Page 122 of Such Sharp Teeth

“All right, fearsome wolf. You’re sitting here talking to me about it, speculating. Why don’t you talk to him?”

“Because,” I say, sinking down so she can’t see me.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Nah. Can we talk about something else now?”

“Yeah, okay. You want some food?”

“Yes, please.”

“Great, go make us omelets.”

I do as she asks.

I figure the conversation is over, but later, while we’re eating, she says, “You should go to the New Year’s Eve party.”

“You want this to turn into When Harry Met Sally,” I say. It’s our mother’s favorite movie, required viewing in our house growing up.

“No,” Scarlett says. “I just think you should go. Maybe it’ll work out, and if not, you shouldn’t let his presence stop you. Ash is our friend.”

“Sure,” I say, excavating some bacon out of my omelet. “Even if he did swoop in with some sin-absolving Harry Burns speech, then what? I say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m a werewolf. Hope that’s cool.’ ”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Right, because when I broke it to you, you really took it in stride.”

She flicks some egg at me with her fork. “I know you have a hard time trusting people, letting your guard down. I understand why. But there are things on the other side of trust. I know, ironic coming from me. I just don’t want you missing out on something special because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared, Scarlett. I’m a monster. I scare. I don’t get scared,” I say, clearing our plates. “I’m going out for a run.”

—

I drive to the high school, run the track for hours. I suffer the sunset, the abandonment of daylight. I suffer the tenacity of the stars, the moon’s cagey accomplices. And, of course, the moon herself. Slim and tinny. I run in circles under her brutal eye, feeling the lunar cycle in my muscles, in my marrow. A tension waxing and waning.

There is so much beyond my control. Things that have happened, that will happen. My body. The people in my life, how they perceive me, what they do or don’t do, if they stay or leave.

There is pain. Physical and emotional hurt. A cruel inevitability that I can’t prevent no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try.

I lied to Scarlett. I am scared. Of course I’m scared. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be scared? It’s a nightmare out there, a great big, terrifying world. How does anyone trust anyone? We have such little control as it is, how does anyone willingly relinquish more on hope and hope alone?

Maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time, thinking Mom and Scarlett were weak for seeking companionship, for a hand to hold through it all. It takes fucking guts to open yourself up to someone. To love someone. To hope for their love in return.

When I get home, I take a long bath. Soak until I prune. Think.

When I get out, I don’t avoid my reflection.

It’s me. It’s just me.

Wild and fierce and imperfect.

I kiss my fingers, then touch them to the mirror.

—

I spend the week in anxious limbo, unsure if I should reach out to Ian or if I should wait and go to the New Year’s Eve party, see what happens.

My anxiety manifests in constant motion. I clean obsessively. Vacuum. Scrub. Do laundry. Organize the pantry.