Page 53 of Crashing Tides

“Then let’s go get a drink.”

Jane does not allow me to get shitfaced. She buys me one old-fashioned and tells me that I’m not allowed to have anything else unless I can walk in a straight line and recite the alphabet backwards, which I already know I’m going to fail at, because who the fuck can recite the alphabet backwards? Do people practice this?

At first, I’m annoyed at her, but then I remember that I’m supposed to go stare at the ocean from a safe distance with Duncan Stirling later. She’s right. As badly as I want to cancel, I shouldn’t. I want to drink until I pass out and then do it all over again tomorrow, but I’m behind on my classes, fucked up with a concussion, and my personal life couldn’t be more on fire if I launched it into a volcano. Jane’s right.

“You’re a good friend,” I tell her, poking at the orange peel in my drink with a tiny black straw. I’m proud of myself. I’m not even slurring yet.

“He’s a fucking asshole,” Jane says, meeting my eye. She’s drinking a virgin Pina Colada and tapping her foot on the floor. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

“If I weren’t constrained by, like, physics and biology, I would’ve exploded like a… like a malfunctioning space station.” Too late, I remember that explosions in space are the furthest thing from spectacular. No fire, no noise, just a lot of force.

I blame the drink for this oversight.

Jane doesn’t point out my mistake. “I don’t even know him, and I want him to explode,” she says, taking a sip of Pina Colada, glaring dangerously off into the distance. “I can’t believe he said all that. Your mom was dying.”

“Epically,” I add, poking an ice cube. “It was… it was really ugly. She was in horrible shape. We couldn’t even let her die at home. She went downhill so fast we couldn’t get the house equipped in time.”

“Yeah, no.” Jane shakes her head. “That was fucking insensitive. He should’ve handled that differently.”

“He says I bring out the worst in him.”

“That’s not your fault.”

I give the ghost of a grin. “I know that. At least, in theory.”

I could tell her about the neediness. That I called him too often, wanted to see him too often, that he claims he moved me into his apartment because it was more convenient than dealing with me.

Then there were the finances. Jeremy always said I didn’t make enough money. I had a good job, but it wasn’t comparable to his income. The upward mobility wasn’t there. We couldn’t afford to go on more than a couple of vacations a year. My beat-up Corolla was, as he put it, embarrassing. He wasn’t going to buy me anything nicer, but insisted I needed to upgrade within the next year.

We were talking about getting married. He took me to look at rings, at condos. Left the minute things got complicated.

Intellectually, I can recognize that I dodged a bullet. Emotionally, I’m devastated. I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t wealthy enough, wasn’t ambitious enough. The one thing he always complimented was my body, but his standards were high, difficult to comply with. If I ate dessert or skipped a workout, he’d make snide comments. I was perpetually three pounds away from falling out of favor.

Even so, if he were to call and say he’d made a mistake, ask me to move back in, I would. In a heartbeat. I hate myself for it.

Three hours later, my eyes are red and puffy, and I’m dressed in jeans and my favorite old hoodie. The string is missing, and there’s hole in the sleeve, but I feel safe and comfortable even though it’s oversized and ugly. On my feet, I’m wearing a pair of rain boots. I have no idea how much saltwater I need to touch in order to transform, but I’m not risking it today.

Duncan waits by the front gates, wearing a long, pine green coat over jeans that look tailored to fit. Today, his hair is artfully windswept, like he’s walked out of a photoshoot. As always, his expression is very serious, like someone has just relayed grave news.

I wave.

He doesn’t move.

“Hey,” I say, approaching him like I don’t notice his expression. Like I’m not torn between worry and offense.

He looks surprised to see me. As I approach, he sniffs the air, and his frown deepens.

Oh, shit. He’s a wolf. He can probably smell that I’ve been drinking.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is slightly hoarse. “Are you ready?”

“I’m fine, how are you?” I say. Against my better judgment, I want to be friends with him. But I need him to be less… whatever the hell this is.

“Oh,” he says, blinking long eyelashes. “Um, I’m good. Are you… Um. You smell sick.”

I can’t help but laugh. I’ve been crying all afternoon. I definitely drank in my dorm room. “Wow,” I say. “Nosy.”

“It’s hard not to notice,” he says, defensive. Maybe even a little hurt.