Fated Desire

by Noah Harris

  We were running late that first time, I forget why, but we were in a rush. The others started peeling off their school uniforms as they went, and I remember getting a little nervous that this was going to be a sex thing. It wasn’t, they just didn’t want to rip their clothes. As my thighs and biceps started to bulge and throb, I understood. It became absolutely essential to peel them off, under the moon, as if I were swelling from some allergic reaction.

  It always starts there, in my arms and legs. Deep and pleasant waves flow out along the muscles like a full body stretch, that luxurious feeling from head to toe. They said there might be a little pain, but I’ve never had that. Just the good feeling, like putting on pajamas at the end of a day and stretching out on cool, crisp sheets. Only it’s the warm, sweet earth you’re stretching out on, and what you’re dressing in is your own skin. It’s like coming home.

  After that first run, I begged Goodboy to come for dinner, and he immediately looked to Christian for confirmation. That was before I knew how resistant Christian had been about getting together with them, and I could’ve slugged myself later when I put it all together. But Christian nodded and said something about the kids wanting Goodboy time.

  The look of gratitude Christian gave me was a bit hard to understand at the time. I thought, for a second, he was upset with me but later on, I understood. His brows knit, his throat wobbled, his lips grew tight, not because he didn’t want Goodboy to come but because he wanted it more than anything and seemed to have forgotten how to ask. It was because he wanted to cry, I think. Just a little.

  That first day, back in the dining room after our meet-and-greet with the twins, we tried hard. Drinking our coffee, trying not to wander into any minefields or tender spots. I didn’t want to ask about his dead husband, and he didn’t want to ask why I was on the run. Neither of those things has really changed in the interim.

  What else was there to talk about?

  We’d always thought Christian’s parents were monsters. But my own dropped me like I’d never existed. School was like growing up in the wilderness, with just my wits to defend me. By the time the pack found and claimed me, and I had a context for all these intense feelings and scary desires, I’d adapted a lot to things as they were.

  I was a pretty hard man by then. It seemed easier not to care about anything at all than ever risk getting hurt like that again. I don’t know that he would have liked who I became.

  I know I didn’t.

  What I didn’t know was how different I was from that now. Just moving from California in the dead of night. Could that be enough to fundamentally change me? That was the fantasy.

  It just seemed so possible, right from the start. Living in this house with someone I once loved, pretending to be part of a family for a little while. Like it would keep me honest.

  Christian went quiet suddenly, in the middle of a story about grocery shopping, and smiled at something over my shoulder with such joy it still makes me happy to remember it.

  And who was it? Queen Poppy, that’s who.

  Standing on the bottom step with Bodhi’s hand in her own, staring me down like a witch of the woods. She nodded, silently, and I couldn’t help but do the same. Everybody seemed to have stopped moving.

  It’s immediately clear, every time, what they mean when they say Poppy’s the one to watch. She’s even more intensely wolf-like than the others. A little wild thing with bright eyes, that moves like a silent beast.

  I’d been fairly certain Bodhi would be an alpha, maybe even lead a pack but with Poppy there was no question. She was a warrior-queen at two years old.

  And with a family, a whole town, of adoring admirers? She’d either grow up to be the coolest person or spoiled beyond repair.

  Creature makes things fly. She can make things sing.

  Or maybe she’d need what I got, ten or fifteen spoiled years and then utter destruction. I remember thinking that, very specifically. If I ever made it back to being someone I could respect, I still have no doubt it’ll be that short sharp shock that keeps me going.

  I’m sorry to say I was the first to break eye contact. Poppy stepped down with a slightly smug air, and we took it all in.

  Barefooted, with a crown of twigs and flowers and a long white nightgown, carrying a whiffle bat like a royal scepter, she graced each of her siblings with a smile before coming forward.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Poppy,” I said respectfully into the silence.

  And she passed me by without consideration, heading straight for her papa’s lap with a plaintive look.

  Oh, she must just be hungry. That’s probably why she’s…

  Nope. The second he turned away to grab her a handful of cereal, she fixed me with a scowl that chilled me to my bones. Oh boy.

  Desperate, I looked to my new allies, the twins, who were suddenly both otherwise occupied.

  Bodhi sighed, looking at me with pity, and finally sat beside me at the table.

  “So this is my house,” he said brightly. Expectantly. “Our house, I mean.”

  “I love it!” I barked out. Anxious, my voice out of control after the Poppy moment. Huck whispered something to Rosemary, who approached Bodhi on the far side.

  After a short meeting, he nodded, turning back to me.

  “Where will you live?”

  Well, I was heartbroken. Were they really turning me down? Based merely on a crazy two-year-old?

  “Sorry. Where will you sleep,” Bodhi said, even more sympathetic to my plight. “Sleep.”

  Christian laughed silently without turning around, and I knew he was loving every word. Shoulders shaking as his cubs interrogated and tortured me. Probably the most fun he’d had in a year, from what he’d been saying.

  At least, I hoped so. I did always love making him laugh.

  Finally, Christian relented, pulling Poppy up onto his hip. She suddenly just looked like a normal toddler. Whatever intensity she brought into the room subsided, and she looked at me with marginally less scorn than before.

  “Poppy, this is Papa’s friend Dominic. He wants to come and live with us. I want it too. What do you think about that?”

  She looked from him to me, thin-lipped, and finally shrugged. In my peripheral vision, I could see the twins share a look. Please mean that I’m in, I thought. Suddenly desperate to call this home with a yearning I hadn’t felt since…the last time I was in this house, probably.

  Bodhi cleared his throat, reminding me there was a question on the table.

  “I will live in the guest room, Bodhi. I didn’t bring any things with me, so I don’t need much space. And I like the guest room.”

  Bodhi sighed, relieved.

  “We do too.”

  And with the twins climbing back up me, to rest on my head and shoulders like tiny parrots, I met Christian’s dancing eyes.

  And that was that.

  Fixing up the trifle, getting it ready to serve before the sun starts to go down, I feel, more than hear, one of them coming up on my left. Bodhi, my little shadow. He won’t try to take my hand when my hands are busy, but he lurks, and sometimes climbs up on the cabinets or counters so he can watch what I’m doing. But otherwise, it’s hand in hand lately.

  Specifically since last week. We were already getting close, but I felt we had some distance to close. At one point, Christian tried very subtly to suggest the kids were nervous that I hadn’t unpacked for the first couple months, and I thought he meant himself, but really, he meant Bodhi. Which just about killed me when I found out, and I practically wanted to take the door off the hinges altogether.

  People leave, that’s what they do. I’ve always known that. But his dad didn’t leave, he was taken. You can’t tell yourself a story about how they suck and you’re great. It’s just sad, and scary, and not anything I would ever want these kids to know.

  I came home to a sound I’d never heard before. A low, mournful howl. Almost hooting, ohoo-oo-hooo.

  There was the faint memory of Christian when
we were little, hysterical. A dog bit him that time. I remembered a growl ripped from my throat before I’d even closed the front door behind me.

  Every sense confirmed there weren’t any strangers in the house. But that sudden terror and rage—one of the kids is hurting!—never comes close to logic. I was bulked up, arms getting hairy already, as I padded down the upstairs hall toward Bodhi’s room. Zeroing in on the sound and ready for war.

  But when Bodhi turned to look at me, sitting on the floor of his bedroom with hot tears and snot all over his face, he didn’t even blink at my slightly shifted form. Just turned away, a little embarrassed, and tried to silence himself. His shuddering breath refused to slow, though, and finally he just gave up, soaring into another sob.

  On my knees beside him, I wasn’t sure if I should reach out, or say something, hug him, call his Papa…even more tortured by the nearness of his pain, like I couldn’t think at all. So when he threw himself into my arms, sobbing against my shoulder, it was a relief.

  That’s what I wanted, I thought. That was my first instinct.

  “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” I said softly. “I’m just going to stay right here.”

  He nodded, wiping his nose back and forth on my shirt, which made me smile. His sweaty little head against my chin. But his body was already relaxing and his fists loosening, he seemed to be calming down.

  I’m not a father and I probably won’t ever be one, and if I switched places with Christian for even a day it would kill me. But for a brief moment I thought, I get to be proud. Bodhi’s a strong little guy, he keeps his cool. But when he couldn’t hang on any longer, I was allowed to hold him, and that makes me feel…good.

  Is that okay? I still struggle with it, even though every parent probably feels that way a lot.

  Once Bodhi was all cried out and slumped against my chest, I could feel him take a big breath, body tensing up again. For a second, I thought he was going to start bawling again, but instead he looked up, face twisted around his sadness, and stared me right in the eyes.

  “Sometimes I feel like when I’m just playing or reading a book or just thinking. On the swings or something. Then all of a sudden, I think, my daddy is dead. And it hurts so much.”

  I nodded, closing my eyes against it for a second. Even the memory feels like a cold slap.

  I know that split-second realization well. The first six months of mornings at the academy, I woke up thinking I was in my own bed. Just for a second.

  “But the littles. They don’t even remember him. Huckleberry says they do but I know they don’t. Not really. So it’s bad to be so sad.”

  I was a little stunned. What a terrible, toxic concept.

  “You can be as sad as you want. And they can be as sad as they want.”

  He looked up at me, dubious.

  “They remember whatever they remember. I bet when they’re a little bit older, they’re going to want to hear every single thing you remember about him. So it’s good for you to keep him in your heart. But you never need to feel bad about being sad. That just makes it worse. Trust me.”

  He nodded, thinking it over. I wondered if I was getting too complicated, but he seemed to be considering my words.

  “Papa’s not as sad as he wants,” he said, his tone more curious than disagreeing.

  “That’s true. Your papa feels bad about being sad. Even when he was a little boy, littler than you, he didn’t like to cry or be sad. God, he barely even liked to be happy.”

  Bodhi laughed at that. He thinks his papa is the funniest person in the universe, and the smartest at coming up with happy things. He loved hearing even the most minor details about Christian’s childhood.

  “But you know what I think? I think it would help your papa if you felt as sad as you wanted. I bet he would want to hear about this. Your feelings, and how it just happens sometimes. That sounds really hard to me. I wouldn’t want to be alone with that and neither would your papa. He would want to hold you, like I am right now, and try to make you feel better.”

  Bodhi sat back against me like a tree and patted his belly, staring out into the hall.

  “Sometimes when one of us cries it makes him mad. That’s why I don’t.”

  It’s hard to believe. Impossible, actually. Christian is the most nurturing, patient omega I’ve ever seen. He was born for this.

  “You think he gets mad?”

  Bodhi nodded, but I could see him reconsidering.

  “I guess so. I mean he smells scared. Or sad. Which is how he smells when he’s mad.”

  Ah. Shifter kids must have a whole new confusing vocabulary to learn, on top of just surviving. Beyond the difficult task of learning to be a person, like anybody else.

  “Sometimes when grownups are sad, it makes us act scared. And angry. So we don’t have to feel bad. But I cannot imagine him being mad at you. He lost your daddy too. So he must understand. Right?”

  Bodhi nodded, and his eyelids began to droop. For a second, I was obscurely jealous.

  Just cry it out until you’re exhausted, sleep as long as you want, wake up and it’s a new day. What an excellent plan.

  How long would I have to cry, I wondered?

  He shifted, still with his warm little back against me, sneaking his fingers under my hand where it rested on my knee, and gave it a tiny squeeze.

  “Scooter,” he whispered. “I love you. Okay?”

  I opened my flooding eyes to Christian in the doorway, with tears on his cheeks too.

  I’m sorry, I mouthed silently, not sure what I was sorry for. Sorry your husband died. Sorry this wonderful little boy hurts. Sorry that I know how bad that can feel. Not the right thing to say, but there isn’t a right one.

  My heart is breaking for you, and for them.

  I didn’t really understand how much it hurt. I thought I did, but I had no idea.

  I want to say, “I love you,” and for him to hear me.

  He nodded and left us to it. So maybe I did.

  I woke up and it was dark outside. I was lying on the floor, the boy curled up with his head to my chest, softly breathing.

  When I unpacked my stuff, I left the door wide open.

  The next time Bodhi walked by, I could see him scanning the room for boxes or packed bags. Seeing none, he walked away with just a little more pep in his step.

  I tried to get Christian to invite the pack for Independence Day but he’s still resistant to spending time with them, outside of full moons. I’ve stopped bothering him about it, though. The more I see how different his life with Ernest was than what I expected it to be, the harder I realize this has been on him.

  When we were teenagers, Christian swore to me he’d never get married. He meant to a girl, back then, but he was insistent that it was a failed institution and he would never do something so boring.

  That’s not the man they know. This Christian loved being married. Having a husband, being an omega. Their little wedding ceremony was inexpensive and small, but you can see him radiating joy in every picture from that day. These two beautiful young men on the edge of something, holding hands in a forest, surrounded by a family of wolves and men. It’s really something.

  When I think about my younger self seeing this, the straight crush who broke my heart and then turned around and married another guy right out of high school. I don’t think he’d ever recover.

  So it’s best I didn’t know what was going on with Christian all these years. Seeing it now, though, it just makes me happy to know that he was happy.

  That somebody loved him as much as I’d wanted to.

  So we compromised. He let me buy decorations and snacks and sweets for a family party, and along with Goodboy Miller, I invited Jonesy Kirkendall. The kids are intrigued by him, as the only human they really deal with on a regular basis, and he’s absolutely fascinated by Christian.

  Back when we were kids Jonesy never really noticed him, but now I catch him watching Christian closely every now and then, tending the k
ids or clearing up plates, the wheels turning in his head. He tried to explain it, but I didn’t really get it.

  “Me and Christian lived in two different universes. Like if we had tried to have a conversation it would have been the wrong languages. Just completely different, in every way. But I knew Ernest. He was a really good guy. Quiet. So it helps me understand Christian, a little. And I want to understand him. He lost a good man and he’s strong. I ruined a good marriage, and I don’t know how I’m going to survive. I want to learn that from him.”

  Jonesy appears about three hours earlier than planned, with a case of beer under one arm, and in his hands a dish covered in plastic wrap and aluminum. It looks like a present a kid wrapped, and when I reach out to take it from him, Jonesy suddenly realizes that and gets embarrassed. But there’s nowhere to hide it, short of running away, so he lets me take it.

  And I guess I smile at him just the right way, so he doesn’t need to apologize or explain, which is how I know we’re finally friends. That he trusts me not to judge him.

  It’s a seven-layer dip from gas station ingredients, and it’s incredible. Probably the hit of the party, not that I would let Christian know that.

  The twins asked me to leave the cupcakes unfrosted, so they could decorate them. It turned out just as beautifully presented as the dip, but they’re too young to be ashamed of anything so delicious.

  “I love cake,” Huckleberry confesses in a low, secretive voice, and Rosemary laughs.

  “What about a cake that was berries? Or cherries?”

  Her brother’s eyes grow wide, and he turns to us to see if such a thing exists.

  “It’s called pie,” Christian snickers. “And it’s messy and you’ll love it. But not yet.”

  “It isn’t very sweet,” I agree, and Huck considers that before turning back to his sister.

  “I…love cake,” he reiterates. She accepts this and turns to Poppy.