Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
W yatt
I’ve never been any good at verbalizing my feelings. I’ve never been any good at words full stop. I am aware of the way people groan or roll their eyes when I speak – even my packmates who love me like a brother. Apparently, I’m too abrupt. Too straight forward. You’d think that was a good thing. Apparently not.
Give me a pen and paper and things are different. Perhaps I’m still a little to the point but this is often an advantage in the written form. No one likes a rambler.
And that is why, several days after Harper ended our relationship, I decide to write her a letter, trying to capture all that I’m feeling.
I should probably be drafting a poem or composing a love letter. Instead, I’m attempting to present my argument for why she is wrong and we are right.
We should be together. She should be our omega.
I begin by listing all the advantages of us forming a pack together. They are numerous – although I decide it’s best to exclude the most obvious – rolling around in bed together all day, every day.
I follow this by listing her counter arguments, challenging each and showing her why her assumptions are faulty.
She’s concerned the hospital is going to learn the truth about her heat and fire us. She’s worried they’ll report us to the medical Board and we’ll be struck off. In hindsight, that ridiculous story about Harold virus wasn’t our most sensible of ideas.
I try to imagine my life without medicine, without surgery.
I’ve wanted to be a surgeon ever since I was a kid and managed to sneak into my cousin’s room, pulling apart all her Barbies and dissecting her baby dolls.
She wasn’t very happy about that, but then we found a rare thing – a game we could play together. Doctors. As long as I promised not to slice open any more of her toys, she was happy to form a ward consisting of her stuffed animals and would accompany me on my rounds.
I would miss medicine considerably if I had to give it up, but Harper would easily fill the void medicine would leave. In fact, she’d fill the void that’s been glaringly obvious in our lives for years. A massive Harper-shaped hole that no other omega – no other human being – could fill.
When I’m done, I’ve covered three pages back and front in my spidery handwriting. I stare at it. Will she even be able to read this? Will she even read it full stop?
When Daxton failed to come home until the early hours again last night (the fifth time in a row), Owen confessed to me about his trip to see Harper and his attempt to persuade her to stay in Rockview. Owen is good with his words. He has a silver-gilded tongue and is blessed with so much charm, he could seduce a pit full of snakes.
Unfortunately, even Owen and his silver-coated words couldn’t change her mind and my usually chirpy, optimistic, glass-isn’t-just-half-full-it’s-brimming-over packmate looked like a puppy who had been kicked. Kicked, beaten and thrown out onto the street.
I think my heart broke all over again.
That’s the funny thing about being in a pack. Sometimes you feel worse about the pain inflicted on your packmates than you feel about the pain inflicted on yourself.
Then Daxton had stumbled in, face bruised, knuckles raw and stinking of booze. Seems he went straight from the hospital to the bar and got himself involved in yet another brawl.
See, that’s the thing; Harper thinks us being together will ruin our careers. Not being with us could just as easily ruin them – especially if Dax ends up getting himself arrested.
She’s leaving tomorrow.
I’ve no choice but to step in and take action.
I stare at the letter again, then before I have the chance to change my mind, I fold it in half, stuff it into an envelope, seal it and print Harper’s name across the front.
I could drop it in the mail or post it through her door, but I want to see it in her hand, to know it’s reached her.
I’ve no surgery scheduled for the next morning and though I should be at the hospital anyway, catching up on notes and reports and correspondence, I call my secretary and tell her I will be late.
“Is … is everything all right, Mr. Stanton?” she asks me.
I guess I haven’t been disguising my heartbreak as well as I thought.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“No, no reason.” She hesitates. “You just seem a little distracted. Is there anything I can help you with?”
Mrs. Maple is in her early sixties and more like a second mother to me than a secretary. She’s always ensuring I eat lunch, take a break, book a vacation. She sent four food parcels to the house when she thought we were sick and organized all my Christmas presents for me last year. If I gave her half the chance, she’d probably wash and fold my laundry too.
I consider telling her the truth. They say it’s good to talk, even if I am so bad at it.
“If a woman won’t talk to you, is it sensible to write a letter to her instead?”
Mrs. Maple is silent for a moment. I’ve never asked her for girl advice before, although I’m wondering why not.
“It depends. If you’ve done something irreparably bad – I don’t know, like slept with her sister.” I wince. I haven’t slept with Harper’s sister. I have slept with Daxton’s. “Then I doubt she’d read a letter even if you wrote one.”
“I haven’t done anything like that.”
“No, I can’t imagine you would,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Then, as long as the letter is apologetic and sincere, I’d say it’s worth a try.”
Is it? I have no idea.
“Thank you. I’ll be in later.”
Harper isn’t an early riser, so I walk to Daxton’s dad’s house, composing in my mind exactly what I’ll say to her as I hand over the letter. The walk takes an hour through the Rockview suburbs, past runners out for early morning exercise, dog owners walking their pets and several senior citizens watering their lawns.
I can imagine myself doing that right under the swing set I’ll have installed for our children and round the kennel for our family dog. The future seems so clear to me – our pack – me, Daxton, Owen and Harper. I can’t see it any other way. Surely, she must see it too.
I wait to be buzzed through the gate at Ethan’s house, then walk up the drive and meet Melanie – all dressed in her yoga gear – by the front door.
“You’re looking much better,” she says, examining my face before giving me a hug. “But shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I have the morning off. I was wondering if I could speak to Harper.”
“Harper?” she says, obviously a little surprised. “I’m sorry Wyatt but she’s not feeling very well. She’s in bed.”
I frown. “Ill? What’s wrong?”
“She’s feeling a bit queasy. I think it may have been the shellfish we ate last night.”
“Food poisoning?” I say alarmed. “Perhaps I ought to–”
“Oh no, sweetie,” she says, resting her hand on my forearm. “That’s the last thing she’d want when she’s feeling so unwell.”
“Food poisoning can be dangerous, Melanie.”
“I was a nurse, Wyatt,” she says, in a tone that suggests she’s displeased with me. “I know. But I don’t think she’s actually been sick. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I nod, not feeling totally satisfied with that explanation and deciding I’ll find an excuse to phone later and check she is okay.
“Perhaps you could give her this letter, then.” I pluck the envelope from my jacket pocket and hold it out to Melanie.
She looks at it in surprise. “You wrote Harper a letter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I stumble over my next words. “Information–medical–related–private.”
Her mom’s face fills with alarm. “Is something wrong with Harper, Wyatt?”
My packmates are going to murder me. Quite possibly, Harper will too.
“No, she … just asked me to research something for her.” I rack my brains for a reasonable-sounding excuse. “Her friend’s father is unwell and she asked my opinion about treatment options. I’ve written down some information for her.”
More lies, more tangled webs.
It sounds plausible to me, though, and luckily Melanie seems to buy it.
“Ahhh, I see.” She takes the letter from my hand. “I’ll be sure she gets it then.”
I hope with all my heart that she does.