Chapter Nine

Friday afternoon, the café feels louder than usual.

The grinder screams every few minutes. Milk steams. Cups knock against the counter. The bell over the door never seems to stop ringing.

Normally, I like the noise.

Today every sound seems to land directly behind my eyes.

Three different people ask whether I’m excited for Tuesday.

One asks if I’ve picked out clothes for after my shift.

Another tells me her daughter threw up before hers.

Mr. Hansen spends five full minutes explaining how his first transformation dislocated his shoulder before June notices my face and shoos him away.

Apparently this is the week everyone decides first-shift horror stories are appropriate conversation.

By the end of my shift, I’m considering becoming human out of spite.

My phone buzzes while I’m wiping down the pastry case.

Drevin.

For one embarrassing second, everything inside me lifts.

Got stuff going on this weekend. Don’t think I’ll be around much.

I read it twice.

Then once more.

There’s nothing wrong with the message.

People have plans.

People get busy.

Best friends don’t have to spend every free hour together.

I know all of that.

Knowing something and feeling it are apparently completely different skills.

I type three responses before settling on:

Okay.

His reply comes a few minutes later.

Don’t sound so heartbroken, menace.

I should smile.

Usually I would.

Instead I lock my phone and slide it into my apron.

---

Saturday smells like cinnamon and cleaning supplies.

Mom decides the house needs to be spotless before my birthday, though I have no idea why my wolf would care whether the baseboards are dusty.

Dad spends most of the morning clearing branches near the eastern field where I’ll shift.

I try not to notice that.

Every time I look through the kitchen window, the clearing feels less like part of our yard and more like a stage being prepared for me.

By noon, Callum and Logan are outside helping Dad move an old fallen log away from the tree line.

Logan carries one end almost effortlessly.

Of course he does.

Future Alpha.

Everything about him seems designed to make normal people feel inefficient.

I take lemonade outside because Mom tells me to.

Callum drains half his glass immediately.

Logan simply takes his with a quiet, “Thanks.”

His eyes settle on me for a second longer than necessary.

I wonder if I look nervous.

Probably.

I’ve started wondering if everyone can see it.

Later, when Callum and Dad disappear toward the garage, Logan stays behind to stack the last of the cut wood.

I linger on the porch.

He notices.

He always notices more than I expect him to.

“You don’t have to watch.”

I look toward the clearing.

“I’m not.”

Logan glances at the exact place I’m staring.

He doesn’t call me a liar.

That somehow feels worse.

For a while, there’s only the dull knock of wood settling against wood.

Then he tells me the first shift isn’t a test.

Nothing dramatic.

No speech.

Just that.

I don’t answer.

But the words follow me inside.

I realize I’ve been treating Tuesday like there’s a way to fail it.

Wrong wolf.

Wrong reaction.

Wrong mate.

Wrong everything.

Like I’ll shift and everyone will suddenly see something about me I haven’t figured out yet.

---

Sunday is quieter.

Dad makes breakfast.

Mom insists we all eat together.

Callum steals my toast and nearly loses a finger.

Normal things.

I cling to them harder than I should.

At dinner, Mom asks what kind of cake I want Tuesday night.

I tell her chocolate.

She reminds me I always choose vanilla.

For some reason, that almost makes me cry.

I excuse myself before anyone notices.

Upstairs, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my hands.

Nothing about them looks different.

Nothing about me does.

But somewhere inside my body, a wolf is waiting.

That thought has always felt exciting.

Now it feels enormous.

I wonder what she’ll be like.

Whether she’ll like me.

Which is ridiculous.

She is me.

Sort of.

Callum says it will make sense afterward.

Everyone says that.

Afterward.

Everything seems to exist on the other side of Tuesday now.

My wolf.

My first run.

Maybe my mate.

That thought sits heavier than the rest.

Until this week, finding my mate sounded romantic.

Simple.

Now Callum’s words keep returning.

Being your mate doesn’t magically make him good enough for you.

I hadn’t realized how much comfort there was in believing fate handled that decision.

You met someone.

Your wolf knew.

Done.

No uncertainty.

No risk of choosing wrong.

But apparently fate only points.

The rest belongs to you.

I’m not sure whether that makes me feel better or worse.

My phone stays quiet beside me.

I make myself stop looking at it.

---

Monday, June lets me leave the café early.

Not because I ask.

Because I remake the same cappuccino three times and then nearly hand a muffin to someone who ordered soup.

“Go home,” she tells me.

I don’t argue.

The town looks almost offensively normal as I drive through it.

The pharmacy sign flashes.

Someone is sweeping outside the bookstore.

Two kids race bicycles down the sidewalk.

Nothing knows tomorrow is important.

I like that.

At home, Mom has laid fresh towels in the bathroom.

Dad checked the clearing again.

Callum bought a ridiculous amount of food because apparently shifting turns you into a starving animal.

Literally, in my case.

Logan stops by with him near sunset.

They’ve been doing something pack-related.

Patrol, probably.

I don’t ask.

Logan pauses when he sees me sitting on the back steps.

For once, he doesn’t just say my name and keep walking.

“You ready?”

I consider lying.

“No.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“Good.”

I stare at him.

“That’s comforting.”

“You’d be an idiot if you weren’t nervous.”

And there’s Logan Kingsley’s unique brand of reassurance.

Before I can answer, Callum calls for him from inside.

Logan starts toward the door.

Then stops.

“It hurts,” he says without looking back. “But not for long.”

I blink.

He disappears inside before I can respond.

It might be the most personal thing Logan has said to me in years.

I sit there a little longer.

Strangely, it helps.

---

That night, I shower.

Dry my hair.

Lay out clothes I’ll probably destroy tomorrow anyway.

Mom kisses my forehead before bed.

Dad checks on me twice while pretending he needed something from the hallway.

Callum sends me a picture from downstairs of the fence he ran into during his first shift.

Under it:

YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY DO WORSE THAN THIS.

I laugh into my pillow.

Then my phone buzzes again.

This time, the name on the screen makes my heart stumble.

Drevin.

You awake?

Obviously.

A pause.

Then:

Nervous?

I stare at the question.

There are a hundred things I could say.

Instead:

A little.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Finally:

I’ll be there tomorrow.

My chest tightens.

I type before I can think better of it.

Promise?

The answer comes almost immediately.

Wouldn’t miss it, Cam. Promise.

I read the message until my screen dims.

Then I read it again.

Tomorrow I turn eighteen.

Tomorrow I meet my wolf.

Tomorrow everything changes.

But Drevin will be there.

I hold on to that thought as I turn off my lamp.

For the first time in days, my chest loosens.

Tomorrow, I tell myself.

He promised.

And Drevin has never broken a promise to me before.