Fated Desire

by Noah Harris

  “Creature. What’s your best cake?”

  Poppy puts an icing-slick finger to her mouth, seriously considering the question.

  “Lion cake. Dragon’s cake. Fight cake.”

  “Fart cake?”

  Bodhi falls over backwards in delight, but she’s not impressed by his mistake.

  “Fight cake. FIGHT!”

  Both sticky fists thrust in the air, like she’s declaring war. “Delicious.”

  Jonesy and I were both intent on getting fireworks, but Christian said the tradition was to watch the display from a nearby farm. It makes a lot more sense, now. I’ve spent some time with the kids and realized how precarious their safety really is. I can’t even picture Bodhi holding a sparkler without getting all anxious. So this is best.

  The seven of us, when the sun goes down, watch and gasp and sigh as the fireworks explode. Jonesy falls asleep in a patio chair, not for the first time, and we take the sleepy kids inside.

  Exhausted, Poppy’s easy enough. Tuck her into the crib, and she barely stirs. Bodhi goes down immediately too, worn out from all the excitement. The twins take a little convincing, but we’ve learned to split them up and hand them off after twenty minutes or so. For some reason that’s the easiest way to settle them, both of us rocking them together in the dark.

  Our routine.

  It’s the first time I realize we have one. I was so worried about fitting into their lives with minimal damage I completely missed the fact they were fitting into mine. It was so easy and painless I didn’t even see it happening.

  Next, rouse Jonesy and get him onto the couch, his sloppy affection never unwelcome as he thanks us for everything and promises to bake us a fight cake before he falls back asleep, still hooting with laughter.

  Christian and I head back out into the night for just one glass of wine. Christian laughs quietly in the empty backyard, and I know what he means. Everything is such a production. It takes so much concentration and effort you don’t really notice until you have a second to breathe.

  Further across the huge Texas sky, we can see other displays still winding down. There’s something magical about it, like a million falling stars. It lights up his face, prettier than candlelight.

  It’s best when we don’t talk at all, I’ve found. Not that I don’t like talking to Christian. He’s my favorite person. But there’s something about this easy, comfortable silence that makes me feel like an adult. Peaceful. Like we’re making something good.

  Like this is more than just doing each other a favor. It feels like a life. I wonder what the younger version of me would think about that, too.

  You get to live with the man of your dreams, and raise kids together, and have dinner together every night. It’s your all-time greatest dream, but…he’s in love with a dead man, and you’re hiding a terrible secret.

  It’s something, though. I came here with nothing, and now there is something.

  I don’t think I realized just how dangerous my depression really was back in L.A. until I started to come out of it here.

  That’s a version of me I feel bad for, too. But for now, he’s nowhere to be seen.

  A halo of white sparks meets the sky, dramatic enough to be a finale, and we both gasp a little at the beauty of it.

  Without thinking, Christian puts his hand on my shoulder, and without thinking, I put my hand over his.

  That’s when we both freeze, afraid to look at each other. Afraid to move, afraid to breathe. How do we get out of this gracefully?

  How do I keep from turning to him, lips parted, and say his name in the quiet darkness? All I can smell is his body, in the sudden heat of the moment. All I can feel is desire. I know he can sense that, too. Rock hard in my khakis, suddenly.

  I feel acutely embarrassed, even though there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Even knowing there’s more of a chance here than I can really examine.

  And that’s the answer. Not tonight.

  But one night, if I stay here long enough. That’s what our skins are saying to each other. That’s what the wolves inside are howling. One night. Maybe soon.

  I pat Christian’s hand sweetly and squeeze his shoulder. And when I turn back to the house it’s away from him, so he doesn’t have to look me in the eye.

  I’m in bed asleep before I ever hear him come back inside or lock up and go to bed.

  He must have stayed out there for a good long time.

  The Ocean & The Hurricane

  The kids have lost their minds. They don’t have a lot of sugar very often, so any kind of party is a chance to cut loose.

  Today Dominic Tarrant is twenty-five years old, shirtless and dancing with a two-year-old in the rainbow spray of a garden hose held by her oldest brother. In all the years I’ve known him, I believe it’s the happiest he’s ever been.

  The year is cooling down, early for the summer. All any of us want to do is spend as much time as possible outside. So, what was meant to be a nice dinner with family is now a dance party in the backyard. I’m the happiest I’ve been in the longest time, too.

  I didn’t admit it, but I thought when this started that Dominic would just be a fifth child in the house. I knew his money would be helpful, but I thought there’d be a trade-off.

  The Dominic I remember was stubborn, cheeky, used to getting his way. All still true of him now. But he’s also reasonable and self-controlled.

  I can glimpse the alpha within him, every now and then. I like it. We’re both still working on growing up, I think.

  “Get on up there, Miller. Shake it.”

  Goodboy hops out of range just as Jonesy lunges at him, his purpose unknown, and they laugh. Jonesy defaults to full flirting mode with Goodboy these days, which came as a little surprise to everybody but Dominic, who says he’s prepared to believe literally anything about Jonesy at this point.

  The infinite mystery of Jonesy Kirkendall, he says, is not for us to fathom.

  When it was just the three of us, he was our straight friend, our sad, horny, drunk, belching, couch-surfing, loner straight friend that my kids were obsessed with. Presumably because he was the only person they’d ever met more helpless than they are.

  But with Goodboy back in my life, I guess Jonesy might feel outnumbered. It’s certainly one way to fit in, which is something I remember Jonesy being pretty good at.

  I don’t think there’s anybody alive who wouldn’t find it a little hard to stay on topic around Goodboy. He’s undeniably striking, straight-backed, humble, and somehow aware of everything at once. Crack a joke you think nobody heard, he’s the one winking at you from across the room. Think you’re hiding your stress? Just wait until Goodboy takes your hand under the table, sending waves of calm through your whole body.

  But none of that would explain why Jonesy’s started working out again. Infinite mystery.

  The kids have accepted Dominic as an adult, basically. They listen to him, but he’s able to leave discipline in my court, which can be a tricky balance. He’s so mindful of the lines drawn there, I think if he ever crossed one it would upset him the most out of all of us. Sometimes he’s careful to a fault.

  There was one night, months ago now, when I came upon him talking Bodhi through one of his darker moments, and they cried together. He told him not to feel bad about being sad. I was trying to cry silently, so they wouldn’t stop talking. But it lit my heart up so much I very nearly took him to bed that night. Which would have been a disaster.

  But now, in late August, with everything working smoothly, setting up a birthday party for him with our little family, I just want Dominic to be this happy all the time. I want to make him happy.

  Somewhere along the line it stopped being about guilt or shame, for either of us. It stopped being about survival, or the past, or the things we were hiding from. I don’t know how to say it, but we started out both running from something, and now it seems like we’re building toward something. It doesn’t even really matter what, just that life finally feels like it
’s moving forward again.

  Bodhi’s at an age where he just wants heroes, he wants to be surrounded by men, learn about knives, rope tricks, lifting weights. So he’s in heaven with all this, our new configuration. Poppy does what Poppy wants. The twins seem a lot less vigilant than they have been since Ernest died. I didn’t realize how much of their watching and waiting, their observing, was about making sure nobody else would leave until they relaxed again. It made me cry until I was sick when I did, though.

  Goodboy’s so encouraged by these latest developments, he’s incredibly fond of Dominic, which I was worried about, and incredibly happy to be a part of our lives again. He’s even started making noises about getting the pack over here or taking the kids to the ranch for an overnight. I think it sounds wonderful, down the road. But not yet. I don’t think he gets it.

  Or maybe he’s right, maybe I’m digging my heels in. I just don’t know that I’m ready to move forward quite as quickly as life seems to want me to.

  Six months ago, the idea of having another man in the house with any value at all would have seemed hateful, nasty. But having Dom here, having back-up again, it’s healed so much of my pain that I didn’t even really know was there. I don’t think I realized how much it was affecting me, doing this alone. I just knew I felt incredibly guilty trying to imagine doing it with anybody else.

  Isn’t it greedy to want a love like that twice in my life? Plenty of people do this alone, don’t they? Wouldn’t it be asking too much?

  I know what Dominic and Goodboy, even Jonesy, would say. So I don’t ask, because I don’t want to hear it.

  “Hey,” Jonesy settles in next to me, looking carefully into my eyes. “You seem to be ruminating. I don’t know if you know this, but we’re having a party.”

  I laugh, pushing his face away with a palm, but he won’t be denied.

  “There’s such a thing as too brooding, you know. Too reflective, sexy and poetic. I’d be worried about that if I were you. Listen, have you ever heard of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory? Thinking too hard at a party with a sad look on your face is a lot like that.”

  He watches me carefully to make sure he’s not going too far. If I were truly upset, he’d be a completely different man right now, instead he leans in close.

  “Dominic Tarrant is over there with barely any clothes on, doing a dance for your benefit. I don’t know if you’re aware of these things, so I feel it’s my duty to point them out.”

  He moves away again, yelling some incomprehensible words at Goodboy, who takes off at a run before he can grab him. But it’s certainly an interesting concept.

  Half the time I think he’s just stirring the pot, matchmaking because he’s bored. The rest…I think he’s desperate to see us together because we’re his two favorite people. Maybe his only two people.

  Although, when he eventually tricks Goodboy into hooking up, Dominic says on purpose or by accident, that number will increase. I cannot imagine Jonesy Kirkendall in love with anyone, man, woman or beast. But it would make a lot of things simpler, shifter-wise, if he was in on the pack’s secret. Which can’t happen unless he’s with one of us. Maybe I'm just desperate to see them together because they’re two of my favorite people.

  And to be honest, watching Jonesy chase Goodboy Miller all summer, with no idea what he’d do if he caught him, is my favorite hobby these days.

  Meanwhile, all Dominic ever really wants to do is play with the kids. I think it’s therapeutic for him, just being a little kid again himself. Or maybe for the first time. To see the world through their eyes.

  He loves it so much, in fact, that he’s offered to take over during the day, so I can go back to school. I got a diploma, just barely, but college was never in the picture. He’s really seized on the idea the last month or so.

  He’s always been like this. He thinks of an idea that’s so good he can’t get his head around anything else that might happen. But this one is very big. It’s a life-changing idea.

  I can’t really think about it too much. Those are the kind of sacrifices and decisions you make as a couple, not just a mismatched pair of old friends whose lives have fallen apart.

  But when I see him with them, or when his eyes light up with one of these great ideas, it just blows me apart. How can I show him, what is the caring gesture, that will demonstrate how grateful I am to have him here?

  The kindness and care he shows me, and the kids. How do I give him that same feeling? How do I tell him we’re a family now? That he can relax? How do I accept that myself?

  “Creature!” the twins shout, ready for another round of their game. Poppy dutifully drops the hose and rejoins us, leaving Dom suddenly shivering in the sun.

  The biggest hit of his games with them is a sort of Duck, Duck, Goose meets Musical Chairs hybrid that involves the record player and a lot of running around. I don’t really get it, although I’ve tried to play along with them a few times.

  But when I was thinking about the perfect party for him, I kept coming back to that. It’s what I thought he’d love best.

  Ideally, of course, I’d invite the whole pack over. He’d get to know them outside the full moon runs, where we’re mostly busy howling and hunting rather than conversing. But he understands why I don’t feel comfortable doing that yet. It still reminds me of too much, to be back in that social circle. I still feel like they’re watching me. Pitying me. Even though Goodboy promises that’s not the case.

  I still don’t know how to explain that, if it’s not pity…then it’s even worse.

  We were always the youngest, poorest couple in the whole pack. Even more so as we turned out kids. There were plenty of times, even when Ernest was alive, that I got uncomfortable with their charity.

  Ernest always said I was imagining it or denigrating it. “It’s not charity! We all take care of each other!”

  But I was never convinced. He sounded naive. But as the pack’s widower, the unmated omega with such heavy baggage, everything feels twice as painful. I don’t trust myself anymore to discern how much is normal kindness, and how much is pity.

  It’s easier just to hide away entirely than admit I need help. At least Dominic understands that about me.

  But I guess there’s no way he couldn’t, right? Every time he tried to tell me he loved me growing up, he was trying to help. I was in a hell of self-denial and delusion. He wanted to dig me out. But it was easier to hide, easier to destroy a life than take that risk. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make that up to him.

  He’d say the fastest way to make him happy is to accept his help. His money, his time, his love for the kids. His desire to see me with an education and career options. But I guess I’m selfish, because all that is way too hard. I’d rather be hurting than make him happy, in those particular ways.

  So much of being alone is about pride, I’ve learned. I never knew that before Ernest.

  Now, looking back at how lonely I was after Dominic left town, I see how many kids tried to be my friend and I just completely blew past them. How many adults tried to talk to me about my grief, my confusion. Adults who saw what was going on between us, even if we didn’t, and wanted to help us both get out alive.

  The idea of anybody seeing that far into me still gives me the willies, frankly. You’d have to be truly at rock bottom to accept that kind of help without feeling humiliated.

  But. If we have a wonderful evening tonight, with the kids, Jonesy and Goodboy, I’ll feel better about all of it. Stronger. Looking at the smile on Dom’s face as Bodhi starts the record player up and the other kids take their places along the quilt he laid down in the grass, I already do feel better.

  He loved me in such an uncomplicated way when we were kids. I guess he still does. But it’s so neat to see him with my kids and see how he loves them the same way. They make him happy, he wants to make them happy. If they have a problem, he wants to solve it. That’s all there is to it.

  Because that’s all there is to D
ominic Tarrant, just honest love.

  No hidden agenda, no deep dark secrets.

  Huckleberry pulls me by the hand toward the quilt with all the strength in his tiny body, as Rosemary’s hauling Dominic toward the center of the yard too. The record player has gone silent. Jonesy and Goodboy share a look, wonder what the twins are doing. They always have such interesting plans.

  Dominic and I are made to sit on the quilt, like we’re having a summer picnic. Bodhi brings us cake on plates, a deep thumbprint in one of them, the other falling apart by the time he reaches us. Huck and Rose bring big cups of soda, putting them down on the grass beside us. Then they just vanish.

  Poppy stands beside Jonesy Kirkendall’s chair, looking wary, but that’s her normal state these days. She and Jonesy have some kind of shared sensibility I don’t understand, like how Bodhi and Dominic just understand each other. If you asked them whether they were friends, they would probably joke that they were enemies. But that wouldn’t be true either.

  Besides, Poppy only has one enemy. The interloper Dominic, who gets way too much attention from her papa.

  Once he understood that, it didn’t hurt his feelings anymore. I think he honestly just didn’t know how simple little kids can be. There’s no more to the story than that. Poppy loves her papa and hates anything that gets between them.

  She can tolerate her siblings and other grownups taking my time, usually. Especially if they treat her like the princess she knows herself to be. But something about the energy between me and Dominic just rubs her fur the wrong way, every time. Including now.

  The only strategy I’ve invented, and I really don’t even know if it’s working, is to model a dramatically healthy friendship with Dominic. Exaggerated politeness, saying “please” and “thank you,” speaking in soft voices. I don’t know quite what I think this will accomplish, but what I do know is she never resented my husband like this. She loved her daddy to distraction. So I know she’s capable of understanding me as part of a mated pair without getting jealous or protective. It’s an ongoing process, I guess.