Unperfect (Unperfect, #1)

by Susie Tate

“Nithered?’ I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Southern wanker,” under my breath. “She’s cold, okay. Freezing. Nithered.” Heath blinked. “She’s cold? You dragged me over here straight after my twelve-hour shift to show me a cold woman? Max, everyone is cold today. It’s absolutely brass monkeys outside.” I huffed out an annoyed breath. “She’s not just cold, you git – she looked almost dead and felt like ice. And once I warmed her up in the office she fell asleep sitting bolt upright. That shit is weird. Something’s wrong with her.”

Mia smiled for the first time that day. It was closed-mouthed and edged with anxiety, but it was a smile. And for some reason I was furious it wasn’t directed at me.

Yaz poached a large chunk of Max’s steak. “I thought you were vegan,” Max protested. “I’m a flexatarian, you idiot.” “A flexi-whaty-what?” “A flexitarian. I don’t choose to order meat or animal products for environmental reasons, but if it’s already dead and presented to me I won’t let it go to waste.” “My steak was not presented to you. Neither was it going to waste. I was about to eat the blooming thing!” “Don’t you care about my iron and B12 levels?” “No. But even if I did, I’d tell you to order your own chuffing steak.”

Yaz and Mia’s eyes had been red-rimmed when they came back from town. When I asked Yaz what happened she told me they’d gone to the hairdressers. How did getting your hair done make you cry? I got my hair cut every month at Bob the Barber. Bob was sixty-five, bald and had a large beer gut. It was not an emotional experience.

“Yaz, why do I have a stone for recharging vaginas in my house?” Max asked, which I thought was a reasonable question.

“Yaz, stop putting sex stones in my house – it’s weird. And I asked you to stop embarrassing Mia.” “What do you mean?” she said, lifting her mass of wavy hair up off her neck and holding it on the top of her head. “How is discussing Mia’s foof embarrassing her?” “It’s fine,” I put in, willing the heat to leave my cheeks. “At least now I know not to handle the crystals without protective clothing. I’m not sure my sacral chakra would appreciate any revitalising at the moment.” “Everyone’s sacral chakra needs a good recharge,” Yaz told me,

“That’s your big secret, isn’t it?” she said. “What’s that?” “You – you’re kind. You’re a good man. You would never hurt me.” “No, love,” I said softly, searching her face and pushing her fringe back from her forehead. “Not ever.”

With real strength comes the integrity not to use physicality to control others, or emotional abuse to chip someone down to a shadow of their former self. Real strength means helping to build someone up so that they can be a real partner, an equal.

“I’d never realised before how many of the trappings of femininity make you weak. High heels mean you can’t run as fast, long hair makes you vulnerable to being grabbed, tight skirts are less easy to manoeuvre in. It’s like we’re physically weaker anyway, but then, just for good measure, society decides we need to be hindered even further.”