Page 95 of Mated to the Mountain Bear
But she’s already padding across the room, her bare feet silent on the wood. The ancient box fan rattles to life, pushing hot air in circles. Jerry lifts his head from his spot by the door, tags jingling, then settles back with a huff.
“I need to book those flights today.” She says, not meeting my eyes. “To Vancouver.”
“Two tickets.”
She pauses, fingers twisting in the sheets, as she slides back into bed. Just for a second, but I caught it.
“Of course. Two tickets.” She turns, attempting a smile. “Though it’s going to be incredibly boring. Just picking up boxes and dealing with production assistants.”
I cross to her, needing to touch her, despite the heat. “I’m not letting you go alone. They’re Amber’s things. You shouldn’t have to do it on your own.”
“Ben...” She places her hand on my chest, fingers splaying over my racing heart. “You hate it here.”
I don’t lie. “I’ll survive.”
“Yes, you’re putting up with it for me, but you still hate it. And eventually, you won’t be fine.” Her declaration sits heavy between us, mainly, because she’s right.
“Come back to bed,” she says softly. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
The mattress dips as I settle back in beside her. She curls against me, her breath warm on my chest. The fan rattles. Someone’s car alarm goes off two blocks away. A couple arguesin the apartment above us, their voices carrying through the thin ceiling.
As the hours tick by, and my bear paces inside my head like a caged animal, I admit to myself that Idofucking hate it here.
Morning comes with pale light through dirty windows. Zara’s already on the phone, pacing the small kitchen while she talks to airlines. I watch her navigate around the table, the counter, the trash can. Eight steps to the wall, turn, eight steps back.
“Friday morning,” she says, ending the call. Her fingers drum against her thigh. “We fly out Friday morning.”
My chest tightens. Three more days in this concrete box. Three more days of breathing recycled air and pretending my skin doesn’t crawl every time someone walks too close on the sidewalk.
“Ben.” She sets the phone on the counter with careful precision. “What if you went home for a few days first? Before Vancouver?”
My coffee mug stops halfway to my mouth. “What?”
She’s sending us away. My bear is devastated. What did we do wrong?
“You could let your bear run. Get some fresh air.” She’s looking up at me with sympathy, like I’m the one this is hard for, and not my mate, who’s dealing with the fallout from her sister’s disappearance. “Then meet me for the flight on Friday.”
She wants me gone.
“I’m fine,” I insist through gritted teeth.
“You’re not.” She touches my face, thumb brushing my tense jaw. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “You need trees and dirt and space. There’s no sense in you watching me shuffle papers all week. I want you to be comfortable.” She leans in and gives me a kiss. “For me.”
God, she’s perfect. But this feels so wrong.
“One week.” Her fingers tighten on my face. “Friday morning at the airport. I promise.”
An hour later, I’m shoving clothes into my duffel bag. The zipper sticks, and I force it harder than necessary. Jerry follows me from the bedroom to the door and back, whining low in his throat.
“Jerry stays,” I tell her at the door. My keys dig into my palm.
She nods, one hand on his collar. He’ll watch over her while I run away.
“Friday,” she says. The word sounds fragile in the narrow hallway. There’s a wobble in her voice. It’s killing me to hear it.
“I can stay,” I whisper against her lips, but she’s shaking her head.
“Friday.”
