Chapter 8
Winny
When Gillian stops responding to my texts, I figure she must have braved the big talk with her sister that she seemed so nervous about. Which is just as well, since the alarm I set as a reminder that the pool's holiday hours cut an hour from my usual window for a morning swim.
"Five more minutes," Briony mumbles from under her pile of cozy blankets.
"Shh, that was my alarm, go back to bed, sis,” I say as I silence my phone and roll out of bed. Briony buries her head under her pillow with a sleepy grumble.
She got home from picking up a double at the diner late, so I feel a little bad for disturbing her rest, even if it’s not that early.
At this hour, I'm usually back from the pool and finished with breakfast. Yesterday took a toll, but I don’t have time to dawdle.
My alarm means I’ll barely have enough time to get my laps in if I leave now.
I squirm into my swimsuit and pull on my comfiest sweats over it for the walk to the pool. I'll shower there, no big deal. Tousled hair piled into a messy bun and I’m good to go.
On my way out the door I tuck Briony's violently pink quilt around her, covering the foot she's got hanging over the edge of the mattress.
Bram's mother-in-law made the blanket and everytime I look at it, I swear I see new shades of Briony’s favorite color.
Who knew so many different pinks even exist in the world?
Rearranging the soft fabric brings me back to last night with Gillian. Does every subtle gradation of hue that Gillian’s octopus displays convey layers of nuance that I can learn to read? Is there a standard interpretation of octopus colors, or is it unique to each shifter?
Briony wriggles under the quilt and I sheepishly stop smoothing the fabric over her ankle.
She doesn't seem awake enough to hassle me over why I'm being clingy and preening her feet like I have something to apologize for though.
She just snuggles into her pillows and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a name that I don't quite catch. I shake my head, none of my business.
I scoop up my pool bag on the way out the door and tap out one more message for Gillian, so she'll know I'm not playing games with her if she messages me after her talk with her sister. It might be a while before I get back to her since I plan to be in the pool until they kick me out for open swim.
Winny: I'm guessing your sister found you for that chat? I hope it goes well and she apologizes for losing her cool. You've got this, princess.
Winny: Also, I'm headed to the the pool, so if I don't reply right away it's because I'm wet, not a lack of interest…
speaking of which, since from the sounds of it, we're still both taking a mandatory break from kid duty this evening, I'd love to take you out for that pie we were talking about. We could meet at the diner, if you don’t mind folks talking about us. But I’m good with wherever you want to got and whatever you want to do.
I hesitate over sending the next message, it might be over the top flirting, but it's nothing less than the truth and I promised blunt honesty, so I hit send.
Winny: Basically, I want to take you somewhere that we can sit and I can enjoy my fill of gazing into your gorgeous eyes and learning your colors in person.
I stare at my phone for a little too long hoping for a reply.
Ugh. I'm crushing hard and I'm being ridiculous.
I reluctantly put away my phone and jog down the stairs, dodging a handful of kids already up and playing together in the common areas.
The thing about flock housing is that there is always someone around to socialize with, like it or not.
I exchange greetings in passing with a few of my more outgoing flock mates, but I make it across the building foyer without getting drawn into any real conversations.
Outside, I fish my headphones out of my bag and settle them onto my ears as a conversational deterrent and head down the street toward the pool.
When I arrive, it’s busier than usual. Most of the time, the lanes aren't crowded at this hour, but today the all gender locker room is bustling with shifters of all kinds.
Of course it makes sense that having our lane time cut in half means more shifters are here now.
At least I don't have to wait for one of the private changing cubicles, since I only have to take off the clothes I pulled on over my swimsuit.
I find an open locker to shove my bag into, strip off my outer layer and toss the clothes in next.
I can't resist checking my phone one last time in case Gillian messaged.
She hasn't, so I set it to silent mode and shove my electronics into the depths of my swim bag, under the joggers and hoodie I wore over here.
I have to wait for one of the showers to open up, but that's typical.
I'm okay waiting, just being here calms my nerves and sets the tone for my day. The air smells like the brine we use to maintain the water quality, sharp and clean and familiar. The usual sounds of my morning routine lull me into a tranquility I wish I could bottle up and take with me.
Everything about my mornings here is familiar. The showers running on their timers, the water splashing and churning with the sounds of shifters swimming, the occasional trill of a whistle and the way voices echo in the vast open pool room. I rush through rinsing off once it's my turn.
Someone in another shower stall is singing off key. Someone else joins in for the chorus and the two anonymous shifters keep singing their impromptu duet as I leave the changing area and step onto the pool deck.
I breathe in the briney scent that feels like safety and comfort, then scan the pool to see which lane to join.
And pause when I notice Hilda is in the water with Luca.
They've staked out the awkwardly shaped area of the shallows between the accessibility ramp and the stairs for Luca's PT session.
I wave and Hilda nods acknowledgement without missing a beat talking her student through an exercise.
If Luca is here, then that means his mom isn't far away.
She never leaves him at the pool alone for these sessions.
Sure enough I spot Clara sitting on a nearby bench with a bag of knitting in her lap.
She looks very pointedly like she's pretending to relax while she waits for her son to finish his session.
I don't know if she's fooling anyone, but it’s clear to me that she’s watching her son like a hawk for any sign of distress, ready to spring into action.
Not that Hilda isn't keeping an eye too, and very aware of how far to push the kid's limits without ignoring them.
Still, Clara's a corvid shifter parent through and through and we don't take our eyes off our treasures when there's any question of risk involved.
If she was in her feathers, they'd be plastered tight to her body, every muscle frozen, poised for a quick flight.
I walk over to join her, sidling next to her on the bench without breaking her line of sight on her kid.
"Hey, long time no see, how are you, Clara?" I ask.
"Hey to you too, stranger. Luca's good. He's been responding really well to the swim therapy. Hilda says we can schedule him more often after the school break." Clara flashes me the briefest of smiles, then goes back to half-heartedly moving her fingers on the yarn, pretending the project has her interest. I somehow hold back my snort at the ruse and the non-answer, barely, hoping she’ll at least tack on something about how she’s doing too.
Instead, she says, "It really has been too long. How are you?"
"Me? Oh, you know, Briony is loving college.
Pretty sure she's maybe seeing someone," I say blandly.
Clara glances at me and lifts a brow, I pretend not to understand the 'really?
' look she's giving me as I barrel on with exposing her hypocrisy in trying to call me out.
"Elric is completely over having to share a room with our littlest brother, they keep begging our moms to let them take overnight contracts with the wolf pack as a spotter on hunts, but after everything Seb finally told us about what he got up to with his ex on those overnight trips, they're not budging on giving Elric permission anytime soon. "
"Oh, for sky's sake, Winifred. I asked how you're doing." She scowls at me, giving up even the pretense of fiddling with her yarn project when she drops several stitches in her pique. She crumples the tangled mess of yarn between her needles into a tight ball.
I give her my best wide-eyed innocent face. "I'm sorry, I thought we all just answer that with a report on the fledglings we care about now, is that not what you meant?"
"No, Winny. You know it's not." Clara sighs to the depths of her being as she bundles her knitting against her lap.
Her shoulders slump, but not like she's admitting defeat, more like she's letting down her guard.
The difference is subtle, but it's there.
Tension leaves her body along with the irritated huff.
Now if she were wearing feathers, she'd resettle them more comfortably as she lets me past see her vulnerable.
That's the moment I know she's going to agree to my ask. The moment she accepts that she can trust me and she doesn't have to be the sole sentinel responsible for the safety of her entire flock.
"Soooooooo?" I arch a brow at her.
I want to bluntly ask how she's doing again, or more to the point, what I can do to help, but I also don't want to pry.
Not with words anyway, our friendship works because it's rooted deep in a time when words couldn't encompass the magnitude of the changes barreling through our lives like an unexpected updraft sending a fledgling beak over tailfeathers into freefall.