Chapter 19: The Night Before
1550 Words
The last day before she went back, Maya couldn't sleep.
This was not unusual. She had a history with insomnia that predated werewolves and pack politics and old agreements by approximately a decade. It was the thing that had sent her into the forest in the first place — the particular restlessness of a mind that wouldn't stop when her body needed it to.
She lay in the dark of her apartment and listened to the city and tried the things that usually worked. Counted backwards from three hundred. Made a mental list of every plant species she'd covered in last week's seminar. Thought carefully and deliberately about absolutely nothing.
Nothing worked.
At one in the morning she gave up, made tea, and sat on her windowsill with her knees pulled up, looking out at the street below.
The city at night had its own particular quality — quieter but not silent, lit by something other than the sun, moving at a different pace. She'd always liked it. It felt honest, somehow. Like the city was showing a version of itself it didn't bother with during the day.
She thought about tomorrow.
Not the meeting — that was still two days away. Just tomorrow. Getting in her car — she'd borrowed Jess's, who had offered without being asked, which was one of approximately ten thousand reasons Jess was essential — and driving two hours to the edge of a territory she apparently smelled like, to a house at the edge of a forest, to see someone she'd last seen standing in a lodge parking lot while she told him she'd be back.
She had been counting down to it for five days.
Now that it was less than twelve hours away, she was somewhere between excited and terrified in a ratio she couldn't quite determine.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked at it.
Ethan.
Can't sleep, he'd written.
She smiled at the screen.
Neither can I, she typed back. History of insomnia or unusual circumstances?
Both tonight.
She looked at the street below. A car moved through slowly, headlights sweeping.
What are you doing? she typed.
Reading. You?
Sitting on my windowsill looking at the street. Drinking tea.
A pause.
I didn't know you had insomnia.
Since I was a teenager. It's why I walk at night. She paused before sending the next part, then sent it anyway. It's why I was in the forest.
She watched the three dots appear.
Then: I know. I've thought about that.
She turned this over.
What do you think about it? she typed.
That if you'd slept better you would never have walked into that forest. She could feel the weight of his next sentence before it arrived. And I would never have found you.
Maya sat very still on her windowsill.
The city moved below her.
She typed, slowly: Is that a good thing or a bad thing. From your perspective.
The pause was long. She watched the dots appear and disappear twice.
Then: It's the best thing that's happened in three years.
She put the phone down on her knee.
She looked at the street.
She picked it up again.
She typed: Ethan.
Yes.
I'm going to say something and I need you to just — receive it. Without deflecting or being practical about it.
Another pause. Shorter.
Okay.
She took a breath.
I've been trying to figure out if what I feel is real or just — a product of unusual circumstances. Two weeks of danger and proximity and depending on someone. I've been very rational about it. I've made arguments for both sides. She paused. I stopped being able to make the arguments two days ago.
She waited.
The dots appeared. Stayed.
What happened two days ago? he wrote.
My friend pointed out that I already knew. That the figuring out was just stalling.
A pause.
Was she right?
Maya looked at the city.
Yeah, she typed. She was right.
The dots appeared and disappeared three times. She watched them, patient.
His reply, when it came, was longer than she expected.
I've spent three years being careful about everything. Every decision, every interaction, every piece of myself I allowed out. It became — habitual. Safe. She could feel the effort in each sentence. You made it difficult to be careful. Not because you pushed. Because you were just — present. Asking questions. Staying when it would have been easier to leave. Putting your hands close to mine at Rennick's table without touching, just so I'd know you were there.
She hadn't known he'd noticed that.
She had known he'd noticed that.
She typed: I noticed you noticed.
I know you did.
She smiled at her phone in the dark.
Is this us being direct with each other? she typed.
I think it might be.
She thought about what Jess had said. Direct. Say the thing. Aim it at the right target.
She typed: I want to be there tomorrow. Not for the meeting. Not for Rennick or the Hollow Pack. Just to be in the same room as you again.
She sent it before she could analyze it to death.
His reply came quickly.
I've been waiting for you to come back since the truck pulled away.
Maya pressed her lips together.
She looked at the ceiling.
She looked at the city.
She looked at her phone.
She typed: Eight hours.
Eight hours, he confirmed.
She stayed on the windowsill for a while longer, the tea going cold in her hands, the city moving below in its quiet nighttime way.
She thought about three years of careful.
She thought about two weeks that had apparently undone some significant portion of it.
She thought about a man who read Old Norse at two in the morning and planned exit strategies and said the best thing that's happened in three years like it was just a fact he was reporting.
She thought about eight hours.
Go try to sleep, she typed eventually.
You first.
I asked you first.
A pause. Then: Fine. Try to sleep, Maya.
You too, Ethan.
She climbed off the windowsill.
She got back into bed.
She lay in the dark and thought about tomorrow and felt the particular quality of anticipation that lived right at the edge of sleep — warm and specific and real.
She fell asleep faster than she had in a week.
She didn't notice the exact moment it happened.
But she was smiling when it did.
---
In the morning she packed a bag.
More than last time — she was planning to stay through the meeting at least, maybe a few days after. She packed practically and then repacked slightly less practically when she realized she'd chosen everything for function and nothing for the fact that she was going to see someone who had said I've been waiting for you to come back.
She texted Jess: Borrowing your car today.
Jess replied in under a minute: I KNOW. I've been waiting. Go. Text me when you get there. Also you're welcome.
Maya smiled at her phone.
She picked up her bag.
She locked her apartment.
She stood in the hallway and Dmitri was there, large and grey, watching her with his usual gravity.
She crouched down and scratched behind his ears.
He purred.
"Wish me luck," she said.
He blinked slowly.
She chose to interpret this as encouragement.
She went downstairs.
She got in Jess's car.
She drove.
The city gave way to suburbs gave way to the particular open stretch of highway that meant she was getting further from one world and closer to another. The sky was pale and cold and completely clear, the kind of winter day that was too bright for its temperature.
She drove with the window cracked slightly, the cold air keeping her awake and present, and thought about nothing specific. Just the road. Just the distance closing.
Just eight hours becoming seven becoming six.
Becoming now.
The trees appeared on the horizon first — the particular density of them that meant she was entering the territory. She felt it, faintly. Not supernatural. Just — familiar. The way a place you've spent significant time in becomes legible to your body before your mind catches up.
She turned onto the gravel road.
The house appeared through the trees.
She pulled up and parked and sat for exactly three seconds collecting herself.
Then she got out.
The front door opened before she reached it.
Ethan stood in the frame. He was exactly as she remembered — exactly, down to the particular way he stood, the way he looked at her like he was confirming something.
She stopped on the path.
They looked at each other.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he said.
Neither of them moved for a moment.
Then she walked forward and he stepped back to let her in, and she crossed the threshold into the warm house that smelled like coffee, and the door closed behind her.
And something that had been stretched thin for five days — a thread pulled taut across two hours of highway — went finally, completely slack.
She was back.
It felt like exactly where she was supposed to be.
She didn't examine that too carefully.
She just let it be true.
- Writer
