* * *
Did Ben hate dancing?
He didn’t remember. All he knew was that the world was tilting, the glow-orbs overhead had doubled, and he was flailing his arms to a pop song he didn’t know the name of. Around him, other guests wiggled or stomped or flapped their wings in similarly chaotic fashion.
“I love this song!” shouted the pixie hovering a few inches off the ground next to him. Themmie—short for Themmaline—Tibayan was a Pixtagram influencer and a good friend. Her normally black hair was bespelled purple and pink, and her iridescent wings shimmered. Along with Gigi, she’d been one of the instigators of the get-Ben-on-the-dance-floor campaign.
“Me, too!” shouted a British demon with pale blond hair and black horns who was gyrating on the opposite side of the small circle they’d formed. That was Astaroth, Oz’s former mentor, who had been kind of evil before a bout of amnesia had improved him immensely. The improvement was also due to his partner, Calladia Cunnington, who had reformed the demon during a road trip nearly two years ago. Astaroth’s memories had returned, including the knowledge that he was half human, but he’d remained on Team Good and now lived with Calladia on Earth, visiting the demon plane on occasion to help implement progressive societal reforms.
Astaroth was an incredible dancer. He’d spun Calladia around the floor in a waltz earlier—only wincing a few times when she stepped on his toes or head-butted him while trying to take the lead—and now he was doing an enviable John Travolta impression. He was also ridiculously handsome and an expert swordsman, and Ben had reflected more than once that the universe needed to spread out its gifts a bit more evenly.
Thankfully, being surrounded by good dancers and internet-famous pixies meant fewer people were looking at Ben. Thus, he was free to flail.
“When are you going to get hitched?” Themmie asked Astaroth, slurring her words. Ben noticed there were little hearts painted on the apples of her brown cheeks.
Astaroth looked toward the bar where Calladia was ordering drinks, and his face softened into an utterly infatuated expression. “Neither of us particularly believe in the institution of human marriage, and we don’t need a ceremony to be bound together forever.”
“Aww,” Themmie said. “But what about the tax benefits?”
Astaroth grimaced. “Right. Sometimes I forget humans are determined to suck the money and joy out of everything.” He shrugged. “Maybe someday, then, but I’ll let her lead the way. I’m just fortunate to be able to love her for as long as I can.”
A sharp ache took up residence in Ben’s chest. What he would give to be able to love someone with all his neurotic heart . . . but who could possibly love him back?
Drunk flailing took a sharp turn into drunk moroseness.
Themmie turned to face Ben. “And you? Got your eye on anyone special?”
Ben’s eyes were not fixed on anyone special, but they did abruptly grow watery. The ache spread and deepened, and he stopped waving his arms. “No,” he said sadly.
Themmie looked alarmed at his sudden shift in mood. She returned to the ground, then wrapped a small hand around his arm. “Come on,” she said. “I need a breather.”
She didn’t even come up to his shoulder, but pixies were stronger than they looked, and Themmie had no problem manhandling him off the dance floor. The world spun, and Ben staggered before face-planting into a tree.
Themmie winced. “Let’s sit you down.” She guided him to a bench. “Head between your knees.”
Ben obeyed, bracing his elbows on his knees and lowering his head. He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the urge to vomit. Damn the whiskey. If he were a normal person, he wouldn’t need to get drunk to dance at his friend’s wedding.
He’d said that last bit aloud, unfortunately.
Themmie patted his back. “Normal is overrated,” she said. “But want to talk about it?”
Ben didn’t. He really, really didn’t, especially not to an internet-cool pixie some fifteen years younger than him who generally had at least two or three significant others. That was why he opened his mouth and spilled the entire story to her.
“I’m thirty-eight and single and haven’t dated in nearly a decade. My business takes up all my time, and I like to knit, and I’m not even a proper werewolf, and who could ever love someone who feels this anxious most of the time? I should like all the howling and biting things, but I just feel out of control, and no one else likes sweater vests even though they’re wrong about that, and what if nothing about me is attractive and I die alone in a ditch?”