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Chapter 1
Briony
Apparently, I’ve reached the point in my life where I receive dating advice from ninety-four-year-old women.
I can’t decide if that’s sweet or intensely pathetic.
Either way, the old woman in question smiles at me from where she’s sitting in her chair.
“You know, there’s a meet-and-greet happening at the brewery after the Blue Moon Bash. Why don’t you go? See if you can find some young man who makes you happy.”
I grit my teeth but smile back. “Thanks, Mrs. Bortles. I appreciate that.”
“You’re not getting any younger, you know,” she says, her eyebrows wiggling at me for emphasis. “You’ll need to find someone soon if you want to keep shifting!”
“I’m aware of that, but I appreciate you looking out for me.”
She sighs and settles back. “I just wish that young man of yours would come to his senses. You’re going to be a lovely mate, and all he needs to do is stop being so afraid to recognize it.”
I would argue that Will’s problem was not that he was afraid to be with me. It was that he decided he wanted to be with me while also sleeping with my friend, Kelly. He engaged in a little non-ethical non-monogamy, and that’s why we broke up.
Also known as… he cheated on me.
The thought still makes the corners of my eyes burn, so I look down into my teacup. “What type of tea did you say this was?”
“Oolong, pup,” the older woman says with a sigh. “It was my Davey’s favorite.”
I’m not entirely certain that she means her husband or her son, both of whom are sadly deceased. Mrs. Bortles is a regular on my caseload, someone I check in with every other day since she’s at a high risk. Within a human world, she might have no one to look out for her, but here in the Oakwood pack, we take care of our elders.
Even ones with questionable dating advice.
As her social worker, it’s my job to make sure Mrs. Bortles is keeping up with her medical appointments, to help her clean her house a little, and to evaluate whether she needs any help. She’s actually one of my favorites, and until recently she’s been pretty good about all of her self-care routines.
The slip on Davey, though, seems to indicate some dementia.
That and the thirty-seven salad dressing containers in her fridge, thirty-five of which were growing something that could have been mold or a nightmare fungus.
Either way, I’m starting to worry.
“My Davey, he loved his teas after the war.”
Ah. Davey the younger was also a veteran, but he didn’t serve anywhere they would have oolong tea.
“Of course, in Iraq they don’t drink tea like they do here.”
Dang it. “Mrs. Bortles, which Davey are you talking about?”
She blinks at me, her head tilted to the side. “Why, my husband, of course. Is there another one that I should know of?”
Ah. “Your son,” I say gently. “Davey Junior.”
“I have a son?”
Oh, dear. My heart sinks. “He was also named David. He was born in May, nine months after your husband came home from where he was stationed in Guam. Remember?”
She screws up her face, her eyes searching. “Oh. I think I do,” she says faintly.
My heart sinks even more. “It’s okay, Mrs. Bortles. Tell me more about the event at the brewery.”
