Holiday Wolf Pack

by Bridget Essex

  I guess they are.

  But I'm not.

  “I can't do this,” I whisper, and I take a step backward. A step toward town. Toward civilization.

  A step out of the wilderness.

  “What are you talking about? What can't you do?” Carol is distressed; her cheeks are rosy, her eyes shining. “Baby,” she whispers again, and her voice trembles as she hugs herself, squeezing herself. “What's wrong?”

  I don't know what to say. There's a maelstrom of emotions inside of me; I can't condense it down to a simple explanation...but I want to try. I take a deep breath.

  What's wrong? she asked.

  “Me,” I tell her quickly, simply. And then, stunned, I shrug, shaking my head. “This,” I whisper, gesturing all around me, to the woods, to the mountain. To the wolves.

  Carol watches me carefully, her brow furrowed, her face perplexed. She waits, listening.

  I cough a little, getting choked up as I try, somehow, to find the right words. “I'm not...like them. I'm not like you.”

  Still, she says nothing, but there are tears standing in her eyes, and there's a graveness in her expression that I've never seen before.

  “I wish I wasn't a werewolf, Carol. I'm not a wolf. I'm not...” And then a wave of anger rises within me, hot and unexpected as I ball my hands into fists at my sides. Now that I've started, I just can't stop: “I'm not a beast,” I growl quietly. “I'm not a monster.”

  Carol and I stand together, close enough to touch, and yet...and yet, we're a million miles apart.

  I can't read her expression now. Not exactly. She's hurt, that much is obvious from the pained slant of her mouth, the darkening of her eyes. But she's feeling something else, too.

  “You think wolves are monsters?” she whispers, inhaling a quick intake of breath.

  Yeah. She's mad.

  “What the hell, Georgia? What's wrong with you? You're a wolf, and there's nothing you—”

  “But I'm not. I'm not like them,” I say, gesturing up the mountain in the direction my classmates, the pups, have gone. Gesturing in the direction the wolves, themselves, have taken. The real wolves. “I've never been like them, those...werewolves.” But when I say the word “werewolves,” I spit it out, and Carol's staring at me in shock.

  She draws in a deep breath.

  “Is this what's been bothering you?” she asks quietly, her voice flat.

  A hush surrounds us: the woods are so peaceful and still. Overhead, the slate blue of the sky is slowly growing darker.

  Carol takes a step closer, raising her hand as if I'm a frightened animal, her body language soft and receptive. I think she's worried about scaring me off. “Georgia, we can talk about this. I...I don't know what you're going through right now, but we'll talk about it. I promise.”

  “You don't know what I'm going through,” I tell her harshly, “because you...you've always been proud of who you are. You're a werewolf, through and through—you love it. It's as much a part of you as your heart,” I tell her, choking back tears. “I've...I've never been proud of it. I don't want to be a werewolf. I don't want to live my whole life knowing how different I am from everyone else, knowing that...if people knew what I was, they would never accept me. Knowing that, if they knew...” I meet her gaze, and sorrow fills me. “They would think I'm a monster.”

  Carol doesn't reply. She hardly moves.

  I drag the back of my hand over my nose, shake my head. “You know it's true,” I whisper. “The whole world would—”

  “Georgia, if anyone thinks you're a monster,” she says carefully, maintaining eye contact with me, her bright blue eyes glinting, “they aren't worthy of you.”

  I'm silent for a long moment, my sides heaving. I can hardly breathe as I lower my head. “But I have to live in this world, Carol,” I tell her, opening my hands. “I can't always surround myself with werewolves. I have to live, and that means going out there—” I wave my arm vaguely. “That means being surrounded by humans. Humans who would hate me if they knew the truth. And that's not okay. That's...terrible. I'm afraid, all the time, that people are going to find out—and then what?”

  “Georgia,” she begins, and there's steel in her voice now. “I...I don't understand not being proud of who you are. I'll work on trying to understand how you're feeling,” she says, pressing a hand, again, to her heart. “But I don't need to understand it at the moment. I'm sorry you feel that way. And we can face all of this together. We can face the world. I promise,” she whispers.

  “You're so content with what you are, Carol.” I start to sob, gulping down pockets of cold, dry air. “It would be terrible for you to be with someone who hates herself for what she is.”

  “Georgia.” Carol stares at me, her eyes wet. “What are you saying?”

  “I...I can't do this. I can't stay here. I can't be what I hate...” I take a step back, and another one. I'm shaking.

  And then I tell her the truth.

  “I'm leaving Pine Springs for good.”

  Her face is completely blank as she stares at me.

  “I'm...I'm sorry. I've been trying to think of a way to tell you for months. But I have to leave. I can't stay here. I don't belong here. This isn't my home.”

  Carol's eyes are brimming with tears. She watches me as the storm breaks, as snowflakes begin to fall all around us, melting on our naked skin.

  We stand too far apart now; she can't touch me.

  She tilts up her head, tears swimming in her gaze, and she lets her hands fall to her sides.

  She's not going to stop me.

  “I thought I was your home,” Carol whispers, the words so soft I almost don't hear them.

  But I do hear them.

  And they will haunt me every day for the rest of my life, I know.

  But I still leave. I turn around and walk away into the darkness, leaving her, and everything else, behind.

  Alone.

  ---

  I squint at the windshield; I can hardly see the road through the flurries, and my windshield wipers are only making matters worse. I swipe a hand over my face: there are tears on my cheeks, but I haven't checked to see if Carol's crying, too.

  I just can't bear to look at her right now.

  Talking about the past... God. The pain is so fresh, so sharp. That knife twists in my gut again, and I feel cold—really and truly cold, for the first time in years.

  Silence stretches between us. I stare at the road, keep my eyes trained on it, but I can feel the tension rolling off of Carol in waves. She's so close to me... If we were a couple, we'd be holding hands. I'd trace my fingers over her thigh, give it a gentle squeeze now and again. But we haven't been a couple in fifteen years...

  And we just relived, painfully, why that's the case.

  “Do you still feel that way?” Carol whispers suddenly.

  The winter winds howl outside of the car, but beneath the storm, I hear her.

  “Yes.” The word rolls off of my tongue before I can give the matter any thought.

  The thing is, I don't really think about being a werewolf anymore. Okay, sometimes I do: if I scent a werewolf on the street, we acknowledge one another with a glance, a nod... Or if I slip up and let my pointy teeth loose. When I'm headed back to Pine Springs every Christmas, I think about it. But...that's it.

  I haven't transformed into my wolf self in years.

  I haven't wanted to.

  I've cut out all of the parts of my life where being a were would have had any consequence.

  I left Pine Springs. I left it all behind.

  And aside from visiting my family for Christmas...I never think about Pine Springs at all.

  But I think about her. About Carol. I think about the time we met the wolves together, and I think about how, for a moment, just a single moment...I felt free, running with her, with Carol. Running with my mate.

  And how I squashed that feeling down.

  I haven't shapeshifted, not once, since I left Pine Springs that day. B
ut that doesn't mean I've felt any better. Living among humans, dating humans, participating in the things normal humans participate in—like barhopping and Black Fridays—has left me numb, unfulfilled. I've chalked it all up to depression, or maybe loneliness.

  But when I saw Carol...

  God, when I saw Carol.

  Everything came crashing back to me, as if no time had passed at all.

  And remembering our past together, I realized something I'd completely forgotten.

  Once, I was truly happy.

  Once, everything made sense to me.

  Because, once, I was with her.

  “I understand—I mean, I don't understand that you hate that part of yourself,” Carol says then, and I can tell that she's crying. Her words are muted, strangled, but she coughs and goes on. “I would have helped you, Georgia. I would have done my best. If you'd stayed... Maybe you wouldn't have had to stay. Maybe we could have gone somewhere else.” She sighs wearily. “Maybe we could have gone away together.”

  “No.” I shake my head, brows narrowed. “You love Pine Springs, and you've always loved Pine Springs. You never would have left your home to be with me.” My words are choked; I feel breathless. What is she talking about? She loves our stupid little hometown. Surely that hasn't changed.

  “I loved you more,” she whispers, shocking me to my core.

  I swerve a little, then quickly correct the wheels and ease up on the gas.

  “Georgia,” Carol breathes, “I always loved you more. I would have gone anywhere in the world to be with you. I would have done anything to make you happy.” She's sobbing into her hands. Her voice is muffled as she says, “But you left. You just...you walked out of my life. Like I meant nothing to you.”

  I can hardly see through my tears. Quickly, I blink them back, swallowing hard. “You can't mean that—”

  “Georgia.”

  I glance at her, at her hands balled into fists in her lap.

  “You have no idea, do you?” Carol asks—fiercely, angrily. Shouting. “I loved you, all right? And I thought you loved me. And that was more important than everything else—more important than being wolves, Pine Springs. None of it mattered, not really. I loved you. All we had was each other, but that's all we needed. At least, that's all I thought you needed. I thought we were happy until the day you left me. What could I do but believe your actions? By leaving, you told me that you didn't love me—not enough. And you fucking broke my heart.”

  I wince in pain; my heart is a hammer in my chest. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but the words won't come. Ahead of us, I notice movement at the edge of the woods, and I move my foot to the brake, applying pressure as gently as possible, because there's something there.

  A deer bounds out from between the pine trees—a stag. He freezes in the middle of the road, his antlers silhouetted in the headlights, transforming him into a strange, otherworldly creature in the midst of the billowing snow. I have to brake completely, and we watch him shake the snow from his rack, snorting into the cold air, his breath curling out before him like the smoke of a dragon.

  He remains in the center of the road, unmoving, and as we sit there in the idling car, watching him through the windshield, three other bucks appear from the copse of trees to the right. That first stag remains, staring our car down with wide, dark, unblinking eyes, while, one after the other, the three smaller bucks scamper across the road, disappearing into the woods on the other side.

  It's as if he's a sentinel, protecting the three others, giving them safety to cross the road.

  Then and only then, when the three have vanished, does the first buck lower his head. He bends his beautiful neck, sniffing at the snow, blowing out another foggy breath into the stillness. With the snowflakes flurrying around him, he looks too picturesque, as if he's poised in a true-to-life snow globe.

  Finally, he lifts his hooves and walks sedately across the highway. A few moments later, and he's disappeared into the woods with the other deer.

  He's gone.

  Outside, the wind rages; snow scuttles across the road.

  Inside the car, despite that moment of wild beauty, we say nothing.

  There is only the silence of broken hearts.

  I press my foot to the gas, and the car slowly accelerates as my head whirls around a few base concepts, in time to the snow whirling in front of my vision: the deer moving across the road were noble, beautiful, and I just shared the experience of seeing them with Carol... How many lovely moments over the past fifteen years have I lost?

  How much, truly, did I lose by leaving?

  Too much.

  I stare at the snow through the windshield and consider our breakup from Carol's point of view.

  Out of the blue, I left. I left her. And I broke her heart.

  “I...” I swallow, clear my throat, but my voice still sounds low, gravelly. “I'm sorry.” I swallow again, cough a little. “I'm sorry.”

  Carol says nothing. The car crawls forward—we're in a state of whiteout now, with the occasional blurry line indicating the side of the road.

  My heart feels so heavy that it aches with every beat.

  I listen to the wind, buffeting snow against the car. I listen to the sound of our breathing.

  And then:

  “Did you love me?” Carol asks into the stillness.

  I glance at her. The light from the headlights is reflecting on the snow, bouncing back a soft glow back into the car, illuminating Carol's face.

  Her expression is hardened, and pained.

  Scarred.

  “I don't understand why you're asking that,” I begin, but she's glaring at me now; her eyes glint like steel in the snow-made light.

  I take a deep breath, the rest of what I might have said fading away. “I'm sorry,” I mumble again, wondering if the life I've lived since our parting is apology enough...but she doesn't know what my life's been like.

  She doesn't know me at all anymore, I remind myself.

  And I wish, so much, that she did.

  “I'm sorry,” I repeat. “I just...I did love you, yes. I...I loved you with my whole heart.”

  “But how could you love me?” she replies quietly. “You told me that you hate what you are. Doesn't that mean you hate what I am, too?”

  Hate what I am.

  Being a werewolf.

  My hands tighten on the wheel. “It's...complicated.”

  “Did you think I was a monster, too?” she whispers. And, after a long moment of silence, she murmurs brokenly into the stillness, “Is that why you left me?”

  When I was growing up, my mother used to always warn me not to assume anything. People—werewolves and humans alike—are often guilty of assuming. In truth, you only really ever know what's going on in your own head.

  I always thought that Carol understood why I had left, that it had only had to do with me.

  But I disappeared. And then I avoided her. For fifteen years.

  Why wouldn't she have taken that personally?

  “No. No,” I tell her, my voice cracking. I lick my lips. “No,” I repeat, and then I'm toeing the brake, pulling over to the side of the road.

  Snow whips across the windshield, an indomitable curtain of white.

  We sit there for a long moment, me gripping the steering wheel, her looking out at the maelstrom. It mirrors the maelstrom of emotions that are whirling through me right now, leaving wreckage behind. I feel, so absolutely, the heaviness of grief. Grief for what might have been. Grief for the pain I've caused to the one person in the world who I would most wish to never hurt. I caused her pain, deep pain.

  And I can't go back to the past and fix it.

  I put the car in park, and I shift in my seat, and I reach across the space between us. I do it before I can even think, before I can consider whether it's a good idea or not.

  I take her left hand, curled tightly in her lap, her magenta nails poking so hard into her palm that they're almost cutting the skin. Her hand is
hard—tense and unyielding.

  But she doesn't move to take it away. She remains sitting there, her hands curled into fists, with my hand on top of her own.

  “I never thought you were a monster,” I growl. “Never. I hated a part of me, and I...I still do. I've never come to peace with it, Carol. I don't know if I ever will. It makes me...” I sigh, close my eyes. “I hate it. But it's who you are, and that...that was different. I loved every part of you. It made sense that you were part wolf. It's who you are. And I thought every part of you was perfect,” I whisper.

  She's watching me now with hooded eyes. I don't know what she's thinking. Her expression is blank and still, utterly unreadable.

  Until she closes her eyes and pain blossoms over her face.

  There's a long moment of silence again. Of us breathing, of the wind wailing.

  And then, so softly that I almost don't hear it: “Say it again,” she whispers.

  I take a deep breath. If I wasn't gripping her hand so tightly, my own hand would be shaking.

  “I thought every part of you was perfect,” I tell her softly, my throat tight, heat roaring across my face, under my skin, as I bend my head toward hers.

  Her eyes are closed tighter now, the furrow across her brow deepening.

  We were just kids fifteen years ago. But I still remember her tells, still remember what her subtle expressions mean, still remember...everything. And, yes, a person can change so much in fifteen years.

  But some things?

  Some things will always be the same.

  “Again,” she murmurs, and her mouth is open now, her breath coming faster. When she turns to look at me, her eyes are wide, flickering with a fierce light I remember all too well. She's haunted my dreams for fifteen years, after all.

  I remember.

  I lean forward at the waist, undoing my seat belt. I watch her carefully. Her lips are still parted, wet... Am I doing the right thing? Is this okay? But as I lean toward her, she leans toward me, and our bodies speak for us as I wrap my fingers into the hair at the base of her neck, the soft gold beneath my fingertips bringing back so many memories that it almost knocks the breath out of me.