It was as though their features reflected inner realities, for Max was charming, when he wanted, and could talk me around to almost anything, while Corin’s demands—no matter how reasonable—generally come across in ways guaranteed to make me dig in my heels.
Yet, this one moment, the resemblance shows through. The concern on Corin’s face is all-too reminiscent of one of Max’s final lucid, pain-free moments before he descended into incoherent apologies and groans.
“You need to eat something,” Corin says, “and don’t tell me you ate at the reception. I was there.”
“Very well, but you’re cooking.” If he wants me to eat, he can provide the food.
He nods.
I whirl up the stairs, down the hall, and into the guest room. Even with Corin in the house, every step echoes. The place is too big, meant for a far larger family than ours. Corin’s daughters keep some things here, but they all have active lives elsewhere—and dorm rooms or shared apartments where they spend their nights and days.
When the house held the three of us, it was still too big, but the fact wasn’t so evident. Max loved to bolt around, making enough noise for three in himself. Then, when he got sick, home health aides and night helpers arrived, and the hospice nurses visited regularly, overseeing it all.
These the last weeks, it’s just been Corin and me.
I grew up in a true packhouse with three mothers, two fathers, and six siblings. My parents are dead, and the rest of us have scattered—along with our extended family—though we try to get together every other summer. The next gathering will include a family memorial for Max, but I can’t think about that now.
Only two of us, Corin and I, in a house meant to hold a pack.
Little as I want company in this moment, I miss being part of a pack. As a child, it seemed the best of worlds to pile into my parents’ bedroom and cuddle when I needed comfort. Someone always waited around a corner when I needed a hug.
Then, I went to college, met Max, and packing up never happened. Even when we moved in with Corin and his family, Max and I had one room, Corin and his wife another, and the girls their own, and we all kept a certain distance. This was largely due to Corin’s ex-wife’s preferences. Sadly, there’s a reason she’s not missed much even by her daughters.
However, when I’m being honest, I’ll admit the distance was notsolelyher fault. We all bear some responsibility or blame.
Even with Corin in the kitchen, up on the second floor, it’s easy to imagine I’m alone.
The door to the main suite stays shut. It’s the biggest bedroom, meant for an omega complete with deluxe bathroom, mini-fridge, and a nest—the secluded area in which omegas retreat, especially during heats. The suite remains Max’s rooms and, technically, mine.
Much as I wanted to be with Max to the end, sleep by his side, he refused as soon as pain began to interrupt his nights. He insisted I needed my sleep, though he didn’t win the argument over sleeping separately until I realized it was as much for his benefit as mine. Our last, greatest, and worst disagreement was over who would move out to ensure sufficient room for the medical paraphernalia he required, to give the night helper space to care for him without worrying about disturbing me, and to avoid my accidentally hurting him if I slept restlessly.
I won that time. He stayed in our room, with its familiar surroundings, to the end. The things I need are in the neutral, blues-and-greens of the guest room: most of my clothing, toiletries, a few trinkets. Everything else remains in Max’s suite.
Which I’ve hardly been in since his death.
I could enter now. Grab some trifle I left behind in the bustle of moving out. Rifle through any remaining belongings and face all the things I’ve mostly left undone or allowed Corin to take care of. Seek out any remnants of Max’s correspondence withDan. Max would’ve kept copies, he always backed everything up just in case. They’re there, somewhere, yet …
The mere idea of rummaging through his things turns my stomach.
Worse, I’d have to face his nest—the nook off our bedroom where he retreated during heats. He didn’t let himself have them often. When he did, I was there, along with whomever else he’d chosen to help him through the days-long sexual haze—an alpha or two, me, and a drawerful of toys to help satiate his intense, focused, unwelcome sexual needs.
Every bit of pleasure I’d found while helping him through his heats was tainted by the knowledge that, if Max had true control over his body, he wouldn’t have heats to begin with.
His last heat, not even a year ago, had been odd. Shorter than expected, and characterized by brief, intense spikes when he wrung every ounce of pleasure possible from our three bodies: his, mine, and Nathan’s, the alpha who assisted us—a gentle, patient man who’d lost his pack a few years earlier. However, long lows separated the spikes, and Max shivered in his sleep while Nathan and I watched worriedly, covering him with blankets.
Until, finally, everything went all wrong. Those memories hurt almost as much as Max’s last, desperate month. Nathan, with his sad smile and lovely scent of just-snuffed candles went back to his normal life, Max and I to ours, but … we should have known, I should have guessed that something was wrong with Max earlier when it might have made a difference.
No, I’m not ready to face Max’s nest.
Hurrying past the door, I count the steps to my new room in silence.
The sun hasn’t quite set, but the eastern-facing windows are already filled with the dark shadow of gloaming. I turn the light on as I move to close the heavy, dark green damask curtains.
Then I turn to face the mess. Nearly every piece of clothing potentially suitable for the memorial service lies scattered across my bed, obscuring the green coverlet. I tried on almost every single one, sometimes multiple times in different combinations, sweating all the while—to the point that a faint tang of cranberry lingers in the air: my personal scent, one that I almost never notice.
I yank off my dress and toss it atop the rest. The lingerie goes in the trash can. An instant later, I grit my teeth and fish it out to drop in the hamper for laundering. I’ll never wear it again, but it was a gift from Max.
The bathroom steams up fast as the tub fills with hot water. I soak, alternating between rubbing at my skin as though shedding a layer and hunching over, my arms wrapped around knees.
