Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The lunchroom hums warmly, the polished wooden table glowing under the soft lighting. Miss Onida sits to my left, dishing out creamed corn onto her plate. Kova lays curled at my feet, her snore vibrating my toes.
It feels different today. Or maybe it’s just me.
A large tray of food sits in front of me, one that I actually intend to finish.
Nina is laughing hysterically, something about Bear drunkenly dancing, nearly taking out the waiter from over the weekend.
Ana rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too, fork paused midair as if she doesn’t want the moment to end.
Greer’s chair is empty. A quiet ache pains my chest at the sight of it, but it doesn’t hollow me out the way it probably should.
It just sits. Miss Onida cradles her tea between both hands.
She hasn’t said much since we sat down. She doesn’t have to.
She watches the way a saint does when she’s lived long enough to know silence speaks first. Her eyes flick to me, not invasive, but just knowing. Like always.
“Well,” she finally speaks, lips curving as she takes a slow sip, “would you look at that.”
I glance down at myself, half expecting to find something out of place. “What?” I ask.
“You’re here,” she says, tucking a silver lock behind her ear.
I blink. “I’m usually here.”
She hums softly, shaking her head. “No, Atsi Waya. You’re present. Big difference.”
The table quiets just enough for her words to land. Cici glances between us, smirking like she can read the elderly woman’s mind.
Miss Onida leans back in her chair, studying me. “You know, the wolf doesn’t linger in the doorway.”
I look down. Kova lies perfectly still snoring at my feet. “The doorway?” I ask.
She raises a brow, nodding toward the doorway. “That place that nearly broke you and what’s waiting to carry you forward. Wolves pause there sometimes but only long enough to scent the wind.”
The women go quiet now, not awkwardly. Just soaking it in, choosing not to interfere. Miss Onida reaches for my hand, the tender warmth settling into mine. “You’ve been standing in that space for a while now, one foot behind you, the other ready. Watching for the trap, waiting for the hurt.”
The words hit deep. She isn’t wrong. “I don’t know how to trust what’s on either side” I admit quietly.
Miss Onida squeezes my hand once, then reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and pulls out a carved pendant.
It’s clearly aged, but smooth. A wolf carved in a mahogany flame.
I inhale sharply, my nails grazing my thigh against the table.
She doesn’t give it to me. She just lets it rest in her palm, allowing the meaning to speak first.
“In my people’s stories,” she says, “the wolf is the pathfinder. When the land changes, when the old trails burn or freeze over, the wolf goes first. Not because it’s fearless, but because it listens.” She taps her chest gently. Then mine. “Listen here. To what tomorrow is asking of it.”
I swallow, looking at the other women before me as if they can answer for me. “What if tomorrow asks too much?”
Cici’s gentle fingers take mine beneath. Her eyes are glassy, but her face is solemn.
“Tomorrow will ask you to live, to love, to trust. That is all.” Miss Onida leans forward now, elbows on the table, voice dropping like a blessing meant just for me.
“You’ve proven you can fight. You’ve proven you can bleed and still stand.
But this—” she gestures subtly at my relaxed shoulders and easy breath— “this is the beginning the Heavens shout for.”
I glance down at my hands; they’re steady. “New beginnings don’t roar, they whisper, like the embers in the night.” Across the table, I feel the women listening, witnessing. “At some point, your pack needs you on the trail Atsi Waya. And the trail needs you to step from the gap. To move forward.”
Something loosens inside of me, not all at once, but just enough. Nina sips her coffee, nodding in agreement. Ana’s chin rests on her fingers as a tear slips down her cheek.
“Your mother would be so proud of you.” Cici’s voice cracks.
I glance around at the women before me, the ones who stood with me in the dark for so long. And I know now that I can walk hand in hand with them, and step through the frame.
I pull a scrunchie from my drawer and gather my waves into a quick, messy bun.
I reach over for my eyeliner, swiping a quick black line on each lower lid before coating my lashes with my mascara.
I step out of the bathroom, Kova following tightly against my thigh.
I bend down, running my fingers through her fur.
She sniffs my hand, popping out her tongue for a quick lick.
I smile to myself, thankful we both are here.
Then I turn toward my closet, reaching for an outfit as Cici’s words echo in my head: Look good, feel good.
I tug on a pair of loose gray shorts and a dark charcoal tank that hugs closely to my ribs.
Then throw on an oversize rust red-flannel over it, leaving it open and loose around my shoulders.
I shove my feet into thick white socks and my worn brown hiking boots; the leather already scuffed from miles and bad decisions.
The dark pendant sits on my dresser, its presence calling my name.
I pick it up, placing it over my neck. I step back, studying my reflection.
I don’t see softness or severity. Just balance.
A woman rooted enough to stand still, and wild enough to keep moving forward.
When it’s time. It feels like I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be.
I plant a kiss to Kova’s snout and grab my phone, sending a quick “I love you!” to the kids, and head for the door.
I’m almost free of the room when something catches my eyes.
I stop, turning stiffly, stalking forward on instinct, and kneel.
A leather book sits there, waiting. Not hidden but clearly placed.
I’d know this book from anywhere. “Angry Bones” is carved into the leather cover.
I bark out a quiet laugh. Of course it is.
Of course it’s him. I pick it up and open it. My breath leaves me all at once.
Page after page, in Nyx’s handwriting. The last three years laid bare.
Our missions. Our near misses. Notes about my habits, my silences, the way I check exits before I check faces.
He writes about the night I dropped from the rafters like a rabid bat, locking my legs around a man’s shoulders and taking him down before the poor man could even shout for backup.
“You laughed afterward,” he wrote. “Blood on your knuckles, eyes electrifying. Untouchable.” My throat tightens.
There are entries about me standing between civilians and gunfire.
About the way I step into chaos without hesitation: “Every time you run ahead, my heart runs with you. But I don’t stop you, because the thrill written across your face in the end, when you make sure every one of us is safe, makes it worth the pause. Worth the wait.”
The tone of his writing shifts. Prayers.
Entire pages of them. Nyx talking to God when he didn’t know what else to do.
Asking for my safety. For my peace. Asking quietly, humbly, to be allowed to stand beside me if I ever chose it.
This wasn’t written to win me or convince me.
It was written because he already loved me, and never once asked me to change.
There’s a note on the last page: “If you decide to give me that chance, meet me at the cabin.” I press the book to my chest, the leather intimate in my hands as my pulse pounds in my ears.
I whistle for Kova. The doorway ahead of me doesn’t feel like an escape as I reach for it.
I yank it open because it feels like a beginning.