“That sounds charming,” I said.
She scoffed. “It’s exhausting.”
“Still doesn’t answer the question.”
Her shoulders drew in, just a little, but she didn’t move away.
“I’mnotcharming,” she said. “I’m efficient. I fix things. People keep me around until they don’t need me anymore.”
I shook my head. “Those aren’t opposites.”
“They are if you’re me,” she said dryly. “Trust me. I’ve tested the theory.”
She continued. “I have a mom with major boundary issues. It’s not healthy. I’m starting to establish some distance, but it’s a lot of work. And it doesn’t always pan out the way I intend.”
“I get that,” I said.
And I truly did.
I understood the effort, the constant correction. The awareness that if you let something slip, even a little, it could take more than you meant to give.
Suddenly, I could make sense of her. The sharp edges. The way she pushed first and softened later. The way she held control so tightly until she chose, very deliberately, to loosen it. It was management. A way of moving through the world without giving more than she could afford to lose.
“The only real friends I have right now are the women upstairs,” she went on. “This weekend is the first time we’re really spending any time together. In person, at least. We bonded remotely through mutual professional suffering.”
“That counts,” I said.
She shifted, water sloshing softly against the stone. Our legs brushed, sparks shooting over my skin at the small contact. I didn’t pull away.
“I don’t plan on coming back here any time soon,” she added. “So, you should be safe from having to be called.”
“I’m not worried about it,” I said.
She gave a measured look.
“I understand complicated families.” It was true, and for some reason, I needed her to know it.
Before I could think better of it, I reached out and brushed the hair out of her face. My fingers skimmed her temple as I tucked the strand behind her ear. She didn’t flinch. Our legs pressed together.
She swallowed, then her lips parted.
“You want to compare notes?” she asked.
“Only if you do.”
She nodded. “My father wasn’t in the picture. My mother is very much in it. Too much. I’m learning to manage.”
I nodded. “I learned to leave.”
She watched me, her gaze piercing. “That sounds like a story.”
“It is.” I rested my hands back on my knees and kept them there. “My pack is small. Hierarchical. My parents married for reasons that had nothing to do with liking each other. When I came of age, it turned out I was an alpha. That meant lessons, training, preparation. I had to be serious and in control. Which meant no swimming, no playing. No joy. No love.”
She huffed. “That sounds terrible.”
“It was,” I said. “So, I ran.”
“How old were you?”
