“So . . . ,” he says.
“So.”
“So, I’m a werewolf and your grandmother’s a weretiger. You all set with that?”
I nod like a good girl, like this is all perfectly normal. “It appears that way. Are you hurting?”
“I’m okay.”
My hand flutters up to my forehead. The world seems to spin again. He must notice because he grabs my hand and leads me over to the couch, the ugly, ridiculous plaid couch. We sit down together.
“I thought you weren’t going to faint.” He scowls at me. I hate when he scowls at me.
“I’m not.”
I lean back against the armrest and grab a pillow, hugging it against me, like a barrier between us. That’s what he thinks it is, too. I can tell because his eyes get all hurt looking, so I put the pillow back on top of the couch. It tumbles down on Nick’s head. I laugh. He laughs too and bonks me with it. Dust swirls into the air and I sneeze.
“It’s just weird, okay,” I say, tearing the pillow out of his hands. “It’s weird finding out someone’s a werewolf. I don’t even believe in werewolves. It’s impossible. It’s physically impossible.”
“Not really.”
“Well, obviously.”
My hand flits in the air, gesturing at him. I pull it back down into my lap. “And Betty is a were too, and if it’s genetic that means that my dad—I mean my stepdad—was probably one.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“Shut up.”
He is being annoying; smiling at me like it’s fun to watch me squirm. A million questions rattle inside me. I ask the first one, “So how do you actually become a werewolf?”
“Born that way. Or bitten.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You interested?”
I shriek and jump back, knocking my hip into the side of the sofa and almost falling onto the floor. “No!”
He catches me around the waist with his too-big hands and hauls me back on the sofa, laughing a real laugh, all big and hearty. “I was kidding, Zara. I’d never let that happen to you.”
“Really?”
His eyes melt me. “Really. I’d never let anything happen to you.”
“Oh. Right. Hero-complex thing. You’re a werewolf with a hero complex. That’s so funny.”
He doesn’t answer. The muffled light of the room gives everything a romantic sort of glow, even though the fire kind of dries the air out and makes my throat hurt. My heart pings in my chest, hope making it beat fast, too fast. His hand reaches out and touches the back of my head. His fingers entwine with my hair. It happens again, that melting feeling, the longing feeling. I want to gesture my body against his body, to explain things like need. The blanket he wears rubs against his legs and my legs.
His voice comes out husky. “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
I don’t think I can speak anymore so I just nod.
“Okay.”
His lips warm against mine. My arms wrap around his shoulders and he presses me to him. I am warm here, safe. The backs of my knees tingle and I feel absolutely the opposite of empty. I feel like my life will burst open with good.
Finally I say, “I can’t believe you’re kissing me.”
He leans back and tucks his big hand along the side of my face. “What? Aren’t you kissing me back?”
I shrug. “I just thought . . .”
“Thought what?”
“That maybe you . . . Oh, I don’t know. Didn’t kiss girls. Do not get mad. That’s what Issie and Devyn said.”
“That I didn’t kiss girls?”
“Yeah. I thought it was because you were a pixie maybe. I saw gold dust on your jacket.”
“You what?” There’s an edge to his voice.
“I didn’t really think. I just sort of thought it.” I snuggle in, try to calm him down.
“When was there dust on my jacket?”
“After you helped me with my car.”
He nods. “That was after I went through the woods searching for him. I dropped my jacket before I turned. I probably picked it up then. I can’t believe you thought I was a pixie.”
“Only a little.” We sit there for a minute. “I think we should call Issie and Devyn and tell them.”
“That we made out?”
I elbow him. “No. The pixie/were stuff.”
I haul myself up off the couch and grab the phone off the brick hearth. It’s warm. I start pushing in numbers. “And then maybe we should all go out looking for Jay.”
The phone makes a funny noise. The display reads “no signal.”
“Great,” I say.
Nick gets up and grabs the other phone, listens. “The lines are out.”
I flip open the cell. “No signal.”
I pocket the phone.
Nick points outside. Blue lights fill the windows, flash through the windows. “The police are here.”
Pogonophobia
fear of facial hair, mostly beards
Two cops come to the door, both sheriff’s deputies. Their hands are on their guns, like they’re ready for action.
“You Zara?” the taller one with the beard asks. His hair is red and short.
I nod.
“Sergeant Fahey,” he says, taking his hand off his gun and reaching out to shake mine. He sees Nick behind me and lets himself smile. “Hey, Nick.”
Nick nods and smiles.
“So, you found your way back,” Sergeant Fahey says, taking in the blanket around Nick’s waist. He nods to the other officer, who is beardless and really young looking. “Safe and sound. So . . . Deputy Clark and I don’t have to go searching.”
“Nope,” Nick says. “Sorry about that.”
“Sorry? It’s a good thing,” Deputy Clark says. Then he shivers in the cold.
“Oh, do you guys want to come in?” I ask.
“Nope. Thanks,” Sergeant Fahey says, all straight-backed and official, which makes Officer Clark grimace. “But your grandmother told us you heard a man in the woods saying your name?”
I nod. “And he tried to attack Nick.”
Sergeant Fahey’s eyes grow all big. “Really?”
Nick glares at me and then I realize that there’s no proof. His wound’s already healing. “It was nothing. I ran away.”