
“Say it,” he nods his head as he teases. “Say I’m a monster.”
“Maddox—”
He bites his lips agonizingly slow and his eyes flash over me, “just say it. I want you to say it.” Something deep rumbles in his chest, a purr of discontentment.
I inhale and my chest rattles with unease, I’m fully clothed but somehow feel more exposed right now than I ever did when I was naked in front of him. He’s teasing me, and he’s honestly awful for it.
“Say it,” he says low this time, practically a growl that explodes in my chest.
“You are,” I start, “a terrible, horrible, borderline evil, beastly monster. And I hate that I want you as badly as I do.” I trail off in almost a whisper.
It does feel good to admit it aloud. I had been evading that fact for some time, focused on other complications between us beyond the incredibly obvious one. He’s a monster, and despite that fact, or maybe because of it, I am so incredibly attracted to him.
“Attagirl,” he quips in a growl, and my entire core melts into a puddle of molten lava. “You’re really giving Jane Austen a run for her money there.”
“Can you please just kiss me you asshole,” I snicker. I’m aching for him. My lips purse into an impish smile. God, I’m practically begging him to grip his claws into my flesh and tear me wide open.
“That I can manage,” his lips flick into a devilish grin and he pushes me against the wall. Momentarily I forget about any dust or cobwebs sticking to me as his lips press into me.
He pulls away from me slowly, “so, if you want me, despite me being a quote-unquote ‘evil beastly monster,’ what is it you’re so afraid of?”
“I’m cursed,” I say sheepishly, of course it sounds utterly ridiculous to say aloud. No normal person would be so entirely convinced they have some sort of spell cast on them to make them kill every relationship they’ve ever been in.
“You’re…cursed?” There are cogs whirring in his head as he tilts it to one side. He’s doing an incredible job of not bursting out laughing at the prospect. It is ridiculous, I’m well aware of that fact.
“Every single time I’ve let someone in I’ve steadily killed the relationship. Every last one of them. They wake up one day, realize I’ve wrung them dry of any affection, and leave me. I’m clearly not meant to be in a relationship long term. And I’m terrified that if I let myself fall for you in the way I want to I would be absolutely destroyed if you ever left.”
“I won’t,” he grasps for my hands and they disappear in his massive leathery palms. “Even if my feelings for you ever change, I promise, I won’t ever drop you out of the blue. But for now, as far as I’m concerned, you’re mine , Sigrid.”
Being his is a fucking terrifying premise. And my mouth involuntarily drops open at the statement. I feel my head shake back and forth and my lips form the word ‘no.’
I don’t mean to subconsciously reject him, my body is acting on its own volition. There’s nothing I can do to stop the motions, I watch him wither at my response. I can’t apologize now, I can’t undo what my body automatically did. It operated on an instantaneous reaction. It operated on fear.
He slumps against the wall and rubs his fingers across his brow. His tail rhythmically whips back and forth like a metronome.
There’s a distance between us now, and I’m doing my best to not walk through the door back into my building. It would be so incredibly easy to run. I really think he’d chase after me this time.
He clears his throat a few times, like he’s willing the right words to come out. “I’m not some main character in a romance novel, okay? I don’t know how to eloquently say all of these things I feel about you, Sigrid. And I know you’re confused about whether or not this so-called risk is worth the reward. I’m practically begging you to please, please live in the moment with me a bit without being so afraid. I can’t keep living like I have a damn doomsday clock ticking above my head. Either you want this, and me, and all the weirdness, and intricacies, and unknown that comes with that, or you don’t. But you need to choose.”
I watch his fist clench and unclench as he speaks. His chest heaves as he settles himself after speaking. Of course he doesn't want to play this game.
“It’s too much,” I barely choke it out. He’s giving me everything I could have ever asked for and more, and I’m terrified of accepting it.
It’s like each time I metaphorically reach for him there’s an invisible force around me that pins my arms to the side.
He takes a few steps closer and I tense. He doesn’t deserve this, Hurricane Sigrid can’t suck him into her horrible vortex. I’m sparing him if I let him go. I lower my head and squeeze my eyes shut to keep the tears from dripping onto the floor.
“I’m only asking you to let this happen without fear, not sign your life away into an eternal contract. Look at me.” My chin rests between his thumb and forefinger and he tilts my head to meet his azure glassy eyes. “I’ve been steadily falling for you since the night we first spoke. Every single day I fall for you harder. It’s going to take a hell of a lot to change that. ”
“But—” I protest. It’s been hardly any time at all. He’ll change his mind. Maybe not today, the uncertainty lives in the someday. I know he will, everyone else has. I don’t think I could bear hearing the gentle words of rejection escaping his lips. The idea of becoming nothing more than a nuisance he needs to shake off makes me sick to my stomach.
“No buts,” he says sternly. “In your heart of hearts, do you feel the same way or am I a complete fool? Was I too optimistic to think I could convince you to fall for me?”
If anyone’s a fool it’s me. Only a fool would question someone’s motives after listening to their romcom-esque monologue convincing you to stay days after dropping everything to care for them. My bottom lip has been chewed raw at this point, there’s a warm metallic taste on my tongue. I stay silent for too long and he shakes his head in frustration.
He backs up towards the door to his side and raises his arms in defeat. “You’re gonna have to make a decision, Sigrid. I’d probably wait for you forever, but it’ll kill me if I have to.” The door shuts and the sound reverberates through the laundry room. I’m back where I started a few weeks ago, alone down here in the middle of the night questioning what’s wrong with me.
When I get back to my apartment, my door feels heavier than normal. As if it’s no longer made of shitty pine and is instead a steel door to a stony fortress. I resign that I’ll stay trapped in my chambers as long as I can.
It’s been a decade since I’ve been cursed. There was no formal spell, no wave of a magic wand, merely words spoken like an incantation that will haunt me until I die.
I was eighteen. I’d been moved out of my parents house for a month, was scraping quarters off the sidewalk to pay for my laundry, and had only had two fleeting high school relationships.
I had box-dyed black hair, a fresh septum piercing, and a pair of worn Doc Martens that made me feel cool enough to pass in Williamsburg. I’d moved here on a whim, the neighborhood was romanticized on Tumblr pages and indie movies. Instead, I’d swiftly learned that I’d need to commute to Manhattan to make any real money, and that all the cool artsy people already were friends with one another. And they certainly didn’t have room for a Long Island suburbanite dressed in an indie sleaze costume.
I’d been paired with another host during my shift I’d yet to meet previously. And he was everything. Shaved head and a chiseled jawline, with piercings that studded his face like crown jewels. His green eyes were like two glowing emeralds and the gold bridge piercing between them gave them an otherworldly glint.
He certainly didn’t look like a wizard or warlock. And I’ve given him too much power over me for the better part of a decade because my first meeting with him had me utterly spellbound.
“Your natural brunette would suit your skin tone better, love,” was the first thing he’d said to me. I looked painfully stupid, I’m positive my jaw was hanging on the floor. He twirled a finger around a piece of my hair before I could respond, “I have someone in Hell’s Kitchen who could fix this up, for cheap too.” He had a slight British accent, like he’d maybe spent some formative years there before crossing the pond.
I was still silent. Terrified to be perceived and embarrassed at this point. Of course the black dye looked awful, I’d spent ten bucks and a few hours after taking half an edible getting it to that point. And he was so fucking gorgeous he shouldn’t have even glanced at me, let alone spoken to me.
“Freddie, by the way,” he extended his hand, offering some weird professionalism after the backhanded compliment. Though, I was still searching for the compliment underneath his comment.
“Sigrid,” my name sounded stodgy and ancient compared to his snappy shortened one.
I stumbled through my shift, constantly distracted by the way his husky voice soothed irritated restaurant patrons, and how cool she was under pressure. I wanted to be as cool as him, I wanted to know him, and kiss him, and so many other things that I didn’t think were possible with someone I’d met hours before.
We each got handed envelopes with our tip payout, money I usually put towards slightly better groceries or maybe a single meal out. I was counting the dollars when Freddie cleared his throat, “wanna grab a drink? I know a spot three blocks over that does industry happy hour after midnight.”
I don’t remember if I verbally agreed or if I just nodded aggressively, but I do remember Freddie’s strong hand pulling mine across streets to an unassuming dive. If one didn’t notice the small neon rose sign, and knew that it was a bar, it would go entirely unnoticed.
We each had a few beers, and he grew increasingly close as the night progressed and drinks were finished. His soft hands trailed up my forearms, and his dark eyes focused intently on me, rapt with each word.
Talking with him grew easier, and before I could process it, we were kissing. Both of us leaned over on our barstools, my hands clutched around his thighs, and our lips tangling with the taste of cheap beers and bar peanuts.
And then I was tossed into a six month whirlwind with him. He pulled me into his orbit, introduced me to his cool friends, had me change my hair, and morphed me into someone else. Through this metamorphosis, I’d discovered bits and pieces of my true self as the line between who the real me was and the person Freddie wanted had blurred.
I grew more resistant to his encouraged changes, I fought back his backhanded comments. The black box dye didn’t return, but pieces of the old me did. I didn’t think I needed to turn into a complete stranger in order to be loved by someone.
On a night when Freddie was supposed to take me to an exclusive music club, I showed up in a dress I loved and hadn't worn in months. He’d described it as something “a goth kindergarten teacher would wear” and I shoved it in the back of my closet. I loved it, and knew I looked good in it. So, I wore it and showed up at his apartment to meet with her, and was met with complete and utter disgust.
She pulled me into another room and rifled through his roommate’s closet for something he deemed more appropriate for such an occasion, making comments about my weight, height, and anything else that made me seem “less” than him.
“Why do I need to change at all? Why can’t I wear what I want?” My voice shook, but I couldn’t let myself cry in front of him, he would coolly tell me it was childish to.
He spun around and I saw something cross his face that was equal parts pity and annoyance. “Don’t you realize you’re so much better now? I made you, you were nothing, borderline pathetic when we met. You’re actually becoming someone people might like now, and you’re going to throw that all away?”
“But, you love me, don’t you? That’s why you took me out the night we met, why you’ve stayed…” I asked in something that was more like a plea. I was metaphorically on my knees begging for something. He laughed, a witches cackle almost.
“Oh Sigrid, how could anyone truly love you ?” He cupped my chin and stroked my cheek. He planted a kiss on my forehead and guided me swiftly out the door. I felt something physically change in me, I didn’t see pixie dust settle, but I felt thoroughly coated in some sort of dark magic.
“How could anyone truly love you” has echoed in my thoughts every day since.
It’s probably completely ridiculous to give a singular person so much power over me. If Freddie wasn’t the one who cursed me, then it certainly is a wild coincidence. Chalk it up to self-fulfilling prophecies, ancient amulets, or something else intangible. I knew exactly from the moment he said it what my eternal fate would be.
Freddie set off a line of cursed endings, all of which I wholeheartedly believe were earned. There was Max, who cheated on me with a girl who shared my features but was notably thinner. There was Jake, who split up with me on my birthday hours before my party. A handful of others who hardly stood to be remembered and hurt all the same at the time. All of them lead to the final blow, Perrie. Who just texted me again.
I really want to talk.
I anticipate a second message that says “you can’t ignore me forever.” I can, can’t I? I can wash myself of her existence, and the way she abandoned me now. I grieved her loss for months while she was traipsing all over the UK. I didn’t respond to her first message, and I’m tempted to block her after the second until I decide that feels like letting her win. As if blipping her from existence now would remind her of her hold on me.
I delete it, as I did the last, and her name vanishes from my inbox with a little poof.
Nothing left to say, the casket has been closed, it’s being lowered into the ground as we speak. Maybe in this metaphor I’m clutching onto the pine box with all my might, refusing to let my past be fully buried, but I’m still here. Still above ground.
That’s not to say I’m entirely unaffected by her reemergence. My bottom lip is chewed raw and I don’t realize until I taste something hot and metallic and there’s a sting when I swipe my tongue over it.
In past relationships, I’d always made pro and con lists to settle my logical brain. Lists were easy and straightforward and didn’t complicate things. I could look at the list and make objective, rational decisions.
With Perrie, I thought I cracked the code. She had a list of her own, pros and cons. Positive attributes and faults. I made an informed choice, I thought I’d done things right this time around. I thought maybe, years later, I’d broken the curse.
It worked, for a while. Years, in fact. I let my anxiety rest momentarily. Things were secure and safe. Freddie’s words still lingered; they were much quieter now.
I hadn’t a singular clue what was about to happen in the moments before she broke up with me. And now, rereading her cryptic text that I’ve still left unanswered, I don’t know what would happen if I spoke to her again.
Any lingering feelings are long gone. I don’t love her anymore, and there’s little to miss. It’s not like she’d been so exceptional that I should’ve spent my days as haunted by her as I had.
I must be incredibly broken if I want to avoid talking to Maddox in the same way I want to avoid talking to Perrie. Because everything that Perrie turned into when things ended, Maddox is the complete opposite.