Chapter 18
Julia
Why does feeling good, feeling wanted, also feel like the world is ending?
The painful knot in my chest feels as big as the knot that’s spreading my thighs, holding them open so I can’t squirm away from this.
From him, the sweet, furry, earnest guy who doesn’t deserve such a messy, complicated mate.
“I wish I could give you more,” I sniffle, the act of confession easing my guilt a little bit.
His chest leaps underneath me, but he quickly calms it, his voice a reassuring hum. “You gave me everything you can, and that’s enough. Don’t stress about it. It’s not good for the pups.”
My core clenches at the word, at the reminder that he might have just made me pregnant, and he chuckles when he feels the squeeze. “I knew you’d like that.”
I can’t help smiling through my tears. I poke him in the chest. “Enjoy the feeling while it lasts.”
“Oh, I am.” He wraps two warm, strong arms around me, resting his chin on top of my head. We stay like that for some long, silent, bittersweet minutes, our hearts pressed together but not speaking.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what’s next. I’m not ready for whatever it is.
He breaks the silence first. “My parents asked me to invite you to my brother’s howl this coming week. They really want to meet you, if you’re open to that.”
“Howl?” I ask, mystified.
“It’s a pack party to celebrate something,” he clarifies. “In this case, Conall and Meg’s pups. They’re due next month. It’s very casual. Everyone brings food, wishes the couple well, gifts the pups.”
“Is that what the books are for?”
He nods. “You wouldn’t need to bring anything. Pa and Mam just thought it might be a low-pressure way for you to meet everyone, since the focus will be on someone else.”
“Do you want me there? I mean…do you want them to meet me?” I can’t tell if he’s asking out of politeness or a desire to please his parents, or if he’s extending the invitation himself.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? You mean because you’re human? They won’t care, and if anyone does, that’s a them-problem, not a you-problem.”
“Because I’m not exactly the mate anyone dreams of. People are going to talk when you introduce them to your much older—”
“Not much,” he objects, interrupting me.
“Ten years is a lot. And I’m mar—”
He interrupts me again with a finger against my lips.
“You’re mine, that’s what you are. My mate.
You are more than I ever dreamed of, so don’t worry about that.
We don’t have to tell anyone anything about your life that you don’t want them to know.
If anyone hassles you for details you don’t want to share, let me deal with them.
I’ll be right by your side the whole time, but I promise, they’re going to love you. ”
When he puts it like that, it doesn’t sound so intimidating. I’m confused why he wants his family to meet me, though. After the babies are born, I’m going to disappear from his life. From their lives, too. After I hand off the pups, we’ll all go back to how it was before.
My heart stumbles and catches, imagining it. “I don’t know if I can lose them, too,” I confess. “Your family, I mean. It’s going to be hard enough walking away from the babies and…” You, I don’t finish. It’s going to be hard to walk away from him when this is over.
“Julia, I wasn’t going to bring this up yet, but it seems like it needs to be said.
You’re the only one who says you have to walk away.
It’s not in the contract. Not in either contract.
I welcome your involvement. And even Richard”—he says the name through gritted teeth—”only stipulates that he doesn’t want to know anything or pay for anything, not that you can’t have contact with us afterward.
You don’t have to lose anything unless you want to. ”
I bite my trembling lip. He’s right. I made the rule because I was trying to protect my heart. But maybe I don’t need to protect it. Maybe I can trust Ian to protect me. Wrapped in his arms, it sure feels like he could. “Okay,” I whisper.
“You’ll go?” He gives a little bounce that settles his cock even deeper inside me, if that’s possible.
I’m saying yes to more than attending his brother’s baby shower, but that’s enough for now. “Yeah.”
What have I gotten myself into?
That’s all I can think as I make the drive home, my seat belt pressing between my still-sensitive breasts and reminding me how much attention Ian lavished on them. He didn’t mind that they aren’t perfect anymore. He didn’t even seem to notice.
I’m reeling over how he made me feel. He was so attentive and caring and sexy. I have never felt so desired or cherished or…pleasured. I can’t even process how one night with him has changed my life. Changed my understanding of what sex can be like.
My thighs squeeze together as I make the turn into my cul-de-sac.
After last night in the privacy of Ian’s forest, I feel exposed on my own suburban street.
Like when I pull into our driveway and step out of the car, everyone will know I have some other man’s cum still dripping out of me… and I like it.
Who am I? Not the good wife and mom I thought I was.
I park in the garage to avoid my leaf-raking neighbors and stumble inside to shower.
Maybe if I wash off the scents and stickiness of last night, I’ll feel like myself again.
I’ll be able to go back to my regular life with realistic expectations.
I start for the master bathroom and then remember it’s not mine anymore.
I use the guest bath instead, even though Richard won’t be home for a few more days, just so I don’t have to clean that shower again.
Hoping for a miracle (and maybe some memory loss), I scrub until my skin is practically raw.
But when I step out, the pretty lingerie set, the one I bought for my husband but wore for Ian, is staring at me from the floor.
I swallow hard, tears pricking my eyes as I ball it up and throw it away instead of washing it.
No point in keeping reminders. Better to focus on gratitude for what I have: a nice house, healthy kids, a husband who works hard to support us.
That’s a good life, Julia. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
So I do some laundry. Get the chore list done so the house has the comforting smell of bleach solution. Sweep the front walk. Pick up some mums and pumpkins at the nursery for the porch. Normal Saturday-in-autumn stuff.
But despite my best efforts, I’m feeling anything but normal when four o’clock rolls around and my mom video-calls at our usual time.
Typically, we share a cup of tea and catch up on the week.
I try and put on a happy face, mentally preparing to chit-chat about the weather and plan the kids’ visit home during winter break in January.
“Hi, Eomma. How are you?”
“What’s troubling you?” she asks in Korean, frowning so hard she gets little dents in her forehead as she leans toward the screen, like she wants to jump through it and hug me.
I should have known I couldn’t slip anything past her.
Even though we are thousands of miles and many time zones apart, we still have a close relationship.
“Are the girls there?” I ask, not wanting them to overhear what I have to talk about.
“Already went to school.”
“On a Sunday?”
“At the library. They’re good girls, studying hard.” She beckons, encouraging me to open up.
I sigh, and the tears start before I even begin speaking.
If it were any other week, I’d think it was perimenopause kicking my emotional butt, but this week, I know better.
It’s my own actions making me feel unstable.
I nibble my lower lip, trying to form my feelings into words without shocking her. “I think I’m a bad person.”
She clucks her tongue in disagreement. “Who told you that? The American?”
She means Richard. She’d never insult him outright, but she calls him that to register her general disapproval of his mannerisms, rudeness, and dislike of kimchi, ignoring the fact that I am as American as he is.
To be fair to Richard, Korean culture has a lot of ways to be unintentionally rude if you haven’t grown up in it.
To be fair to my mom, he never made the effort to learn.
And to be fair to me, he’s done a lot of not-very-nice things that she knows nothing about, which is why I let her get away with her ongoing little slight.
I shake my head. “My own conclusion based on my own behavior.”
“Not my daughter,” she says stoutly, looking ready for war. “If you made a mistake, then fix it. Did you hurt someone? Then apologize. Did you steal something? Return it. Break something? Replace it.”
She makes it sound easy, but I can’t figure out exactly what wrong I’ve committed.
I didn’t cheat on my husband; he gave his permission.
I haven’t misled Ian or promised him anything I don’t intend to deliver.
I just know that something doesn’t fit anymore, like there’s a rock in my shoe.
And I’m pretty sure I’m the one that put it there.
“Make it right,” Eomma urges. “That will take the weight off your shoulders.”
“I’ll try.” I sigh. “Can we talk about something else?”
“I collected ten pounds of persimmons from my tree yesterday,” she brags. “Just from the lower branches.” She ducks out of frame and returns with two perfect Fuyu specimens, holding them so close to her camera that they go out of focus.
“Beautiful.” The crunchy, sweet type is my favorite.
My mouth waters, remembering how she always got a big box of them in the fall when she lived here in Oregon, saying they soothed her homesickness.
She’d sit at the kitchen table and peel and slice them for my lunch box in the morning while I ate breakfast, slipping me an extra slice to nibble on the way to school.
I really miss my mom. Almost as much as I miss my kids.
On screen, she pares the skin from the persimmons as she fills me in on her neighborhood gossip, and I fill her in on Trashleigh’s latest attempts to get me fired from the bookstore. I even mention Ian in passing, letting her know that I’m going to a friend’s brother’s baby shower.
“They’re wulvers,” I say casually. “Should be interesting.”
“I don’t understand giving gifts before a baby is born,” she gripes good-naturedly, the same as she would if I were talking about a human family.
“It’s just to help them prepare. They’re having four pups, so they need all the help they can get!” My hand slips to my lower belly. I hope I don’t have a litter that big.
“Do you have to bring four gifts? What a racket.” She pulls a face that lets me know she’s joking and pops a persimmon slice in her mouth.
I have to laugh. She’s such a shit-talker in her own way, even though she’s also the most generous person I know.
If she got invited to a baby shower for quadruplets, she’d probably offer to cater it.
“I miss you. Maybe you should visit when the girls come home in January. Stay a few weeks.” I’ll need her even more than usual then, when I’m recovering from the birth and my heart is shredded.
She frowns. “The American won’t like having me in his house that long.”
“It’s my house, too. I want you to come. I’ll pay for the ticket,” I add impulsively, even though it will stretch my little bookstore budget to the limit. I’m sure I can pick up extra hours before the holidays. Before my belly gets too huge, anyway.
She frowns. “It’s too much.”
“It would be a big help to me,” I wheedle, knowing she can’t resist doing favors. “I want to clean out the closets. Donate all the outgrown kid things. It will be too much work for me alone.”
She hums, and I know I’ve got her. “I’ll think about it.”
“I love you, Eomma. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She clucks her tongue, embarrassed by my frank expression, and changes the topic. I know she loves me just as much, even though she doesn’t say it back this time. She says it in other ways. Like calling every week without fail. Organizing closets. Peeling persimmons.