“We set up the company as employee-owned, so our current staff hold forty percent. Why not sell the rest of our shares to them? At a discount, even, to help with the transition—it’s not like we need the money,” she suggests as we move on. At least being in motion means I don’t have to control my expression as I listen.
“It’ll take time to make all the arrangements,” she continues, “but by then we can have successors ready to step into our shoes while we go off and do something else. We’ll have enough moneyto live and love while we decide how to disburse Max’s trust. Maybe even get hands-on and build a nonprofit around how we want to give back.”
Scary idea, changing everything. No, not everything; I’ll still have her and my daughters and our other family and friends. More time to spend with them, with Johanna, even with Nathan and Dan as a pack. I love her enough to wantherto be able to spend time with them, especially if I don’t have to worry about it eating into my time with her.
Though my alpha sniffs at that, considering the appeal of Nathan as a friend. Or perhaps a playfellow, the kind with whom to trade stories and tricks, the kind who watch each other’s backs. He’s not who I could have been if I’d gone a different direction, but he brings an eye for details that I’d not noticed or pushed away, which makes him potentially valuable—and dangerous.
The kind of friend that, other than Max and Johanna, I haven’t had for a long time. In no small part because of the time spent at work and with them.
“I loved building the company with you and Max.”
But she’s right that much of the spice and challenge is lacking without Max popping in regularly, proposing a new, virtually impossible goal or project, some of which succeeded, while others failed miserably. He was the change agent, I the firm foundation that kept us stable. Without him, I have less impetus to alter, grow, adapt.
The firm will survive without Max. We have several other brilliant scientists and strategic specialists on board. Therefore, it can survive without Johanna and me as well, and that’s the ultimate test of a venture, anyway: the ability to outlast its founders.
“Promise me we won’t move too fast,” I say.
“Done.” Johanna slips her arm around my waist and leans in. “I know you like deliberation.”
“Double promise that this won’t change what we’re building between us.” I match her, our steps slowing as we draw closer to our block. There are few others out walking—and just as well, since we’re taking up most of the sidewalk.
“I think it’ll give us time and space to make this stronger,” she says.
“If we do this, we find something new together, a purpose to share.” After working with her day in day out for so long, I’m loath to shift to only seeing her outside of work. All the same, I don’t ask her to promise that, just to try.
“Something we pick.” She squeezes; then our hands drop away from each other’s waist as the dark, overcast sky begins to spit a cold drizzle. We tangle fingers and walk faster, though I let her set the pace.
She says ‘we,’ meaning her and me—two of us not three—but my cousin’s creativity and drive never kept him from appreciating other people’s ideas. “Max would be rooting for us.”
For all that she’s thinking of moving on in many ways, I remain unsettled and twitchy. Max’s death rocked the solid moorings of my life, but enough remained for me to stay stable. Johanna was a central part of my foundation, a rock I relied on more than I realized until our relationship started to shift. My alpha longs to mark her, bind her, and gain the depth of insight that mating bonds reputedly offer so that I’ll know what’s solid between us and what might be at risk.
So many pitfalls loom ahead, so many things we still haven’t talked about, so many assumptions.
One of the most basic dawns on me as we hustle past the last houses before ours.
I knew she wanted a pack, but failed to ask her if she wanted one made up of me, Dan, and Nathan before making arrangements to start.
We’re at our front door, under the narrow overhang offering protection from the chilly rain. The porch light doesn’t turn on automatically—only the outer rim security lights use motion sensors—so we’re in a dim, shadowy space. The few passers-by could see us if they cared to look, rather than hustling on under the umbrellas most were wise enough to carry, unlike us.
Usually, I care about being watched. Not this time. Let the world stand witness if it wants.
“I know you wanted a pack, still want one.” I say, “I’ve assumed you want me in it. Guessed you might want Nathan and Dan. Am I wrong?”
“No.” she drawls, peering up at me through the gloom.
It’s not the most rousing endorsement, but I’ll take it, the more so as she continues and her voice gains energy and warmth.
“That’s part of changing things up to make something new. We’re not squeezing a pack into a space that used to hold Max—we’re remaking our lives without Max to hold a pack. If Dan and Nathan want it, too. And if they’re willing to remake their lives to include us.”
‘Us,’again used so casually, because she knows I’ll agree.
A main support of my foundations stabilizes, sits more firmly on the earth. Johanna is mine—ours—as long as we can maintain this. My twitchiness eases.
I’ve told her my feelings before, even as recently as a few nights ago, but never like this, meaning it in all ways possible between us. Her eyes are wide as she gazes up at me, fingers twined with mine, so close my breath ruffles her hair.
I beat her to the words by only a half-second at best. She’ll insist to her dying day that she started saying it first, as intent as I on establishing our new commitment to each other.
We repeat the phrase over and over that night, though we do little more than cuddle and caress, since she’s slightly sore from the previous night’s knotting. The words get no less sweet for repetition.
