As I make my way through the restaurant toward her, my mother stands, giving me a frosty smile as she steps forward, folding me into a tight-angled hug. My mother is pretty muscular (again, we can chalk that up to werewolfism), but she still manages to jab me with her elbows when she hugs me. She sits back down, folding her legs beneath the table again and angling one brow up.
“I've already ordered the fettuccine alfredo for both of us, dear,” she tells me, her voice coming out in an almost-growl. It's pitched low enough that the people surrounding us in the restaurant can't hear anything but the growl of it, and several people turn to look but then go back to their meals when they see my mother's eyes.
There's a strength to my mother, it's true. She looks like she could be a world leader if she wanted to be.
But when she gets that look in her eyes—it's kind of terrifying.
Good thing I've never been afraid of her.
“Oh,” I murmur, shrugging out of my leather jacket and setting it on the chair behind me. I lean back, too, and cross my legs. “I was craving spaghetti,” I tell her, but my mother cuts me off, holding up a well-manicured hand.
“Spaghetti, so boring. You always order spaghetti,” she says, her eyes glittering darkly.
“Because it's my favorite—”
“Trust me,” she says, shaking her head dismissively, “you'll love this.” As usual, there is no room left for argument. “So,” she says, reaching forward and picking up her glass of red wine, “how have you been?”
Well, Mom, I have a girlfriend for the first time in my life, and it's going pretty spectacularly. I think I'm falling in love with her, and that terrifies the crap out of me. I have no idea how to act in a relationship, and I have no idea how to tell her what I really am. But I'm so happy. I thought I was happy before, and I was—but I guess I never knew what happiness could grow to be. Mom, I'm in love.
But my mother and I just don't have the type of relationship where I pour my heart out to her. I can already imagine all of the things she'd say to that. How I should end up with a werewolf woman so that I can keep the pack “all in the family.” I can already hear her long sigh, about how I couldn't possibly know if I was in love or not after two dates.
I'm just not in the mood for arguing.
I take a deep breath. “Okay,” I tell her.
My mother tilts her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “That's it? Just okay?” she asks me, her tone wheedling. “How's the job at Sports-o-rama treating you?” She takes another sip of her wine.
The question is meant to rile me, but I don't rise to the bait. “It's Sports Mountain, Ma, and it's fine,” I tell her, spreading my hands with a little shrug. “Easy. Undemanding...” Unlike you, I add, a little sullenly, in my head. Somehow, as juvenile as it is, my mother has always brought out the defiant teenager in me, even though it's been quite a while since I was a teen living beneath my mother's roof.
“Good, good,” my mother says quickly, waving her hand. “Well, not good. You know I wish you'd apply to your cousin's law firm. You could work your way up—”
I wanted this evening to be nice and easy, and I promised myself that I wouldn't get defensive, but this is kind of too much. “Ma, you know that I'm not interested in law at all, and—”
“What's interest got to do with it?” she asks, drawing out the words in a growl, her lips up over her teeth in what would be perceived as a sneer by anyone watching us. But I know that my mother is getting aggravated with me, and this is a pretty wolfish way to show it. “You could wear a snazzy suit, buy a snazzy apartment,” she tells me, setting her empty wine stem back onto the table. “Get out of that dump you're living in.”
I stay silent, though I'm starting to inwardly seethe.
“And what's this?” she asks, leaning forward and touching a finger to the arm of my Sports Mountain polo shirt. “This is how you dress for dinner with your mother?”
“I didn't have time to change after work,” I tell her, picking every word as carefully as I can, but they all come out through clenched teeth. “And what's wrong with my shirt, anyway?”
“It's common,” my mother says instantly, burning her gaze into mine. “Cheap. Your outward appearance is a reflection of who you are inside.” The way she says this last bit indicates that who I am inside is the spiritual equivalent of a crappy polo shirt. But I shake my head.
“All my outward appearance says is that I'm a person who's wearing a uniform shirt for work.”
“No, you're a person who doesn't care enough about the impression you give other people,” she tells me, like that was obvious and I should have already known it about myself. “Becca, how are you going to become a respected pack leader if you don't dress and act the part?” she says then, her voice a growling whisper, one brow up. The look of disappointment on her face is demoralizing.
Great. We went five whole minutes without bringing pack leader up.
“God, not this again,” I tell her with a groan, sinking down in my chair a little more. I reach forward, picking up my own wine stem, and I take a pretty long swig of the wine. It's good—really good—because my mother only drinks the best.
“Becca,” my mother tells me, in a tone that brooks no argument as she leans forward, “I love you. And I want you to succeed. I want you to make the family proud.”
That last word is practically snarled.
Because I, very obviously, haven't made the family proud yet.
The food arrives, and—just like my mother said—it's two heaping bowls of fettuccine alfredo with garlic bread on the side. But I stare down at my bowl, and even though I was starving a few minutes ago, I realize that I just lost my appetite.
My mother doesn't seem to notice and begins to eat hungrily. Ma is a very polished, put-together-looking woman, but her wolfishness is apparent—to me, anyway—when she eats. She hardly chews, shoveling forkful after forkful into her mouth neatly and quickly. Within a few minutes, her plate is clean. She daintily pats her mouth with a napkin while I stare at her, doing my best not to glower. And failing.
“Look,” she says then, her eyes glittering darkly, “I know you think I push you too hard, but when you're leader, you'll—”
“That's the problem, Mom,” I tell her, my voice starting to shake from all of the anger and sadness I'm squelching. “I don't even know if I want to be pack leader.”
My mother says nothing, only stares daggers into me.
“And I sure as hell don't want to fight you in order to earn the title,” I tell her then, my voice low and growling. No one can hear what we're saying, which is important. No one but my mother can hear me. And she needs to hear me. But she doesn't.
“We've been over this,” she says simply, her tone absolute. “It's tradition. The incoming leader always battles the outgoing leader in a physical match. It has always been done this way, and since I have no issues with it—”
“But I do have issues with it,” I tell her, stabbing my finger into the tabletop as I lean forward, dropping my voice even more as I snarl at her: “I don't want to go all gladiator on my own mother. It's completely messed up!”
My mother sits up straighter in the chair, and when she speaks to me now, her lips are drawn up and over her teeth. “Have some respect,” she snarls right back. “You're talking about a millennia-old—”
“I know,” I tell her tiredly. “A millennia-old tradition. I got it. But sometimes traditions need to be updated.” I sit back in my chair and just look at her. “We both know that gay marriage wasn't legal until a little while ago, and you fully supported that change. So why can't you budge on this?”
My mother shakes her head firmly. “This is simply not up for discussion.” And, just like that, the discussion is over, because my mother wants it to be. She waves to the waiter for the bill, and when he comes over, she hands him her credit card. Then she picks her light spring pea coat up from the chair behind her and stands as the waiter scuttles away to run her card through. “It's time f
or you to take some responsibility, Becca,” my mother says, every word as strong as iron. “I've been too lenient on you. I let you choose your own way, and look where it's gotten you.”
I'm standing, too, my hands balled into fists. Our voices are low, but it's kind of obvious that we're having an argument, and pretty much everyone in the restaurant is looking our way now. I hate making a scene, but my mother's never quite seemed to mind it. Still, I can't let this go. “Where has it gotten me, Ma?” I growl to her.
My mother glances at me in surprise. “Exactly nowhere, Becca,” she says simply. “I mean, look at you. You're earning minimum wage at a retail job. You live in a hovel. You aren't even dating anyone—”
And because I'm stupid and hotheaded and utterly ridiculous, this is the bait I rise to.
“I am dating someone,” I say defensively, and then, just as quickly, I regret it.
My mother, sliding leather gloves onto her hands, stops what she's doing and stares at me, her eyes wide. “You are?” And then, before I can reply, her eyes narrow. “Well, why didn't you tell me?”
I sag a little tiredly. “I didn't think it was relevant,” I tell her.
“Of course it's relevant,” my mother says with a snarl, but then she schools her features, tugging down on the front of her coat with her gloved hands. “I'm your mother,” she tries then, and her voice has softened considerably. “Who else are you going to share something like that with?”
I refrain from commenting.
My mother, still in her coat and gloves, sits back down in her seat, folding her hands on her lap. “So,” she says, her tone wheedling, “what's she like?”
I am one hundred percent not going to give her any details, but as I lift my chin, as I sit down, too, I start with, “She's...” And then, despite my stubborn intentions, I find myself softening, blushing just a little. “She's awesome,” I tell my mother then, my voice warm for the first time in this entire conversation. “Really awesome.”
And my mother, also for the first time in this conversation, softens, too. She reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing it. “Oh, honey, I'm so happy,” she says, and somehow, I know she means it.
We disagree on pretty much everything about my life. But, at the end of the day, my mother has always wanted me to find someone, and to be happy with her. Which is a start.
But then Ma says the worst possible thing she could say in this moment.
Without skipping a beat, and with a big smile stretching across her face, my mother gushes, “When can I meet her?”
The blood drains out of my face in a matter of seconds. “What?” I manage.
My mother shakes her head, taking her phone out of her purse and pulling off a leather glove. She brings up her calendar. “How about next week?” she asks, thumbing through the dates. “I've already got a dinner party planned for Friday night, but—”
“No, Mom,” I manage, and then a bit more emphatically, “No. I mean, we've only just started dating—”
But my mother, as usual, is not listening. “But now that I'm thinking about it, that dinner party is perfect! Because then the whole family will be there to meet her, too,” she tells me blithely, still staring down at the phone.
“Mom, this isn't happening—” I splutter, but my mother steamrolls right on top of me.
“Does she have any allergies?” she asks quickly, glancing up at me. “Don't worry, I'll make sure to have plenty of options, and your aunt Grace will bring her custard pie! You know how heavenly that pie is.”
The waiter trots back over with the receipt and my mother's credit card, and Ma writes in a generous tip, signing the receipt with a flourish. She stands up, then, and slings her huge purse daintily over her shoulder. “Don't worry about bringing wine. I've just restocked the cabinet,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “See the two of you at seven, then. And, Becca, wear something nice,” she finishes, because my mother had to get in that one last jab. She reaches down, brushing her lips against my cheek, and then she grins down at me, showing her teeth. Every bit the wolf.
I'm left alone in the restaurant, and right at this moment, I kind of feel as if I've just been punched in the gut. Repeatedly.
My mother wants me to bring Loren to a dinner party with my entire family. My whole werewolf family.
The...pack.
The waiter ducks back over to me, glancing down at my untouched plate.
“Ma'am, would you like a doggy bag?” he asks me.
I glance up at him, and then I'm laughing weakly—and kind of crazily.
Doggy bag. How apropos.
Chapter 8: Still a Little Wild
Of course, after that dinner with my mother (and her pronouncement of dinner next week with my brand-new girlfriend), I can't catch a wink of sleep. So when I show up at Loren's door, bright and early on Saturday morning, just as I promised, the very first thing she says is:
“Wow, and I thought I needed coffee.” She grabs the collar of my shirt and draws me gently into her apartment, kissing me just as gently. Her mouth is minty from her toothpaste, and she's already decked out in jeans and a t-shirt that reads “I like big books, and I cannot lie.” I chuckle a little, wrapping my arms around her waist.
“I just didn't get much sleep last night,” I tell her, which is the truth. I draw her in for another kiss, and then I pick up the strap of the worn backpack that's sitting by the door. “Is this what you're taking?” I ask her, and she nods happily.
“I think I've got everything packed that we might need,” she says, and she gives me an impish look as she slides her arm through mine, leaning against me to steal another kiss. “But can we stop at a coffee shop along the way?”
“I don't think either of us could survive this hike without it,” I promise her with a chuckle.
It doesn't take long, after picking up coffee, to get out of the city, and then we're making our way northwest toward Willow Springs.
It's been awhile sink I hiked on this particular trail, but I wanted it to be the first one I showed Loren. I have a lot of history with this beautiful bit of land, and I wanted to share that with her.
When we reach the parking lot for the hiking trail, Loren puts her car into park, and then we toss our backpacks onto our shoulders, shutting the car doors firmly behind us. I inhale deeply, letting the beautiful richness of the earth and loam and moss and trees and just-beginning buds of leaves fill me.
There's something so deeply soothing about being in nature. I know that humans feel it, too, are drawn to hiking, to being in the woods and on the mountains, because it fulfills some deep, animal pleasure inside of them. But for a werewolf, it's a little different. When we get to the wild places that are still left on this world, there's something that opens up inside of us. Most of the time, in the day-to-day world, we have to push down our inner wolves. But here, she rises up, wholly wild and expectant, and ready to run.
Today, though, I rein her back a little, glancing sidelong at Loren. I'm not going to transform into a wolf today, and I'm not going to be fully wild. Normally, this would be deeply depressing to me. I haven't been my wolf-self in over a month, and it's starting to eat away at me, like there's an itch just under my skin that I have to scratch but can't quite reach.
But it doesn't bother me like it usually would, because when I look at Loren, when I see the happiness on her face as she glances up at the tall pine trees, towering all around us, I can't help but smile. Sure, I need to transform soon, and I can't put it off much longer. But today isn't about my wolf-self. It's not about me at all.
It's about us.
We set off down the pine needle-covered trail, companionably walking side by side. We stop fairly soon to adjust Loren's backpack on her shoulders when we reach a rocky outcropping. Already, we're rising out of the trees.
Loren takes a bottle of water out of her backpack and drinks a deep swig before handing the bottle to me. I accept it gratefully, lifting my head and swallowing the water. It's such a
beautiful day, almost warm with the sun shining down so brightly on the both of us, filtering through the pine branches to reach us down below.
Willow Springs isn't really a mountain so much as a big hill. It's not a very long hike up to the “summit” (if you can even call it that) and the spring that Willow Springs is named after.
As I glance around at the trail, the trail that—since I was a kid—hasn't ever really changed, I'm overcome by a wave of nostalgia. Me and Rob used to race one another to the top of the “mountain” when we were kids—in both our human and (when we were fairly certain no one else was on the trail) our wolf forms. Rob pretty much always won, unless he purposely let me win (speed's never really been my thing, and though Rob would never forgive me if I told you, he's got longer legs than me). The thing is, he let me win pretty often, because even as a kid, Rob was a sweetheart.
I grimace a little as I put the cap back on the bottle of water. I haven't had a chance to talk to Rob about what happened last night, and I'm assuming that the dinner next Friday is going to have some tense moments, not just because me and Ma are fighting but because Rob's mom, Sonia, and mine just don't get along that often.
All of this is, of course, because of my mother, not Sonia. My mom thinks Rob is too soft (ha!) and a bad influence on me, because from the earliest of ages, Rob really didn't have any interest in the pack. From childhood, Rob knew he wanted to open a gym, and even though it's a gym that's aimed at werewolves, that wasn't enough for the Alpha, AKA dear old Mom.
But the thing is, it doesn't matter if Rob is obsessed with being a werewolf (hell knows that I'm certainly not). He kept me sane through my confusing, growing-up-as-a-werewolf teenager years, and he's kept me sane ever since. He's the best friend I could ever hope for, and his being family just makes it even better.
I glance down at the rocky outcropping we're leaning against, and I trace my finger over the inscription there. Me and Rob carved it into the rock years ago—close to two decades now, actually.
It reads Becca & Rob were here, and directly beneath it is a crude outline of a howling wolf.
Raised by Wolves Page 10
