The end. I probably needed to stop feeding the wolves.
The closer they got, the more dangerous it was for all of us.
CHAPTER TEN
• GRACE •
By the time Sam got home, Rachel and I had been attempting to make chicken parmesan for a half hour. Rachel lacked the concentration to bread the chicken pieces, so I had her stirring the tomato sauce while I dredged an endless number of chicken parts through egg and then through breadcrumbs. I pretended to be annoyed, but really the repetitive action had a kind of relaxing effect, and there was a subtle pleasure in the tactile elements: the viscous swirling of the brilliantly yellow egg over the chicken, then the soft shush of the breadcrumbs rubbing against one another as they moved out of the chicken’s way.
If only I didn’t have this persistent headache. Still, the process of making dinner and having Rachel over was doing a pretty good job of making me forget about both my headache and the fact that it had gotten winter dark outside, the chill pressing in against the window above the sink, and Sam was still not here. I kept repeating the same mantra over and over in my head. He won’t change. He’s cured. It’s over.
Rachel bumped her hip against my hip, and I realized, all at once, that she had turned up the music insanely loud. She bumped my hip again, in time with the song, and then spun into the center of the kitchen, wiggling her arms over her head in some sort of demented Snoopy dance. Her outfit, a black dress over striped leggings, paired with her dual ponytails, only added to the ludicrous effect.
“Rachel,” I said, and she looked at me but kept dancing. “This is why you are single.”
“No man can handle this,” Rachel assured me, gesturing to herself with her chin. She spun and came face-to-face with Sam, standing in the doorway from the hall. The thumping bass must’ve drowned out the sound of the front door. At the sight of him, my stomach slid down to my feet, a weird combination of relief, nerves, and anticipation all in one, a feeling that never seemed to go away.
Still facing Sam, Rachel did a strange dance move with her index fingers extended; it looked like it had possibly been invented in the fifties, when people weren’t allowed to touch each other. “Hi, The Boy!” she shouted over the music. “We’re making Italian food!”
Still holding a piece of chicken, I turned and made a loud noise in protest. Rachel said, “My colleague informs me that I spoke too strongly. I am watching Grace make Italian food!”
Sam smiled at me, his always sad-looking smile maybe a little tighter than usual, and said, “…”
I struggled to turn down the radio with my hand that wasn’t covered with breading. “What?”
“I said, ‘What are you making?’” Sam repeated. “And then, ‘Hi, Rachel.’ And ‘May I come into the kitchen, Rachel?’”
Rachel swept grandly out of his way, and Sam came to lean on the counter next to me. His yellow wolf’s eyes were narrowed, and he seemed to have forgotten that he was still wearing his coat.
“Chicken parmesan,” I said.
He blinked. “What?”
“It’s what I’m making. What were you up to?”
Sam said, stumbling, “I—was—at the store. Reading.” With a quick glance toward Rachel, he sucked in his lips and said, “Can’t talk. My lips are still cold from being outside. When will it be spring?”
“Forget spring,” said Rachel, “when will it be dinner?”
I waved unbreaded chicken at her, and Sam looked around at the counter behind him. “Can I help?” he asked.
“Mostly I need to finish breading these eight million chicken breasts,” I said. My head was starting to pound, and I really was beginning to hate the mere sight of uncooked chicken. “I never realized what happened to two pounds of chicken when you pounded it flat.”
Sam gently shouldered past me to the sink to wash his hands, his cheek leaning against mine as he reached behind me for the dish towel to dry his hands. “I’ll bread the rest while you fry them. Does that work?”
“I’ll cook the water for the pasta,” Rachel volunteered. “I’m excellent at boiling things.”
“The big pot’s in the pantry,” I said.
As Rachel disappeared into the small pantry and began crashing through the pots and lids, Sam leaned over to me so that his lips pressed against my ear. He whispered, “I saw one of Beck’s new wolves today. Shifted.”
It took a moment for my brain to shuffle through the meaning of his words: new wolves. Was Olivia human? Did Sam have to try to find the other wolves? What happened now?
I turned sharply toward him. He was still close enough to me that it put us nose to nose; his was still cold from being outside. I saw the worry in his eyes.
“Hey, none of that while I’m here,” Rachel said. “I like The Boy, but I don’t want to watch you kiss him. Kissing in front of the loveless is an act of cruelty. Aren’t you supposed to be frying something?”
So we finished making dinner. It seemed to take an agonizingly long time, knowing that Sam had something to say and knowing that he couldn’t say it in front of Rachel. And there was guilt mixed in as well, making the time drag. Olivia was Rachel’s friend, too. If she had known that Olivia might be coming back soon, she’d be over the moon and full of questions. I tried to avoid glancing at the clock; Rachel’s mom was picking her up at eight.
“Oh, hi, Rachel. Mmm, food.” My mother flowed through the kitchen, dropping her coat on one of the chairs by the wall as she did.
“Mom!” I said, not bothering to hide the surprise in my voice. “What are you doing home so early?”
“Is there enough for me? I ate at the studio, but it wasn’t very filling,” Mom said. I had no doubt. Mom was an excellent food burner; ceaseless movement did a lot in the calorie-destruction department. She turned, saw Sam. Her voice changed to something knowing and not entirely pleasant. “Oh. Hi, Sam. Here again?”
Sam’s cheeks reddened.
“You practically live here,” Mom went on. She turned and looked at me. Clearly it was supposed to convey some meaning, but it was lost on me. Sam, however, turned his face away from both of us as if it was clear enough to him.
Once upon a time, Mom had really liked Sam. She’d even flirted with him in her mom way and asked him to sing and pose for a portrait. But that was back when he was just a boy that I was seeing. Now that it was clear that Sam was here to stay, Mom’s friendliness had evaporated and she and I communicated in the language of silence. The length of the pauses between sentences conveyed more information than the words within them.
My jaw tightened. “Have some pasta, Mom. Are you working more tonight?”
“Do you want me to get out of your way?” she asked. “I can go upstairs.” She tapped my head with her fork. “No need to shoot me dagger eyes, Grace. I get it. See you later, Rachel.”
“I didn’t have dagger eyes,” I said after she left, going over to hang up her coat. Something about the entire exchange had left a sour taste in my mouth.
“You didn’t,” Sam agreed, his voice a bit mournful. “She has a guilty conscience.” His face was pensive, shoulders sagged, like he was carrying a weight he hadn’t been carrying that morning. All of a sudden I wondered if he ever doubted that he’d made the right decision—if it had been worth the risk. I wanted him to know that I thought it was. I wanted him to know I’d shout it from the rooftops. That was when I decided to confide in Rachel.