Page 125 of Savage Surrender

Gregory had liked him. I spent months noticing the two men circling each other whenever we were in the same room, only to come downstairs one Saturday and find them asleep at opposite ends of our sofa after staying up to watch a tennis match. Gregory’s bare foot rested against Emmett’s thigh. Empty beer bottles crowded the table, and the television played to nobody.

“Mom?”

“Once upon a time, we considered forming a pack.”

“Jesus.”

“But then I got pregnant with you, and your father became territorial. Emmett said he understood. I thought he did.”

After a while, the hurt faded. The weirdness went away.

Golf with Gregory. Dinner twice a month until the children made schedules ridiculous. Medical articles he’d dropped off folded beside my reading chair. We settled into a new normal that worked for us.

“Whitney was about three when he adopted her.” The first time I met her, she was a solemn little girl in a yellow raincoat, holding Emmett’s hand with both of hers. “I was relieved. Isn’t that awful? I thought he’d been lonely. I was glad he had her.”

“You never told us any of it.” He sighs, and there’s rustling in the background.

“What do I do?” I ask.

“Sit tight. Keep the doors locked.”

Clara says something close to the phone. Winston answers her softly, and I catch only the words in a minute.

“Put your legs up,” I tell him. “And listen to your omega.”

He begins to argue with me, then stops when Clara scolds him.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too, baby. Call me when you have any updates.”

Once the call ends, I pull Emmett’s contact up on my phone.

I need Bianca home. I need Gregory home.

I put another peanut in my mouth and open years of messages between us. My fingers hover long enough for the screen to dim, and when I wake it again, my reflection floats faintly over the old conversation.

Can we meet? I’d like to talk.

I press send before I can overthink it.

His answer comes before I’ve put the phone down.

I’ll send a car for you in twenty.

I spend most of those twenty minutes under the scorching heat of the shower spray.

Then I look through dresses I haven’t worn in ages. There’s a green one behind two garment bags. It has a soft skirt, sleeves to my elbows, and a zipper that used to close easily twenty years ago.

My dark red lipstick is in the back of the bathroom drawer. The tube is scratched, the color worn into a slant from years of hurriedly applying it in the car for date nights.

I put it on carefully.

The doorbell rings while I am blotting my mouth on a tissue. I leave my phone on the bathroom counter.

I grab a handful of the peanuts I shelled all morning while I sat on hold waiting for news about Gregory and toss them into my mouth.

The man on the porch wears a dark suit and addresses me as Mrs. Quinn. He opens the rear door of a black sedan, waits until my skirt is clear, and shuts me inside.