Real by Amy Bellows
Buddy
I try not to stare at H. Steppe told me to keep my head down so no one could see my skin, but H looks so big and soft, and he has freckles all over his body. When he touched my arm, his hand was warm and gentle.
It seems too good to be true that he’ll be the one I get to spend time with until the courts decide what to do with me.
I lower my head until all I can see are my clasped hands in my lap. The car moves back quickly, just like it did when Candlewick drove Dorian’s car out of the estate last night. Everything about our escape frightened me: the fire Candlewick started in the kitchen to distract the guards, the scratchy clothing he made me put on, and the way the car raced like lightning down the gravel driveway. I grabbed for Candlewick’s arm, and he looked back at me with confusion. “Have you never ridden in a car before, Bud?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. I knew what cars were. I even knew how to drive one. But the sensation of riding in one was foreign. Even if Steppe is right and I was created by magic, how on earth could I explain that?
H’s car makes a low hum as we roll over bumps and occasionally slow to a stop. I wish I could see where we were going or what the streets look like. Everything about the real world is bigger than what I’ve seen on TV, and there are so many scents in the air. H’s car smells of mint and coffee. I wonder what he would smell like up close. Candlewick always smells like soap and a slight musk that’s all his own. It used to linger on the pillowcase where he slept. When he warned me he wouldn’t be back for a while, I’d swap out the pillowcases and put Candlewick’s in my closet so I wouldn’t feel alone.
I wonder if I’ll ever see Candlewick again. He was only trying to help me, and they handcuffed him like a criminal. He yelled that everything would be okay as they dragged him away. All I could think was: okay for who?
Definitely not okay for him.
H drives for what seems like hours. The sun slowly fills the car with light, and he eventually turns on some music. It’s slow and sorrowful, and the singer’s deep voice drawls like the people in Western movies. The tone matches the sadness in my chest.
“Do you like country?” H asks. “We can listen to something else if you want.”
The question takes me aback. I’ve been asked lots of questions since Candlewick and I were stopped by the police. The officers wanted to know how my body worked and whether I needed to be charged or fed. They spoke to me with loud, slow words as if I were a child. Then they shoved me on a shelf in their evidence room next to a box of blood samples. While I sat there in the dark, I wondered if I had simply traded one kind of closet for another.
H’s question is very different. It’s the kind of question Candlewick might ask me.
“Your music is nice,” I say.
I wonder if this is when he’s going to ask me more questions about what I am or what I can do, but the only sounds I hear for the next hour are the music and the hum of the road. After a while, my eyes begin to droop. I haven’t been able to sleep at all since the escape. Maybe H wouldn’t mind if I rested my eyes for a bit. He probably wouldn’t even notice.
The next thing I know, the car has stopped, and the air smells of salt.
“Stay there until I open the garage from inside,” he tells me.
I don’t know how long I slept. I simply stare at him as he climbs out of the car and walks toward the entrance of an enormous house surrounded by a foggy gray sky and huge boulders of the same color.
I know I should stay inside, but I wonder if the ocean is beyond the fog. It takes me a few tries before I successfully open the door, then I step onto a gravel driveway. It’s just as isolated Dorian’s estate without another house in sight. Candlewick’s shoes are too big on my feet and flop awkwardly as I meander around to the back of the house. A thick wind blows against me, pushing me farther and farther until the clouds break and I realize I’m standing atop a cliff as high as a mountain. Below me, a dark ocean crashes toward the base of the cliffs, foaming white along its edges. It almost seems angry.
“Buddy!” H’s voice sounds alarmed.
I spin around and run for the driveway. The wind whips the hood off my head just as I round the corner. H’s shoulders sag with relief.
“We need to figure out how close the neighbors are before you go wandering around, okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. There are some big windows inside that look out on the coast. You can see the ocean from there.”
The garage door is open, and H’s small yellow car is parked inside. I follow him up a flight of cement steps into a sprawling kitchen with big, gleaming countertops. Just like H promised, the adjoining dining room has floor-to-ceiling windows that display the cliff and angry waves beyond.
“Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?” H says.
Again, the question is different than all the others I’ve been asked today. It’s a question one human would ask another.
“Would you like some breakfast? I could cook you something,” I offer.
H considers me for a moment. “Are you hungry?”
Not “Do you eat?” or “How does your body process energy?” but “Are you hungry?”
“I can’t digest food. I only drink water,” I explain.
He doesn’t seem surprised by this. Sometimes my answers made the police gawk at me like an animal in a zoo.
“It’s kind of you to offer to cook for me, but I have arms and legs. I can cook for myself.”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to help—”
“Thank you. But you don’t need to worry about taking care of me, Buddy. Just relax.”
If I don’t need to take care of him, what am I supposed to do? I already slept. What about him? He was driving half the night. It’s seven o’clock in the morning. He must be exhausted.
“I can prepare a bed for you. Freshen up the sheets?” I offer.
He smiles. “I can freshen up the sheets myself.”
“But I can do it.”
“I know you can, but you aren’t my servant. In fact, I’m here to help you.”
That idea is strange. The way H is treating me in general is strange. Even Candlewick was wary of me when he found me in my closet the first time. It took weeks before he became certain I wasn’t a robot or a sex doll.
H is already acting like I’m made of flesh and blood.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I still feel too keyed up from the drive to sleep. Maybe you could watch some TV with me. I could use the company.”
“Okay.”
I liked watching TV with Candlewick. He was generous with his affection when we laid in bed watching movies or soap operas together. I know that’s not how it will be with H, but it’s definitely better than sitting on the shelf in an evidence room.
“I saw a den on the other side of the house that had a TV. I don’t know what you and I are going to do with all this space. Seems like a waste.”
I follow him through the spacious dining room and living room to a hallway. He stops suddenly, and I almost run into him. I’m close enough that I breathe in his scent. It’s almost woodsy with a stronger musk. It makes me yearn between my legs like I do every night during my longing.
“Sorry, I forgot to close the garage door. Give me a second.”
H retraces his steps. Not quickly, but slowly. Everything about him seems slow. Not in a stupid way but in a sure way, a steady way. He’s like the rhythm of his music. He isn’t in a rush.
When he returns to the hallway, I pick out his scent as he walks past me. In the past, I’ve always imagined Dorian wanting me during my longing. Or in recent years, a faceless man who looked a lot like the alphas from the TV shows Candlewick liked to watch. Fantasies help me find relief from the horrible ache. I wonder what it would feel like to fantasize about H instead.
I probably shouldn’t wonder about things like that.