My Boyfriend is a Bigfoot?

Chapter Two

The stay was relatively brief. They ruled out a number of more serious neurological problems and sent me home after a few days once they'd become reasonably assured I was meningitis-free. Graciella, the Rabat family matriarch, said they'd cover the cost, which was unacceptable to me. What were some medical bills stacked atop a considerable mountain of student loans? I told her I'd take on the debt.

Tuesday morning, I was back at the bakery, kneading dough opposite the severe, lanky figure of Topher Rabat. He was coating his millionth batch of everything bagels in all the seedy speckles that were the principal quality of their 'everythingness'. We'd been texting nonstop about the incident ever since the doctor granted me back my screen privileges, and we were nearing the end of our first IRL hour of discussing it.

In a word, we were dumbfounded. In more words, we were absolutely, completely dumbfounded. Both of us were well-familiarized with the scholarly work of Shane Madej and Ryan Bergara, and saw only one conceivable culprit behind my encounter in the woods: cryptids.

Not literally, of course. But contemplating the more rational likelihoods behind my mysterious rescue felt inexorably dull. If Neighbour George had found me that night on his way back home and scooped me into his ancient pickup truck, Topher and I never considered it aloud. In our version of events, a ravishing mothman had taken me in his wings and whisked me to safety. There had never been a setting more teeming with the eldritch and occult than the backwoods surrounding his family's estate, after all.

The day ticked by in no time at all, as was typical at Voilà! Patisserie, where I was helpless to slip into a flow state of repetitive, focused baking. One of our regulars jingled the door chime and rattled off a complicated order to Topher, who spared no time flitting from the counter to the back and returning with a brown paper bag for the politely smirking gentleman. I gave Topher a puzzled look, having never heard this particular precise and cryptic order before. The man slid his card through the machine without checking the bag and was off.

"What did he want?"

Topher shrugged. "I don't know. I just gave him a banana."

He was the third to last customer of the day, which ended with a dishevelled-looking woman done up in a striped navy-blue pantsuit coming in five minutes before closing, eyeing me suspiciously as she ordered a cranberry bran muffin, and leaving a whole crumpled Hamilton in the tip jar. I permitted myself a long quizzical look as she turned her back to the glass doors of the establishment, and began the process of gathering my things and clocking out.

Topher flipped the sign on the door to 'closed' and made for the broom in the corner of the kitchen. Amir and Drew, two of the other bakers, were finishing their own closing duties. Adan Rabat, Topher's uncle and the manager, was in his office probably answering emails or... something.

Backpack slung over my shoulder, I crossed the beige-y marbled tiles to the exit, when my hand froze midair before arriving at the door handle. A paralyzing dread consumed me at the prospect of navigating those frightful woods once the bus doors folded closed, abandoning me to the howling beast.

I turned on the heel of my sneakers. "Topher?"

He didn't look up from his sweeping. "What's up?"

"Can you..." I hesitated. Between living at his parents' house and working at his uncle's bakery, I felt enough shame as it was for the favours of convenience that was the crux of my friendship with him. But the howling... I continued, "drive me home?"

He made a strained face. His head rolled around on his neck for a moment, considering. It would've been different, had my stop been on the way, but the backwoods was rather something of a detour from his route. "Uh... yeah, I could do that for ya."