Page 47 of Bite Back

DELILAH

I feel like I’ve downed three espresso shots. Asher insisted we have an “actual, real first date,” so despite my protests—we’ve been on a lot of dates, they felt pretty real to me, we’re currently living together, for fuck’s sake—here we are.

He offered to take me to dinner, but I declined. Even though I’ve been branching out into real food more and more, I’m not sure I can stomach a whole meal. Physically or emotionally. Last night’s conversation still feels raw.

The thought of sitting across from Asher, the formality, the finality, the commitment. I’m not sure if I can go there yet. Or ever.

But I’ll give what I can. Asher offered to plan it and promised me I’d enjoy the surprise. I curl my hand into his and move closer as we navigate the sidewalk.

This is us trying. Moving forward as best we can after everything.

Asher moves a hand to the small of my back. Something curls into my stomach and prickles spread over me as Asher leans down to whisper in my ear.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” I nod, unable to find the words to explain the feelings churning within me.

A biker careens past us, and Asher throws out an arm.

“You know I’m immortal, right? It’ll take a lot more than a cyclist to do me in.”

He answers my taunt with surprising seriousness. “That doesn’t mean I won’t protect you.”

“But I don’t need protection.”

“I know that. Believe me, I trust you can take care of yourself. But I want you to know that you don't always have to.”

Warmth spreads in my chest.

He bends down, his beard tickling my cheek. “You don’t have to be nervous about our date either.” He sweeps an arm out. “We’ve arrived.”

Green carts loaded with books dot the sidewalk in front of us, and a red sign displays the store name overhead: Strand.

Relief settles in my core. Strand. We’re at Strand. I used to come here in the evenings when Luka left me to do God knows what.

The warm lights, the tables piled with books always felt warm and welcoming. I must have mentioned it to Asher at some point.

And he remembered. We move inside the store, and he beelines to a table with mustache mugs and holds one up to his face.

“What do you think? Should I grow the mustache out?”

“Oh, definitely, 100 percent, you’ve never looked hotter.”

A smile sparks across his face, warm and genuine, like a sunrise over a mountain.

He bumps his hip against my side and lowers his voice, suggestively. “So you agree I’m hot, then?”

A laugh escapes me, full-throated. “Would I have fucked you if I didn’t think you were hot?”

The creases at the corner of his eyes crinkle. He shrugs. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Oh, I have great taste, thank you very much.”

I run my hand up Asher’s arm, the muscles rippling under my fingers.

We’ve wandered down to the basement. It’s less busy than the first floor, with only a few people browsing, tote bags in hand. I tug Asher by the collar of his jacket and pull him into a nook.

Tall shelves, filled with creased and worn paperbacks, stretch towards the ceiling, sheltering us from view. The vanilla smell of old books fills my nostrils, mixing with Asher’s licorice scent. I inhale deeply. It smells like a bakery or a kitchen. It smells like home.

Asher notches his hand at the back of my neck, threading his fingers through my hair. His mouth curves into a smile as I bring my lips to his. Against mine, his lips move softly, tenderly. I melt against him, relaxing in his arms as he deepens the kiss.

We’ve kissed before, but this time feels different.

Like a declaration, like a commitment. Like a new beginning.

Exactly what we need after everything.

A throat clearing breaks the spell, and we stagger apart, dazed and sheepish. I survey the shelves around us and pull out a book at random. A couple embraces on the cover, clad in Regency dresses, in pose similar to the one we were just in. I flash the cover to Asher, and he winks at me.

“Wanna get that one?”

I flip the book over and skim the blurb. “Yeah, actually.” Asher tucks the book under his arm, and we meander our way to the checkout. Night has fallen as we step out on the sidewalk, Asher’s arm draped casually over my shoulder.

Like it belongs there.

The following Tuesday, we cluster around the pool table, the five of us. Sarah, Kirby, Claude, Asher, and I. There’s a normalcy, simultaneously comforting and unnerving.

Comforting because this is what I always wanted. To feel like I belonged somewhere, like I was seen and known and understood. To feel what I thought I had with Luka.

And unnerving because Luka didn’t teach me just not to trust him. He taught me not to trust myself. What if this normalcy is just an illusion? What if I’ve made a mistake again? Gotten lost in a fantasy and ignored the reality of the situation?

What if it all falls apart? And I’m alone again.

I shove down the swell of negativity rising in my chest.

I won’t let him take more from me than he already has. Won’t let him touch this, ruin this, ruin me, ruin us.

I line up my cue, hands caressing the smooth wood surface, one eye squinted shut. I just need to focus on this, on here and now. I draw my arm back in a fluid motion as I inhale and push it forward as I exhale. The balls smack together and roll into the pocket. I jump up, arms extended.

Sarah high-fives me, a broad smile stretching across her face. Kirby’s there too, squealing, and Asher claps me on the back. Laughter spills from me.

We collapse into a worn leather booth, a pile of bodies and a tangle of limbs.

Asher disappears for a moment, only to arrive back laden with drinks: beer for him and Sarah and Bloody Marys for me and Claude.

I seize the olive spear and bring it into my lips.

Ruby liquid drips from the green orbs, falling down into the drink.

Asher stiffens beside me, and I straighten in response. My gaze finds his. Does it bug him still? Does it bug me that it bugs him?

I hold his gaze as I bite down on the olive, bloody sweetness and briny tang mixing on my tongue.

He holds my gaze, unflinching. There’s a glint of…something in his eye.

My stomach flips. Is that revulsion? Something else? If what I am scares him, how can we ever be anything to each other? Maybe I was right. Maybe all of this is fake, an illusion, temporary. Or maybe he’s really trying. But maybe trying isn’t enough.