One
Bree
Like I do every Thursday afternoon, I head into the yoga studio with my mat under one arm. Most of the other students are already there, grabbing lockers and chatting. My yoga class is mostly women, and fairly mixed between humans and monsters. There are only two men who attend regularly—Micah, a nice older human, and then him.
Mangelli. That’s his nickname, anyway, the one he goes by at the studio. It seems to be like a football name, where his last name has been yelled so many times that everyone knows him by it. But I know his real name.
Arthur. Which maybe is also why he goes by Mangelli, because it sounds like an old guy’s name.
He’s tall, so damn tall, with those cute curly horns and goat ears sticking out of his bouncy blond hair. Then, the big grin he gets whenever he sees someone he knows? How his flat little nose scrunches up, his fluffy tail wags, and you can see just how not human he is? That’s when his hooves click on the floor as he heads over to exchange a high-five.
“Hey, Bree!” Mangelli notices me just as he finishes greeting Micah. “Good to see you!”
We talk to each other every week, and every week he says the same thing. Good to see you! And he’s not the kind of guy who just says nice things for the sake of saying them. He’s genuine, if kind of dopey, like a golden retriever. So I believe he means it.
“Hey, Mangelli,” I answer, giving him a big smile. His enthusiasm for life makes me grin every time we talk. “How are you?”
“I’m awesome! You?”
“I’m okay. Work has been a pain.” I’ve had so many administrative tasks lately getting ready for tax season that I’ve barely been able to perform.
Mangelli fist-bumps me. “Ready to take it onto the mat?” he asks, as if we’re about to wrestle instead of do yoga.
I love his sense of humor. I feel like he gets me and holds nothing back.
“You’re on,” I say with a laugh.
After stuffing my things into a locker, I find Mangelli waiting for me as we head into the yoga studio, a clear question on his face.
“What’s up?” I ask as we walk through the double doors.
“Well, I could use your advice.”
I raise my brows. We’ve spoken every week for about a year now, but I didn’t think we were friends. Which is too bad. I would like to be Mangelli’s friend.
I’d like that a lot.
“What do you need advice about?”
“I’m polling my women friends. We’re talking about, um, having a fawn.”
My brain skips. A fawn?
A satyr baby, my memory supplies.
Hmm. I didn’t expect that. I know he’s married, but I thought it was to another guy.
“Oh? Who’s ‘we’?” I ask.
Mangelli rubs his hand over his face. “Me and the husbands. My herd.”
Husbands, plural?
“What’s the question?” I ask, trying to remain neutral, though I’m still reeling from the revelation that he has more than one partner—and they’re talking about having a baby.
“Do you know what DreamTogether is?”
I keep my reaction under control. I am familiar with DreamTogether, the breeding clinic for monsters who want children of their own, because I see their ads on TV all the time. Happy families with new babies, very diverse. They’re cute ads.
