The Alpha I Never Meant to Love

The card said, You don’t have to be strong every day. I stared at it for a moment, then tucked it between the chamomile tea and the ridiculous pair of fluffy socks I had bought because Nessa was always complaining about cold feet. It seemed inadequate. There were probably better things to give a woman whose marriage had fallen apart than tea and lavender bath salts. A new husband, perhaps. Or the ability to walk through the supermarket without wondering which sympathetic smile concealed a conversation she hadn’t been invited to hear. Unfortunately, both were beyond my budget. I adjusted the tissue paper. “You’ve rearranged that three times,” Kit said through the phone. “The candle keeps falling over.” “It’s a candle, Thea. It’ll cope.” I wedged it beside the biscuits. “There.” “Have you eaten?” I glanced at the untouched toast beside my elbow. “Yes.” “Coffee isn’t food.” “I had toast.” “Did you swallow any of it?” I took a bite out of spite. Kit waited while I chewed. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this today,” she said. “You’ve had a long week.” “Because she’s had a worse one.” “You barely see her outside the salon anymore.” “That doesn’t mean I don’t care.” “I know.” Her voice softened. “You care enough for people who’ve never considered returning the favour.” I picked a loose thread from the socks. I had known Nessa and her sister for years. Cori had once helped my mother organise a fundraiser; Nessa had cut my hair through most of my adolescence and quietly fixed the fringe I’d given myself at seventeen. When someone had occupied that much of your life, you didn’t stop caring simply because you no longer saw them every week. Besides, I remembered my mother standing in our kitchen after my father left, accepting a casserole from a neighbour with both hands because neither was steady enough on its own. People remembered the betrayal. They forgot that afterwards you still had to decide what to eat for dinner. “She thinks everyone’s talking about her,” I said. “Everyone is talking about her.” “Kit.” “They’re also talking about the new speed bumps. People have very full lives.” I smiled despite myself. “I’m dropping it off. That’s all.” “And then?” “Home.” “Blake coming over?” “He’s busy.” “Again?” “He’s helping someone with a job.” “What job?” “I didn’t ask for an invoice.” There was a brief silence. “Fine,” she said. “Call me later.” “I will.” After we hung up, I checked my messages. Blake’s last reply had arrived nearly an hour earlier. Can’t tonight. Got something to finish. Talk tomorrow x I had sent him a picture of the basket. He hadn’t opened it. I put my phone away, lifted the gift bag and carried it to the car. Nessa’s curtains were open when I pulled into the driveway. For some reason, that reassured me. I had worried she might be in bed, or crying, or simply exhausted by people arriving with concern she would then have to make them feel good about offering. Cori had said she was home. I should probably have checked with Nessa herself, but I hadn’t wanted her to tell me not to bother. The house looked much as it always had: pale walls, pots of herbs beside the kitchen window, a pair of small pink boots abandoned near the step. Sadie’s. I moved them out of the way with my foot before knocking. No answer. I waited, listening to the faint sound of music somewhere inside. “Nessa?” The front door shifted beneath my knuckles. Not closed properly. I pushed it open a few inches. “Hello? It’s Thea.” I had walked into this house often enough over the years that stepping into the entrance hall felt ordinary. There were framed photographs on the wall, a schoolbag beneath the bench, and a cardigan hanging from the banister. I put the gift bag against my hip. “Nessa, Cori said you were—” A man laughed upstairs. I stopped. There were sounds you learned without ever meaning to. The particular cough your mother made before answering a difficult question. Your best friend’s footsteps. The way the person you loved laughed when he was trying not to. Blake’s laugh always caught slightly at the end. I knew it from dark cinemas, Sunday mornings and the space against my neck. For a moment, I simply stood there. Then I looked towards the kitchen. Perhaps he had come to fix something. Perhaps the job he’d mentioned was here. Perhaps— A woman laughed too. Something inside me went very still. In other wolves, fear might have brought a warning growl, a surge of instinct, another presence pressing close beneath the skin. My wolf had been silent for years. She offered nothing now. I climbed the stairs. I didn’t call out again. The bedroom door stood half open, and I noticed absurd things before I understood the whole of what I was seeing. A black belt on the carpet. Nessa’s bedside lamp switched on despite the afternoon light. Blake’s watch beside a glass of water. I had bought him that watch. Then he moved. His bare back turned towards the doorway, and Nessa’s hand slid from his shoulder. For a second, nobody spoke. Blake stared at me. Nessa pulled the sheet against her chest. The bag handles cut into my fingers. “Thea.” He said my name as though I had arrived late to something. My eyes moved between them. The sheet. His trousers on the floor. Her lipstick, blurred at one corner of her mouth. There was no misunderstanding available to me. Nothing kind my mind could do with it. “How long?” My voice sounded quiet enough to belong to someone else. Blake reached for the sheet. “Thea, just—” “How long?” Nessa looked at him. That small, frightened glance hurt almost as much as the rest. They were already deciding together. “It isn’t what you think,” he said. I looked at his clothes on the floor. He followed my gaze. “I mean—it’s complicated.” “No.” I swallowed. “It looks quite simple.” He stood, dragging his trousers on with the awkward urgency of someone trying to recover his dignity before addressing mine. Nessa hadn’t moved. I looked down at the bag in my hand. The tissue paper had folded over the card. “I brought you something,” I told her. Her face changed. Perhaps she had only just noticed it. “Thea—” “I thought you were having a difficult time.” “Thea, please,” Blake said. I set the bag on the chest of drawers. Carefully. The candle knocked against the little jar of bath salts. “I heard what happened with your husband.” Nessa’s mouth opened, then closed. “Don’t do this,” she said. I looked back at her. The words took a moment to settle. “Do what?” She pulled the sheet higher. “This.” I waited. She had nothing else. Blake crossed the room. “Can we talk downstairs?” He reached for my arm. I stepped back so sharply that my shoulder struck the doorframe. “Don’t touch me.” His hand stopped between us. Something flickered across his face—hurt, almost. The sheer nerve of it made my stomach turn. “I’m trying to explain.” “Then explain.” “Not like this.” “How would you prefer it?” “Thea.” “Should I have made an appointment?” He looked away. I waited for anger. Something hot enough to make the room bearable. Something that would let me shout instead of stand there feeling my pulse in my fingertips. Instead, I thought of Tuesday. He had kissed me outside my car on Tuesday and complained that I worked too much. I had apologised. “Were you with her then?” His eyes returned to mine. “When?” “Tuesday.” “Thea, I don’t—” “Never mind.” I turned. He followed me into the passage. “Please don’t just leave.” At the top of the stairs, I stopped and looked at him. “What would you like me to stay for?” He had always been good with words. He had talked his way out of speeding fines, awkward dinners and every difficult conversation I had ever tried to have with him. Now he stood barefoot in another woman’s hallway and said nothing. I went downstairs. Behind me, he said my name again. I closed the front door before he could say anything else. I made it two streets before I had to pull over. My hands had started shaking. I parked outside a closed garden centre and switched off the engine. A painted sign beside the gate advertised winter seedlings. For some reason, I read every word. Then I read it again. My phone rang. Blake. I watched his name fill the screen until it disappeared. A message arrived. Please answer. Another. You need to let me explain. I turned the phone face down on the passenger seat. There was a receipt in the cup holder. The socks. The tea. The candle. I pressed the heel of my hand against my mouth. That was when I cried. Not beautifully. Not in a way anyone would ever put on a book cover. I cried until my nose ran and my chest hurt, until a woman walking past with a little boy glanced towards the car and then politely looked away. I had loved him for years. There were parts of my future I had never properly examined because he was already standing in them. And Nessa had known. She had asked about him while cutting my hair. Smiled when I said we were doing well. I bent forward until my forehead rested against the steering wheel. The horn sounded. I jerked back. For one ridiculous second, I almost laughed. Then I cried harder. By the time I could drive again, the light had begun to change. I should have called Kit. I knew that. She would come. She would bring food and swear on my behalf and take my phone before I could send anything humiliating. But telling her would make me repeat it. I couldn’t yet bear to hear myself say the words. I drove past the road that led home. My little house sat near the eastern border, well beyond the last proper cluster of homes. Usually, I loved the quiet. Tonight, I imagined opening the door to it. The single mug beside the sink. Blake’s spare sweatshirt over the chair. Nothing to listen to except my phone. I kept driving. The next town began twenty minutes later, with a petrol station, a pharmacy and a row of shops closing for the evening. Beyond them, warm light spilled from the windows of a bar. People were talking outside. Someone laughed. Music drifted through the open door. I parked. Before getting out, I sent Kit my location. Bad night. I’m here. I’m safe. Please don’t call yet. Her reply appeared almost immediately. Stay there. Let me know when you want me. I stared at it for a moment. Then I put the phone in my bag. Inside, the bar smelled of food, beer and polished wood. Nobody looked up for long. Nobody knew about the basket. I took an empty stool. The bartender approached. “What can I get you?” “Something cold.” He waited. “And alcoholic.” “That narrows it down.” “Vodka and lemonade, please.” He nodded and moved away. I put my hands flat on the bar. They were steady now. I wasn’t sure that was an improvement. “You should order food with that.” The voice came from my right. Low. Male. Unhurried. I turned. A man sat two stools away, a dark cap pulled low over his hair. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and there was a plate of chips in front of him. I looked at the plate, then at him. “Do you work here?” “No.” “Then that’s a very committed interest in a stranger’s dinner.” His gaze held mine. “You’ve been looking at my chips for a full minute.” “I was thinking.” “They seemed concerned.” And against every reasonable expectation I had for the rest of that evening, I laughed.