Trapp
Grayson’s house stood at the rear of a snaking development, rising above most of the neighbors like a slate-grey wall of scaled roof and wide windows.
Despite the absurdity of being a five-bed/five-bath layout for a singular part-time occupant — at least, at the time of its construction — the house was saved from ugly McMansion status by the classical lines of its architecture and the nearly full walls of glass, preventing its aura-suffering owner from ever needing to tolerate artificial light.
That, in and of itself, was an anomaly to which he’d not quite acclimated.
Once, Grayson had been entirely dependable. He was always working, was always up, entirely fueled by cocaine and ambition and an IV drip of coffee, always on, always reliable.
Not until Grayson left the city, moving back to Cambric Creek full-time.
They hadn’t lived in such close physical proximity to each other since they’d dwelled beneath their parents’ roof in side-by-side bedrooms. Grayson’s office at the Werewolf Defense League was right there in town, a stone’s throw from the firehouse, practically within walking distance to the Pickled Pig.
They still met for drinks every Thursday, still had the monthly post-moon brunch at their parents’ house, but his brother was no longer plugged in twenty-four hours a day, always available.
Now, Trapp found that his calls sometimes went unanswered and his texts received responses hours after sending.
Gray’s new position came with stable, unbilled hours, and rather than showing his new non-profit overlords why he’d been a rainmaker at his previous firms, he seemed determined to prove the opposite point.
He left his office at a set time each day and sometimes ignored his phone for hours after that, no longer invested in making his job his entire personality.
It’s called healthy boundaries, Trapp. Julia’s words rankled in his mind. He didn’t like the implication, said as if he had no understanding of “healthy boundaries.” As if being friendly and helpful were obligations that were unwelcomingly foisted upon him, when the opposite was true.
Her words were similar to what Grayson had said a few months earlier, when Trapp had challenged his new foreign attitude, shrugging unapologetically over his phone being on the dresser of the upstairs bedroom while he was down by the pool, forcing Trapp to trespass through the gate if he wanted his brother’s attention, which he had.
“This job is a stepping stone, not my endgame. They don’t like me.
They don’t bother trying to hide it. And that’s fine, because the feeling is entirely mutual.
They don’t have to like me. But I don’t have to run myself into the ground to prove anything, either.
I’m putting in the same amount of hours as my predecessor, and he quit because of burnout.
I can do this shit in my sleep, but they don’t need to know that.
It’s good to have boundaries. You should try it sometime. ”
Trapp couldn’t fathom any possible scenario in which he’d be so cavalier about being disliked. It was unthinkable. Disliked by his boss, by his co-workers . . . by anyone, really. The mere thought was untenable, and boundaries had nothing to do with it.
But Grayson had remained steadfast. When he returned to his giant house after leaving his office each evening, his phone was often left indoors while he retreated to his spa-like backyard.
Trapp knew that was where he’d find Gray that night.
It was a new sort of reliability, he supposed, one he sorely needed.
It had been two days.
Two days since the night of the Senior Send-off, two days since Julia had told him she was leaving. Quitting her job, quitting their relationship, quitting Cambric Creek. Quitting him.
Two days in which he hadn't been on at the firehouse, two days when he’d only seen his own bed for fleeting hours.
Two alcohol-soaked days he barely remembered, only knowing he’d left the town square with one of the selkies the night of the fair and that it had been a steep slide into the gutter from there.
He vaguely remembered being at the Pickled Pig the following night.
He remembered leaving with a dryad, one who wasn’t the same dryad he’d wound up with in the back parking lot later that same night at the Man-o-War, neither of whom was the huldra whose condo he’d slipped from as the sun was rising that morning.
He’d woken beneath photographs of a family he did not know, beside a sleeping form whose name he could not remember, deciding that leaving quietly was the most generous contribution he could make to everyone’s morning.
Gray was stretched out on a pool lounger, eyes closed, bobbing in the water with a glass in his cup holder. If he’d heard Trapp’s arrival, he didn’t let on.
Trapp dropped ungracefully into a chaise, tipping his own head back and closing his eyes. He was probably handling this poorly. It was likely a bad look, but — taking a page from his brother’s book — he wasn’t sure that he cared.
He was the one who’d been broken up with. It wasn’t as if he’d told Julia that he wanted to end their relationship and then promptly fell into bed with someone else; no, he hadn’t initiated anything. And what breakup wasn’t best swallowed with a small side of debauchery?
Helping himself to a bottle of water from the table beside him — still cold, beaded in condensation, evidence that this had been Gray’s seat before he’d relocated to the water — he swallowed half of it in one, long gulp.
His mouth still carried the stale, metallic taste of the last forty-odd hours of bourbon and bad decisions, while the ache behind his eye held the promise of worse pain if he didn’t take a breather to rest and rehydrate.
Tomorrow he’d be back to work, at least. Keeping busy, staying focused.
He had no idea when the word would get out or how quickly it would spread, but once it became public knowledge that Julia would not be returning to the school, the whole town would eventually become aware and draw their own conclusions.
The double-edged sword of being the most visible Hemming was that the visibility turned to scrutiny in the blink of an eye.
“I can smell you from here.”
Trapp glared toward the pool. He’d showered after returning home that morning .
. . but he wondered if the smell of his poor choices clung to him the way he could still taste them.
Grayson possessed an olfactory sense so keen that it was very nearly a disability, leaving him sickened by smells no one else could detect, adding to his lifelong migraines.
It was possible his brother could pick out the smell of his two-day bender, but he wasn’t going to give Gray the satisfaction of sniffing himself to find out.
Grayson never lifted his head, but his eyes popped open, squinting as he took in Trapp. “Oh, wow . . . you look like shit, too. Consistency is important, I guess.”
Trapp barked out a laugh that surprised him with its roughness, sticking in his throat, nearly choking him. He hated feeling like this. He meant to say something glib, but the truth was in too much of a hurry to burst free. “Julia’s gone.”
His words earned no immediate reaction.
It’s not me, it’s you. Trapp let his head drop back again.
He’d need to call Rasst, let him know that their annual weekend at the cabin was unlikely, would have to inform Mitzkin at work that he’d no longer require a plus-one to the wedding invitation RSVP they’d already sent in.
He wondered when the gossip of his poorly-thought-out bender would reach the firehouse, and if he could head it off.
There was no telling in a town like this.
No telling when it’s going to reach Mom. He shifted uncomfortably. Disappointing his mother in any capacity was in the top three things in life to be avoided at all costs, in between dying in a fire and getting hit by an 18-wheeler during the monthly turn.
Trapp had never bothered with the wolf-eat-wolf competition for his father’s attention.
He didn’t need to be Jack’s favorite son, not the way Jackson and Grayson pursued it.
He was comfortable, secure in the knowledge that he was their mother’s favorite, and he didn’t like to do anything that might rock that boat.
“Gone, as in ‘gone from this earthly plane of existence’ gone, or . . . ?”
His head snapped up at Grayson’s delayed response, scowling. Even if that was what he meant, Gray didn’t seem especially concerned. “What? No! She’s . . . she took a job out of state. Moving back home. She’ll be gone by the end of the month.” The end of the month was just a week away at that point.
He trailed off, letting the rest hang. That was the angle he could push. Julia had left for a job opportunity, and he wasn’t willing to leave his position in the department. End of the road, mutually agreed upon. Perhaps not the whole truth, but when had the whole truth benefitted anyone?
Grayson shrugged. “Well, that happens. What does that mean for you? You uprooting yourself to go run into burning buildings somewhere else? I’m not going to tell you not to, but your ass needs to be at the tailor here by the end of next month.
So if you think moving out to West Potatoville is getting you off the hook for anything wedding-related—”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “We-we broke up.”
Once again, Grayson did not immediately respond.
Trapp knew this trick. It was one their father employed as well — they let silence stretch, holding back their opinions, allowing the other party to continue rambling to fill the empty gap, closing the conversational noose without needing to fish.
Lowell fell for it every time. Trapp could usually spot the deliberate pause and possessed the self-control their younger sibling did not, but his tongue was in the driver’s seat now, still drunk from the previous night and feeling sorry for itself.