Chapter 9
Different Kinds of Packs
JOHANNA
“Are you going back to the office tomorrow?”
Despite the airy whiff of lilac announcing Anamaria’s arrival, I jerk in surprise. A silky navy skirt drops through my fingers back onto the bed. It’s half-cleared, yet still covered in many tops, skirts, and dresses that I don’t remember having in my closet.
“Yes.” I pick the skirt up, fold it, and add it to the pile in need of ironing.
Anamaria drifts over to run her fingers across the clothes still hanging in the closet, all brighter shades than those I’ve been clearing off the bed. “Any worries that it will feel strange without Uncle Max?”
“I’ve been in the office this last month.” Not for a whole day at any time, but often enough to remain in the loop and ensure that necessary functions keep turning. Work stops for no one, especially since we have deadlines and staff to pay. New contracts to negotiate. Problems to iron out.
My hands tangle in a linen blouse before folding it and starting another to-be-ironed pile. “It’s strange, yes, but there were days Max and I never crossed paths at the office. I’ll manage.”
“I’m sure you will.” Anamaria waits until my hands are free, then wraps me in a tight hug. Face too close for me to avoid her gaze, she offers, “If you need anyone to talk to, I’m here.”
“Is this one of your practicum hours?” I ask, careful to keep my voice light because she’s been good about not using her family as material for her psychology studies—though her face periodically scrunches up studiously as she watches one of her sisters, or Corin or me, and we can almost feel her analyzing us.
She’s finishing a masters in counseling and participating in internships to get her license. It’s been good for her. She’s more thoughtful and comes up with unexpected insights. Still, the niece who asks questions with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer continues to show up on a regular basis.
Alongside the niece who takes criticisms instantly to heart, given the hurt that flashes across her face when my joke lands with a thud.
“I’m sorry—I know you want to help.” When I hug her back, the initial tension mostly dissipates, but there’s a murky tinge to her lilac scent.
Faint, because she uses aids Max helped refine to ensure her perfume stays within acceptable limits.
However, I’m close enough, and I know her scent well enough that I can’t miss it.
She feels or fears I’m rejecting her help. Or perhaps that’s something I use as an excuse, because words spill out before I can call them back.
“I miss Max, but I always feared he’d go first. I spent so many wasted hours worrying that I grieved his loss early and hard.
Now, there’s just an emptiness in my life, my heart.
” Pulling back an arms’ length, I sit on the bed and rub a sudden pang between my breasts.
“But the hardest thing is, I don’t know what comes next.
It all seems more emptiness, stretched out to eternity. ”
The mattress squeaks as Anamaria settles next to me, warm against my shoulder and hip where we press against each other.
“Emptiness or openness to new possibilities?”
“I don’t know. Do the words matter?”
“Yes and no.”
Silence settles over us like a mantle, a heavy cloth of time and space that leaves room for thought, that makes me think.
Emptiness versus possibilities. It was emptiness, but maybe it’s shifting to possibility.
The whole point is that I’m not dead, so I might as well live and find out what comes next.
There’s a scary thought.
“All that time and worry about Max dying first, and I never put any thought into what I’d do after.” No tears on my face—I’ve cried them all out—but I swallow a sudden lump in my throat.
“Do whatever you want.” Anamaria nudges me, her scent returning to its usual soft loveliness. “You’re healthy, with solid finances and a family that will support you. Take a chance on something new.”
“Maybe.” Even to my ears, my voice sounds more enthusiastic than expected. I lean my head on her shoulder. “Thanks for staying, even if only to push me to talk.”
“Well, maybe not just for that.” She hunches and rubs her head against mine.
Another edge of decay tinges her scent and something in her tone rouses me to pull back and swivel to face her, though her head still hangs low.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Anamaria looks up and makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “One of my roommates started her heat a bit earlier than expected, before she could make it to an Omega Center, so she’s hunkering down in the apartment.”
“Does she have everything she needs?” After living through Max’s heats for nearly four decades, I have a good idea of the supplies needed: food, drinks, and cleaning supplies, of course.
But above and beyond those, either a sufficient array of sex toys or enough living, breathing, and—equally important—trustworthy partners.
“Yeah, she’d already planned to have a couple of beta friends who live across the way keep an eye on things and on the pack who’ve started courting her.
They’re seeing her through it as a test run of how they get along.
” Anamaria fidgets; the mattress swallows some of the movement, but it still vibrates beneath me.
Her apartment complex offers excellent security and a great location close to public transportation, shopping, restaurants, and bars—basically anything young, lively women might want.
The trade-off was space, as I’d discovered when she hosted Corin, Max, and myself for a meal shortly after she moved in, bare months before his collapse.
She and her roommates might have their own bedrooms—little more than rectangular boxes—but lived almost on top of each other.
Taking a guess, I ask, “Would you like to stay here until her heat is over?”
Bebe would ask outright to come home. Caity would assume she could. But dear, sweet, responsible Anamaria was never quite sure, for which I blamed her mother.
At least I got to see the delight on her face when Corin confirmed her welcome.
Anamaria’s encouraging words echo in my mind for the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Both she and Corin know me well enough to give me space and time to think, though Corin interrupts my reverie to make sure I come down to dinner, drink another thick smoothie, and otherwise consume enough calories for the day.
All the while, different possibilities dance through my head, alone and in combination.
The goals I formed with Max still shine brightly, of course: building and expanding the business to help ensure omegas such as him and Anamaria can shape their lives as they want.
I’m still amused by the way the girls described us as practically business saints—but I get a lot out of it too, not least the ability to feel virtuous.
It’s something I value enough to want to preserve.
But they’re not the dreams I started with, and certainly not all I wanted out of life.
He left—died—and all my plans cracked into a dozen pieces. The future is empty, open, and terrifying.
Fragments of old dreams well up, mingling with the shattered futures including Max. Sudden longing floods me, hunger for the kind of life I turned away from when I chose him—because I did actively choose in the end, even if I didn’t realize it when Dan asked me to go for him instead.
Dreams of a pack rouse in me, images of living day by day with people to laugh with, play with, and love hard. These faded for years, particularly when the girls still lived at home making us a family pack of sorts.
Then, they moved out, one by one, laughing and saying they didn’t want anyone looking over their shoulder, scrutinizing their every decision.
That left Corin, Max, and me rattling around in this too-big place, without half as much laughter, music, or touch.
We were still family, but we weren’t as close as before, not as close as I remember my parents in their fifties.
Family matters. Corin and his daughters are my family, and I love them.
But the most basic kind of pack doesn’t involve children; it’s three or more people coming together and choosing to interweave their lives to the point they cannot easily be separated, if at all.
There’s love. Usually there’s sex—lots of it even if the quantity dwindles with age.
More relevant in this moment, with me rattling around an oversized house: there’s almost always someone to cuddle with.
Corin’s still here, but I can’t lay my burdens on his shoulders. He has his own. Sharing helps, but we’re just two beans in a pod made for more. The last thing I want is to make his road harder.
Rubbing my hands along my arms doesn’t dispel the goosebumps lining my skin. I pull out my warmest nightgown, which isn’t saying that much. Max bought most of my nightgowns, and he liked looking at me in slinky things. Loved the texture of silk over skin.
So do I, or I’d have laughed and bought warmer gowns.
He used to pet me, watching the ripples in the fabric.
Pet.
Maybe I’ll get a dog, now that Max’s allergies aren’t an issue. Something warm and affectionate to snuggle with. Or a cat, if I can find one that likes cuddles.
Still, I’m petless tonight and facing a cold bed. No piled clothes tower over me as I slide between the sheets. Shiver. Pull the blankets close. Tangle my toes in a welter of sheet and blanket.
The shivers fade, but my toes remain cold, and my fingers too. Sleep eludes me, blocked by the cold of my body or my heart—or both.
Getting up, I dart through across the cool floor to grab an extra blanket from the closet shelf. No need to arrange it nicely or tuck it in at the corners, I toss it over my spot, and then dive back under the covers.
My body welcomes the added weight, yet somehow the layers fail to warm me enough to rest.
Time to try another tactic. I, too, enjoy the sensation of silk over skin. Max’s appreciation was a mix of aesthetic, and the sensual pleasure of cuddling with layers of soft, slippery fabric between us. In fact, he bought himself new pajamas almost as often as he added to my nightgown collection.
My pleasure in silk ranges from sensual to sexual. Max usually got up before me, though I don’t know whether he was aware that, when he left, I touched myself through the silk with different purpose than his playful petting.
Passes of hands over arms, chest, belly, and legs. Stroking, pressing, circling—all to send ripples of pleasure coursing through me. Make nerves prickle and breaths turn uneven. Rouse every mote of my body into full awareness.
Then, keep that sharpness as long as possible. Walk through the day taking any opportunity to reawaken it, without tipping over the edge. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake, and pleasure in anticipating the moment when I’d finally cross over into orgasm.
I’ve lived this for thirty years. Managed to rouse tantalizing almost-there responses in my body under all manner of conditions.
Tonight, I fail.
Stroking my shoulders eases the goosebumps, but little more. My nipples turn to taut, crinkled buds, but from the lingering chill, rather than my hands plucking at them and cupping my breasts. Despite circling my clit, it refuses to give more than a halfhearted throb.
Too cold, no matter how many blankets.
Too alone.
For the second night, I leave my room and walk down the dark hall. Anamaria’s upstairs, but unlikely to hear anything. My passage creates little sound beyond the pitter-patter of bare feet and my uneven breathing.
Corin sits up in bed, an angular shadow against the paler gray of the wall. “Johanna?”
“I’m cold.”
The covers rustle as he holds them up, and I dive under to curl against his warmth.