Chapter 4

Bloom Press assistant editor betting pool—official spreadsheet, tab: ACTIVE BETS

Jazmine: $50 — June 15 (3:1 odds) 

Camilla: $30 — July 1 (5:1 odds) 

 Eliyah: $40 — May 31 (2:1 odds) 

Moya: $25 — August 1 (6:1 odds) 

Layli: $50 — May 31 

 Iseul: $50 — May 31 

NOTE FROM JAZMINE: this is a professional document please do not add comments saying “this is mean” Iseul it is not mean it is capitalism working as intended

***

This woman was perfect in every way. She was kind, funny, beautiful, and brown-skinned. She worked as an insurance broker by day and an artist (though not a very good one) by night. Most importantly of all, she was actually into me and didn’t seem like she’d cheat on me and tell me she never loved me.

I couldn’t understand why I was so reluctant to be with her. 

I had met her at the dollar store three weeks ago. After my scissors mysteriously disappeared, as things around my house tended to do, I’d gone to the dollar store to get another pair. Passing by, she had made a joke about scissors that I had laughed at probably far disproportionately than a straight woman would have. She asked for my number after that and we had our first date not long after. 

We were on our third date now. Our schedules were both so busy we’d agreed to meet every Saturday night. A few of my new work friends had teased me about tonight, because apparently the third date was a standard the-night-ends-with-sex date. I’d laughed along, but I still wasn’t sure I really liked this woman. I didn’t know how I was going to tell her if she did make a move on me.

It was possible the problem was me. It had been over three weeks since I’d begun working at Bloom—over three weeks since Roman had given me that stuffed panda. 

And yet, for no reason at all, I found myself Googling Roman every night. Sometimes I read articles about her. Mostly I scrolled through all the images of her I could find. I browsed her Instagram, her LinkedIn, her tagged posts. I watched interviews she’d done and thirst trap edits of her made by book nerds on TikTok. I had even found a digital copy of her high school yearbook.

It was undeniable. I had become a crazy, rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth stalker. I hadn’t crushed on a woman this hard since possibly elementary school. And the crush in question was rapidly escalating into creepy territory. If I kept going on like this, it would be another month before I had a shrine dedicated to her like the serial killers in those true crime shows, and another month after that until I was anonymously writing her letters with a blood-filled pen saying I love you. Please marry me. We could be so happy together. Let me have your children.

I didn’t know how to help it. I wasn’t sure there had ever existed a more perfect woman. She was so unfairly beautiful. She was so infuriatingly smart. I couldn’t believe how much she had done and she was only in her early thirties. By sixty, she would probably put a stop to global warming. 

And she had given me a stuffed panda. Me. Just because she had touched it, it would probably be worth a million dollars in a decade.

The dreamy look on my face must have made my date pause. 

“What are you thinking about?” she asked from across the dinner table. We were at a fancy British restaurant. It was her choice—I hadn’t even known British cuisine was a real thing. 

I tried not to look guilty. My date’s name was Aleena Silva. She was my height but willowy, with shoulder-length dyed brown hair. Her eyes were greenish, or maybe hazel, depending on the light. The fact that I didn’t care to know was probably a sign.

Roman’s face flashed in my mind. “Dessert,” I said. 

Aleena smiled. She had a pretty smile, red-lipsticked and dimpled. “What, not liking your dinner?” she teased. 

“I like it,” I said slowly. I was a very bad liar. 

She raised an eyebrow. 

I was a very bad liar and a people-pleaser. It hurt to say it, but I admitted, “It’s just that the food is a little . . . bland.”

“Bland?” She looked offended, as if she had cooked it herself.

“It’s—I don’t know,” I said, my face flushing. “I just don’t get it. The British colonized a quarter of the world. They literally colonized India for their spices. Why is there no flavour in their food? Did they learn nothing?” 

Aleena’s expression eased, her smile returning. “I’ll take you to an Indian restaurant next time. I know a good spot.” 

Next time. I felt myself freeze. She was so confident there would be a next time.

I forced myself to take another bite of the steak and kidney pie. 

“What kind of dessert do you want?” Aleena leaned towards me, tilting her head suggestively, an undeniable glint in her eye. “Anything in particular?”

We ended up at her apartment, a few blocks away from the restaurant. She had cracked open a bottle of red wine and white wine—because I said I couldn’t pick a favourite—and we were several glasses deep. The room was spinning.

We’d decided on playing a card game. Snuggled into the grey couch, our feet bare because we’d been wearing heels, I won game after game. I couldn’t believe my luck. 

The loser had to reveal something personal about themselves. That meant I had ended up learning more about Aleena than I thought was humanly possible on a third date. Her parents’ divorce had given her an anxious attachment style. She hated her homophobic older brother. She didn’t like being fingered during sex, but if the other person liked it, she was happy doing it. In high school, she cheated on a math test and got caught. If men at her work asked her to bring them coffee (which wasn’t her job) she would sprinkle in cayenne pepper. 

I liked her. I genuinely thought she was funny. But I still couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t into her. 

Was I really so obsessed with Roman? I had met the woman once, almost a month ago, and I still couldn’t let go. For God’s sake, she was my boss. It would never amount to anything. It couldn’t. 

I won another hand. Instead of speaking, Aleena leaned over and kissed me. I tangled my fingers in her hair. Cards fluttered to the floor. I had to forget Roman, so I kissed her harder.

“I let you win,” she murmured against my lips.

“What? Why?”

“Because I like you. I want you to know me.” She kissed my neck, her hands sliding lower. “And I want you to feel comfortable letting me know you, too. Do you feel comfortable?” 

I stopped her hand as it reached my lower stomach. The touch suddenly felt overwhelming. “I—I don’t know,” I confessed. My vision had doubled. “Is that okay? Do you want me to go home?” 

Aleena’s eyes widened. She squeezed my hand and pulled me into a hug. “Of course not. Stay the night. You shouldn’t go home like this.” 

“I should,” I mumbled. “I have to go in to the office tomorrow and sort some stuff out.” 

“I’ll call you an Uber tomorrow morning.” Aleena stroked my hair. “But you don’t have to go anywhere right now, Kaalia.” 

“Okay,” I agreed. Without meaning to, I felt myself slipping into the dream world. I hadn’t realized how tired I was and how much wine I’d drank. Visions of Aleena’s beautiful face floated in my vision. Then hundreds of little doppelgangers of Aleena began twirling around like smoke-hewn ballerinas. Aleena’s beautiful dark brown skin and her warm, expressive, black eyes . . . that impossibly full mouth . . . her half-up, half-down braids . . . wait—that wasn’t Aleena—Roman? As if dream-Roman could piece together my scattered thoughts, all the ballerinas solidified into one. She winked at me and handed me a panda out of nowhere. It was smaller this time. 

“Put it next to Kiko,” she said. “It’s us as pandas.” 

I smiled and dissolved into the warmth of sleep. Aleena never stopped stroking my hair.

***

Hope you liked this chapter. We’re finally going to see Roman in the next one. Weekly updates every Sunday EST by the way! 

Love,
Meera