9
Logan
Monday lasts an eternity. And yet, even with an eternity, I can’t seem to get a single thing done. Celine managed to weasel out of every moment alone I might have gotten with her over lunch. She hasn’t answered her phone since, and we desperately need a conversation.
One, how are we going to tell her family it is over.
Two, no more surprise kisses, no matter how dire the situation.
Three, Celine is the impartial fount of wisdom I would normally turn to, if only to get her confirmation that every interaction I’d had with Ava was bizarre.
Though, the more I turn it over in my mind, the more I realize there are fewer moments with Ava that I think would be appropriate to share with my ex.
Part of me wants to ask her what she thinks of this situation, what she thinks I should do. She is the only person I trust that knows exactly what is at stake. But it seems a little cruel to tell her about Ava. It might seem like I was asking my ex-fiancée for permission to pursue a human mate.
After all I’ve put Celine through, I can’t. So, I continue to circle this cage.
The brewery is closed for the federal holiday, and I’ve never hated a three-day weekend so much.
It’s also one of those mornings where everyone’s trapped in the house.
Usually, I like a bit of rain, but it hasn’t felt this oppressive in a while.
The sound of the rain bearing down on the windows is constant, the chill of the humidity creeps in.
Normally, on a day like this, Aiden would be sprawled out on one end of the couch with his phone or the TV on, while Deanna sipped her coffee with a book and a blanket.
But Shawn’s presence still throws everyone out of sorts, as he can’t seem to decide to stay in a room more than twenty minutes at a time. Every time someone enters a room, Aiden leaves. It’s the most damning evidence I’ve seen that we’re related.
My mother has been hovering. It’s a behavior I’ve noticed more of since the jilting. She’s brought me more mugs of coffee over the course of the last two weeks than possibly my whole life.
This morning she sat in Dad’s study with me for an hour or so, a book in her lap, not really turning the pages. Occasionally, she would get up, look over my shoulder, and make remarks about whatever work was on my laptop screen.
I moved my work to the kitchen to avoid being found in my usual haunts.
Since then, Aiden has come in to stare inside the fridge a number of times and startles each time he realizes I am here.
Shawn keeps coming in and heating up the same cup of green tea every half hour; it must be radioactive by now.
Finally, my mother discovers me, looking surprised at my work spread out over the kitchen counter. I try to wave her off.
“I’m on the phone with one of our vendors,” I say, and my mom nods apologetically, waving me on. I hold my breath as she hovers in the doorway.
It’s not one of our vendors, but another periodic attempt to call Celine. She sends me to voicemail again, and I grumble out loud.
When my call gets denied, my mom decides to simply come in and steal a moment. She heads toward the half-empty pot of coffee and pours it out. “How about a fresh one?”
She doesn’t take the time to grind whole beans, weigh them out, or bother with the pour-over method, simply filling the machine with a pre-ground mix and pressing the button.
“I haven’t seen you at home much since the full moon,” my mom says, raising a curious brow as she pulls open the fridge and takes out the milk. “I think you might have had it the worst this time around; you were gone for days. Everything alright?”
I know she means besides all the wedding-related mess, if there’s anything else she can try to help with.
I shake my head. “Yeah. Just stress, I think. There’s a lot going on at the brewery.”
She had the house pretty much to herself during the night of the full moon, considering that Aiden and I were in the catacombs.
Our mom rarely sleeps down there, even night of the full moon.
I guess because she’s older, her wolf has mellowed out.
Laura would have been out and about. Laura has never really subscribed to the idea that we need to lock ourselves away, even if her mother did.
My mom waits until the coffee machine stops sputtering before pouring two cups and bringing them over.
“So, about Celine . . . ”
“We’re not—”
“I did think you were going to end things, but I don’t want to apply pressure in either direction—”
“We are ending things,” I confirm, pulling one of the mugs toward me, stirring some sugar in like I intend to drink it. There’s always a hint of staleness to the pre-ground beans that no one else seems to care about. “Celine’s worried her mother won’t take it well.”
“Some families are like that,” my mother nods, sympathetically. “I told you I wasn’t going to interfere with the whole Carrington business, and this is me . . . not interfering.”
I nod as well, grateful that she’s sticking to that, and unwilling to observe the irony that our family is very much still “like that,” if only a few degrees less so.
I can’t blame Celine for panicking, for trying to stick with appeasing her mother over everything we’d decided. I’d be the same way if my father were still alive, focused on mitigating his moods at the expense of everything else.
My mother fixes her mug with a dash of milk, steeling herself with a long inhale before she says, “I know you weren’t wild about the idea of anti-depressants before, especially given how your father felt about them—”
“Oh god, not now, Mom. Can we talk about that later?”
She raises her hands placatingly, backing off. “I just . . . I want you to know you are doing well, Logan. You have kept the family brewery and recipe alive. I think you are being too hard on yourself.”
I know she means well, but her words settle heavily in my chest. My throat closes on any response I might make, and I stare back at her.
“I know, you don’t want to talk about it.” She sighs, turning her gaze down into her drink. She stirs another three sugars in, because she always overestimates how much bitterness she’s willing to tolerate. Her eyes grow contemplative as she watches the dark contents swirl.
“I’ve always been trying to pry conversation out of you. You were quiet even as a baby. You didn’t learn to talk as fast as the others. My mother-in-law said it was normal though; your Dad was the same.”
My body stiffens at his invocation. My mouth is an immovable line, my teeth gnash together.
“. . . I’m really, really busy,” I tell her. Her brow tenses, but she says nothing, just takes another sip of her coffee.
Finally, she leaves.
Pushing my laptop away, I stifle a groan and scrub my hands over my face. Faintly, I wonder if this is going to be what finally makes me try therapy. Not that I can just tell anyone about all the werewolf stuff. Or the mate thing.
Burying my dad didn’t help quite as much as I hoped it would. I’m still angry. I still can’t get away from him.
I find myself pacing the house, the same restless prickle down my spine that accompanies a shift. If the moon were fuller, it’d happen, even this early in the day. When I stop in the doorway of the living room, I spot Shawn lying on the floor, his things scattered across the coffee table.
And because I can’t figure out how to stop picking fights with Shawn, I snap, “If leaving all this was so easy, why doesn’t everyone?”
He doesn’t ask for more context, rather regards me for a long moment.
“They don’t, ’cause it’s not. Hope that helps,” he says, before he turns his attention back to whatever he’s reading.
The answer leaves me chewing the inside of my cheek. I might have been a little too hard on Shawn, perhaps. I’m not really willing to admit as much yet, even to myself. We’ve been patching over the fight at the wedding, bit by bit, but there’s a lot of bad blood left to clean up.
Still, I realize I can’t continue to give Shawn shit for thinking everything about Elise is a spiritual experience. The world stops spinning every single time Ava even touches me.
My mind drifts to Ava, as it does incessantly.
Sometimes I think about Ava so much, I think something must be wrong with me.
I really can’t explain to her that there’s something about her, that makes me feel like my grip on my composure is slipping.
That’s not a great reason, and it’s also not a normal person thing.
It’s just one more thing that’s worse about me that she wouldn’t have to deal with from someone else.
She’s not my mate. I just like her. It’s just the sex. Of course I would think she’s my mate, every time I see her, she’s climbing into my lap and we’re losing an hour to orgasmic bliss.
Celine and I never—we couldn’t. Her family was so much stricter than my own. She still wears the purity ring her parents had given her when she was ten. In the same thought, I’d never felt like I couldn’t keep my hands off her, the way I did Ava.
It wasn’t like I’d never truly loved Celine, I did. I wasn’t willing to discount what we shared, how important it was to me. But I hadn’t known that wanting someone could feel like this before.
She is my mate. I bit her. I can’t deny it to myself, no matter how long I’ve been trying not to think too hard about the way she’s affected me every time I’m near her, how I’m drawn to her.
But what am I going to say to Ava? Commit to me, a stranger you haven’t had nearly enough time to get to know, on the faith that being mates means some great spiritual thing?
Now I wonder if I caught her scent the day of the wedding, if it had been her the whole time, if she had been the catalyst. Did I just want to believe that?
Was that a better answer than if it had been me, pushing myself nearly to the point of ferality, merely the last straw amongst a multitude of others.
I kept ignoring the part of me that didn’t want to live that life, until it just . . . took hold of me.
And if I accepted that she was my mate, what did that even look like?
I don’t want to tell her it was supposed to be my wedding.
Maybe it was a matter of ego that I didn’t want her to look at me the way I had been looking at Shawn when it was clear Elise was his ex.
‘What did you do to make her break up with you, you idiot?’ It had been unkind of me, fueled by other long simmering resentments.
He’d seemed so pathetic, unable to keep the woman he was desperate over.
It made a little more sense, now that it hadn’t just been a breakup, but that he was utterly heartbroken.
I realize I’ve been standing in the doorway too long, saying nothing, when Shawn folds his print-out in half and puts it aside. He props his head up on his hand.
“You know, when I left home, I stopped going to church. I didn’t have to talk to Mom and Dad every day.
No one was telling me I needed to feel shame or guilt for all these little things.
Full moons got easier. I mean, I still became a wolf every full moon, but I felt like I had control over myself.
It wasn’t just a mindless hurting beast lashing out.
It was still there, and it still hurt a bit, but it was . . . manageable.”
I can’t stand the way he talks, sometimes, like he has all the answers. The clawing, itching anger finds its way to words before I can stop it. “It was easier for us when you left home too. I don’t think I was ever Dad’s favorite, before.”
Shawn hums a non-committal note. He scratches the back of his head. “I’m glad you got to have that for a bit.”
It’s more understanding of a statement than I expected from him, and it throws my annoyance off. After a while, I return that hum, admitting, “I don’t know that I am. It wasn’t all I’d hoped it would be. A light went out when you left.”
He nods. “Sucks when you realize the people you idolized never deserved it.”
I watch his face carefully, before he twists his mouth, then catches my eye with a wink. “Not me though. I do deserve it, as the big brother.”