27. Sawyer

27

Time keeps slipping.

And then rears up and punches me in the face, a sort of weird panic that has me wiping down the counter three times in a row, then checking the coffee machine for the tenth time, then resisting the urge to ask the customers—again—if they need anything else.

How did I lose time and didn't open the café all day yesterday? When would I have realized if Kyrian hadn't come to check on me?

Why did he come? Why did he run away later?

Why did he refuse to read what was written under my doorbell?

What's going on with the sexy McGraw Pack?

Why isn't Brinlee coming around anymore?

At least, to this last one I have a rational answer. She simply doesn't want anything to do with me anymore, not after the club fiasco. I wouldn't, either, if I were her.

Must have been humiliating. Not that being a pole dancer is humiliating, hell, no. That's not the right word.

Stressful, maybe. Having people you know from the outside world, the real life, enter your twilight world where you thought you were hidden and safe… Safe to be whatever you want to be, whatever you need to be… that must have been hard.

Don't ask me how I know. I've never worked at a club. But it's like the safety you find in the pages of a book, or in your bed. You're free to be whatever and whoever you want or need to be, because nobody you know is looking.

And yet the need to help her hasn't abated. If anything, it's stronger, and so is my worry about her, and fuck, I don't know what to do.

Will the McGraw Pack go back to the club? Should I ask them? Should I join in, intrude on her privacy again just to see her?

But of course that's not the only reason I feel so off.

More time passes. Customers come and go. I take orders. Prepare drinks. Plate pastries.

And then, at some point, Eric opens the door of the café and marches in, making a beeline for me. "Sawyer. There you are."

Shit.

"I'm working," I say quietly, my hand squeezing the hell out of the cleaning rag. "Go away."

"You're not returning my calls, or my messages." He comes to lean against the bar, and fuck, now I have to clean that spot again. "What's going on? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

He sighs. "I can see that you're not, so quit lying to me, little brother. Have you talked to our parents?"

"They left a voicemail," I say miserably.

"And?"

I don't reply. I have tried to put it out of my mind, but… it was a fucking ultimatum. Choose a pack, one of the packs we suggested, and choose it now, or the café will close and we will choose for you. It's not legal, of course, for them to force me.

But there is the contract I signed, and if I lose the café… I may lose my mind, too.

"They're persistent, aren't they?" he says, and I realize he knows about the voicemail. It makes me feel somehow violated, that he's in on our parents' shenanigans. But then he says, "I was calling to warn you."

"What good would it have done?" I mutter. "They won't back down."

"No," he says, just as quietly, "they won't. I tried talking to them to change their minds. But nothing."

I blink at him, my cleaning rag forgotten in front of me. "You did?"

He rolls his eyes. "I want you happy, Sawyer. You don't seem happy right now."

"You say that," I grumble, "and yet you agree with them. You've been trying to get me to do what they want for years now! Dammit."

He hangs his head. "I know. Are these packs our parents have chosen for you so bad?"

"No," I say. Shrug. "They're not."

"Then what's the issue? Scent-matching? You know finding the perfect match is rare."

"I know," I snap. "I know that."

Even though I think I've found mine, but neither Brinlee nor the McGraw Pack have made any move to court me.

"Then what's wrong? Is there…? Have you found another pack?"

"No," I say. Then more softly, "No."

And yes.

"You're not telling me the truth," Eric says. "I know when you're not telling me the truth."

"I am," I insist, because if they wanted me, if they needed me like they seem to need Brinlee, they'd have told me, right? A weird notion, since I need Brinlee, but I also can't stop thinking about them, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

At least, Eric doesn't know about my little episode where I didn't realize a day had passed while cleaning, reading, and playing videogames. Lost inside my mind. My palms are still raw from all the products I used to scrub the floor, the bathroom, and the kitchen. Then every piece of furniture. Every shelf. Every book cover.

I ruined at least one book.

Dammit.

"All right, I'll leave you alone then." Eric pushes off the bar, a resigned look on his face. "Answer my texts and I won't have to come here in person to check on you."

Like Kyrian had. He'd said something about drawing the short stick, right? Straw. The short straw. Had he come against his will?

"Thanks for… for trying to get our parents off my ass," I say, distracted.

"Well, I failed, so… pick a pack, Sawyer. It will be good for you."

"You just want me off your hands," I mutter, but he's already gone.

Right.

Get back on track, I tell myself. Nobody wants a burden of a son or brother. Get your fucking ducks in a row. Don't let yourself get trapped inside your mind again. Work, go to the library for the group reading. Go to the gym! Exercise helps. Meet Casey. Or Bee and her pack. Or Gigi and her pack.

God, everyone around me has a pack already.

Not everyone. Stop going to extremes. Eric was right, you get too deep inside your head. Get out of that hole.

And stop… stop counting, I tell myself, even as I count how many times I wipe the counter down, how many steps I take around the bar, how many cups I place to dry in a row. Magical numbers, consistent numbers. I like five. It's my number. I like to repeat it.

I need to repeat it.

No. The world won't end if you stop. Your life won't end.

But it feels like it. Like a spell, like some sort of magic that will keep my life from going tits-up.

I need to get out of here.

So I close the café. I don't even call Bee to hold the fort this time. I turn off the lights and just shut it down, put the Closed sign on the door.

I might be going crazy. I need to control that. After all, what pack would want a crazy person?

Walking to the library will take me forty minutes or so. It's good for my mind, or so I hope. But I keep jumping at sudden noises, people brushing me by.

Fuck.

One more pack to meet, and then make my choice. That was what my parents said in the voicemail. I have one week to do both.

So I will avoid the thought, the demand placed on me, and escape the only way I know how: in stories.

I'm not in charge of the book club today, thank fuck, so I just sit at the table with the other members. Staying with the books, in the rows of shelves, might have been better, in retrospect, but the book club felt like routine. Like something safe.

And maybe I had hoped Brinlee would come, okay? Fuck, I'll admit it. But there is no sign of her throughout the meeting, and honestly, I can't remember what book we were supposed to be talking about. I just sat there until it was over, and then left the room.

I think someone calls my name, but these people, no matter how nice, are not the ones I need to be with.

This was a mistake, after all.

Or… not? As I head for the exit, I spot a girl in a long purple skirt and a light blue hoodie, the hood pulled over her head, heading inside.

I stop in my tracks, because…

Is it her? It's her!

"Brinlee!" The doll is gone, my bookish girl is back, and something in my chest aches. "Brin!"

She turns her head and I catch a glimpse of those big eyes, wide and dark. It is her, I was right. A smile is spreading over my face, hope making my heart thud, my lungs expanding.

I take a step toward her.

But she shakes her head and turns away, hurrying toward the information desk and past it, entering the library proper. The forest of books.

Like Little Red Riding Hood, disappearing among the dark trees.

There's a wolf after her, I think, my chest tightening again. I can't see it, but I feel it. And she won't let me close enough to help.