I thought I came here to escape them. I thought I came here to get away from the confusion and the lust and the terrifying proximity.
But lying here in this quiet guest house, I realize the truth.
I’m not running from them. I’m running toward them. And that’s the scariest thought of all.
Because I don’t know how to be part of a pack. I don’t know how to trust anyone with my heart again. And if I try... if I let them in... and they reject me...
I pull my knees to my chest, resting my forehead on them.
I’m so screwed.
The morning light filters through the sheer curtains of the guest house, soft and gray. It matches my mood. I wake slowly, the heavy fog of sleep clinging to me, the remnants of the dream—those hands, those mouths—fading into the reality of a damp Tuesday.
Wellsy is already awake, stretched out on the foot of the bed, thumping his tail against the duvet. He’s ready for the day. I’m not.
I drag myself out of bed, the floorboards cold under my feet. I need coffee. I need something to wipe the taste of the dream and the memory of Boone’s touch from my mind.
I open the door of the guest cottage. The air is crisp, smelling of wet pine and damp earth. The rain has stopped, leaving the world dripping and shining under a pale sun that struggles to break through the clouds. Wellsy bounds out ahead of me, shaking his fur before sprinting toward the main house.
I follow at a slower pace, my boots squelching on the flagstone path.
The back door of the main cottage is unlocked. I push it open, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen.
And I stop dead in my tracks.
Dot is standing by the counter, her back to me. She’s wearing a thick fisherman’s sweater and reading glasses, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun. Pearl is in front of her, blocking my view, her hands on Dot’s shoulders.
They’re kissing.
It isn’t a quick peck or a chaste greeting. It’s a deep, lingering press of lips. Pearl’s hand comes up to cup Dot’s cheek, her thumb stroking the soft skin there. Dot’s hands, usually so occupied with knitting or binoculars, rest on Pearl’s waist, pulling her closer.
I freeze, my hand still on the doorknob. I feel like an intruder, but I can’t look away. It’s beautiful in a way that catches in my throat. There’s such tenderness in the way Dot leans into Pearl, such a quiet, abiding love in the way Pearl holds her.
Pearl pulls back slightly, resting her forehead against Dot’s. Dot murmurs something that I can’t quite catch, but whatever it is makes Pearl laugh, a bright, chiming sound that seems to vibrate against the quiet morning air. Pearl pulls back just enough to press a kiss to Dot’s forehead, her hand resting on the other woman’s cheek, before she finally turns to spot me hovering in the doorway.
There’s no embarrassment. No frantic smoothing of clothes or guilty glances. Dot simply reaches up to remove her glasses, folding them and setting them on the counter.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Pearl says, reaching for a coffee mug. “I was just making pancakes. Is that okay or do you prefer eggs? “
I stand there for a second, the dampness of my coat seeping into my skin, feeling suddenly very exposed. The intimacy I just witnessed was so profound, so devoid of the performance I usually see in relationships, that it leaves me feeling raw.
“Pancakes sound good,” I manage to say, stepping fully into the kitchen and closing the door behind me. Wellsy is already at Pearl’s feet, sitting pretty and whining for a treat.
“Perfect,” Pearl declares, fixing up her apron.
Dot waves me toward the table. “Sit. Coffee is in the pot. It’s strong enough to strip paint, just how you like it.”
I move to the table, taking a seat in the chair that Dot vacated. The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of brewing coffee and the bacon already sizzling in a cast iron skillet on the stove and the pancakes Pearl is making. It feels like a completely different world from the muddy, tension-filled ranch house I fled last night.
Dot joins me a moment later, placing a steaming mug of black coffee in front of me. She sits across from me, her eyes studying my face over the rim of her own cup.
“You look a little better than you did last night,” she observes. “Less like a drowned rat and more like a human being.”
“Thanks, I think,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug. The heat seeps into my chilled palms.
“We talked about your situation while you were sleeping in,” Pearl says from the stove, flipping a pancake with a practiced flick of her wrist. “About the fines.”
I stiffen slightly. I hadn’t expected to discuss business so soon. “It’s a mess, but I have a plan. I can move some assets around. It’ll hurt, but I can cover the eighteen thousand.”
