Chapter 16 Werewolves Can Be Classy, Too #2
“Oh. He was caught in the rain two nights ago, so I rescued him,” says Hanry.
“But why did you keep him instead of forfeiting him to animal control? Are you offering wreaths and rodents as a package deal?” I ask. “Buy one wreath, get one bubonic plague free? Or do you have to pay extra for the rabies?”
Hanry laughs. “Want some tea?” he says, clearly to distract me from the squirrel. “I’m about to make a new pot.”
Usually I’d say no, but Hanry has regaled me with foraging tales for weeks now. I guess now’s as good a time as any to indulge my curiosity and see what the big deal is.
We scuttle through the autumnal scene of war into his kitchen.
Hanry is the kind of person who has a tea cabinet.
It’s filled with rolled-up paper bags so fragrant I can smell them from across the room.
I watch from a stool as he goes through the motions of brewing tea, which is oddly sexy.
Dressed in loose pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, Hanry’s arms are fully exposed for once, tensing flatteringly when he reaches for an artisanal ceramic mug.
He’s so… good-looking. And as the red squirrel dashes away to hide behind Hanry’s sofa, it strikes me Hanry is also just good.
He could hands-down win this year’s title as Newest Disney Princess.
All right. That’s it. It’s decided. Tonight’s the night when we don’t just Netflix, but escalate to the “chill” part of the equation. With nervous excitement fluttering in my stomach, I take the mug from him and carry it with me to the sofa.
“How’s the tea?” he asks.
I take a sip—and nearly spit it back out. Hanry’s alleged “tea” tastes like dirt. I’d rather mow someone’s lawn with my teeth than drink this abomination.
“It’s great,” I say with a Duchenne smile.
Then I nestle against Hanry’s side. He starts the movie, and I abandon the tea for the cozy warmth beside him.
Uninterested in his Halloween-inspired choice of horror film, I slide my hand from Hanry’s arm to his broad shoulder, squeezing meaningfully.
Making subtle little noises of interest. I trail my fingertips to his chest, waiting for him to respond.
His shadowed blue eyes remain fixed on the screen of his Roku TV—on a badly CGI’d mutant beehive exploding.
It’s kind of insulting, frankly.
Making less subtle noises, I push my leg against Hanry’s. When he doesn’t respond, I slide my leg all the way across, hooking my heel around his well-muscled calf. I’m sending out irresistible clingy energy, like a sexy octopus.
“Sabby,” he laughs as he picks up the remote. “You sound like a race car.”
“A sexy race car, right?”
Pausing on the swarm, Hanry turns to me with a knowing look. Eyes crinkling, he says, “You’re not enjoying the movie, are you?”
“There’s something I want to enjoy more.”
“Oh yeah?” asks Hanry.
Maybe Hanry was just pretending to be dense.
Now that I’ve gotten his attention, he cups the back of my head with his hand and sweeps his tongue over my lips, parting them.
Kissing me, long and slow. Finally. I hum with satisfaction when his arms draw me closer.
His fingers slide up under my shirt hem, to the clasps of my bra.
Finally. Wanting to encourage him, I kiss harder.
I splay my hands on his stomach, basking in the smooth heat against my palms.
Hanry’s breath catches.
“I promise I find you more interesting than bees,” he says, so close that the words fall warm and heavy against my face.
“Good,” I whisper back.
Then his hand travels to my hip—and lower. I shift, rising so that his hand cradles my butt—a jolt like electricity travels between us—and suddenly the apartment floods with the sound of angry buzzing.
“What the hell!” I shout over the cacophony. As I jerk, the image on-screen jumps from a swarming alien bee army to a flatly animated man chasing a goose.
“Honk!” ejects the avian rogue.
“Sorry, sorry!” Hanry laughs, his hand groping around under my thigh. “You must’ve rolled over the button. Scooch over.”
“Are you calling me fat?!”
“No, I—it’s a goose game… like a video game with a goose…”
What is it with everyone’s obsession with birds around here? First Bulan, now Hanry! “Why can’t you just turn it—agghh!”
I’m drowned out by buzzing so loud, I have to cover my ears.
Finally, Hanry pushes me right off the sofa, so I land in a blankety pile of devastation on the floor.
Spilled tea makes itself known, soaking through my pants.
“What the hell!” I grouse again as Hanry reaches between the sofa cushions and untucks a remote control. Clicks it.
Finally, the TV ceases screaming at us.
In the once-again quiet, cozy living room, Hanry draws his eyebrows together in his typical whimsical apology.
“Sorry,” he repeats, extending a hand to me. “I… like the size of your butt?” he says with an uncertain smile. Which I appreciate, but ugh. Just…ugh. I am tea-muddy and my ears are ringing and the mood is definitely over. At least I won’t have to drink the mud-tea.
“Whatever,” I say. And after I change into a pair of Hanry’s ridiculous, oversize sweatpants and come back into the room, Hanry has put out a set out of linens and wool blankets for the sofa.
He pulls me back up beside him—this time, settling a few inches farther away.
He seems as bummed out as I am about the way the evening has gone, but he’s not trying to fix it, either.
Again: ugh. I can’t believe this. My de facto boyfriend may be the best, but this slow-burn, lady-blue-balls bullshit? It’s the worst.
And if I didn’t know better, I’d think Grandma’s magical will or saboteurs or some other unknowable force was responsible for it too.
The night before Sidney the werewolf’s wedding, I stay up until midnight.
There are more than a few reasons for this late-night debacle.
The primary reason is that I’m toggling between twenty-four-hour-ahead confirmation emails for Sidney’s seventeen vendors and an email chain with her venue’s event coordinator.
It’s been a lot of work, a lot of stress—but it isn’t what’s keeping me up.
No. The source of my insomnia are the two emails from EFG with the subject lines:
Checking In About Samantha’s Monday Arrival
And:
Samantha’s Reassignment
Within the latter, I discover a long email chain—evidence of what’s been going on for several weeks behind the scenes—that outlines my immense corporate peril.
Steve and Desmond have mutually determined I don’t have enough hours to qualify for FMLA, and losing pizza privileges is insufficient retribution for leaving my MicroOrange audit team underresourced on their project.
This leads to the HR admin’s rebuttal: As a woman, surely I wouldn’t be penalized for societal expectations to take care of family?
That would be sexist, right? Surely EFG would not let itself be accused of sexism.
Again. For which Steve was partially responsible, last time, in a public exposé.
So it has been taken up the chain. To the partner.
Who has reassigned me to a new team with a less flashy client, with the additional encouragement that I find a way to wrap up my family matters by the start of next week.
It’s worse than a bad rating. It’s the first step toward being fired.
This house is so worryingly quiet. All I can hear are distracting, annoying questions whirling around like pinwheels in my head.
I’d been planning to shoehorn in exam reading and problem sets before bed, but I’ve put those aside, replacing them with blind panic.
I wish I wasn’t so alone right now; that I had someone to talk to.
I tried texting Hanry, but he’s on a short trip to visit his parents and pretty much AWOL.
At least he’s promised to be back by Sunday in order to take me to a Halloween party for which he’s already bought us couples costumes.
Despite that sounding like the pinnacle of my worst phobias, for some reason, I said yes. Possibly because Hanry gift wrapped my costume and left it on the porch for me, which seemed so romantic I couldn’t say no.
So here I am. All alone, suffering from some kind of bizarre, unending insomnia, spooking at every thud, and—
Maybe I should just give up. Watch something on TV.
“Bulan!” I call out. “Bulan, let’s binge something!”
When he fails to answer, I go hunting for him.
For once, the head doesn’t turn up immediately in the places I’ve come to expect him.
I look in the sink, in case he’s lounging in a sink puddle; on the recliner, in case he’s snoozing on a TV remote; at the ceiling, in case he’s planning to drop from the rafters to scare me.
Grandma’s place doesn’t have exposed beams, but I wouldn’t put trying that past him.
Maybe I should take down the ceiling fans.
In the guest bedroom, at last, I find a sign: a partially opened window. But what’s it mean?
Could it be the saboteurs? Or could he have… jumped?
“Bulan!” I shout, worry spiking. I stick my head out the window and search the ground below. “Bulan!?”
Only when I cast my gaze upward do I see it: crested by moonlight, ten enterprising crows caw and honk while suspending a black trash bag midair.
“Sabby!” Bulan’s voice calls out—from the trash bag. Of course. “My friends just picked me up. We’re off on a little adventure!”
“In the middle of the night?” I shout back.
“Halloween’s only two days away! I need a costuuuume!”
The window drops a little on my head. Goddamn it, that’s going to bruise. Rubbing my scalp, I say, “Fine, whatever. Stop making a scene!”
“Okayyyyy! To the dump, friends!”
The crows flap off, briefly catching Bulan against a telephone pole, before bravely soldiering on into the inky night.
Godspeed, Bulan. Godspeed.
“He’s not a pet,” I explain to Mandy the next morning as we wait behind a local butcher shop. “There’s no need to be mad about it.”