The Better to Hold You - By Alisa Sheckley Page 0,6

things.”

“That explains it, then. By the way, your pants are kind of torn.”

I bent to inspect the damage, wondering how to segue into my next question. “Um, Hunter, is there—there isn't anyone else here, is there?”

Hunter laughed, his head nodding forward, as if he were embarrassed to meet my eyes. “What, you mean hiding in the closet? No, Abra.” He looked up. “I'm sorry about the phone. I thought it was one of those telemarketers.” Hunter patted the bed. “Come sit down.”

“I have to cancel my credit card and checks.”

“You can do that in a minute. Come over here and sit down. I can see you're upset.”

I sat down beside him, and he wrapped me in his arms. He wasn't even sweaty. The people in Hunter's family didn't seem to develop as many body odors as the people in mine. As he held me I noticed that all along the top of our low dresser, Hunter's wallet had hemor-rhaged business cards, loose change, dollar bills, and cigarettes, breaking the neat ranks of my perfume bottles and enameled jewelry boxes.

“You okay, ‘Cadabra girl?”

I nodded into his shoulder. “Hunter.” I tried to think of a way to put this. “Is it me?”

He stiffened under my hands, then slid away. “It's nothing to do with you, Abs. I'm just—it's been a difficult couple of months.”

It had been three months, actually. Back in early May, I'd been lying on the plastic chaise lounge we'd wedged sideways on our balcony, reading a brochure on Block Island. No cars in summer, just like a little Nantucket close to home. My internship at the Institute began in July; I'd asked Hunter if he wanted to try to get away with me in June. Sounding distracted, he had responded that he'd just gotten an idea for a piece on some mythical Romanian beastie.

This, roughly translated, meant, I've already bought my ticket and you won't be seeing me again till the last dead brown leaf of summer gets ready to take that final dive.

Hunter had spent the last few years writing articles for magazines like Outside and Backpacker. He hoped, I knew, for the kind of career-making story that meant a feature article in Vanity Fair, a book deal, movie rights, and full circle to an ongoing gig as contributing editor. All he needed was the right break—his own Everest, his personal perfect storm.

And that was why Hunter was intent on spending the summer with his Romanian-English phrase book instead of with me. It seemed that the existence of Europe's last surviving wolves was under serious threat. Ceau_escu's totalitarian regime, like Hitler's, had possessed a hunter's fond regard for preserving native woodlands. The Romanians figured that wealthy American and European eco-tourists might pay to see the ancient woods where their ancestors once walked in fear of trolls, dragons, and flesh-eating creatures. This was Transylvania, after all, monster country.

And some people will pay good money to see monsters.

So, while the enterprising Romanians were cutting down old-growth forest and setting up boutique hotels, the real wolves' ranges were growing ever smaller. And since wolves are a little less popular with family tourists than, say, a nice elk or eagle, the villagers weren't shy about killing the rogue that went after a local calf or sheep.

If it was big enough, it got called a werewolf.

It was a good story. It was a morality tale with a good dose of irony and a hint of B-movie Transylvanian spice. And Hunter had told it well, sitting next to me on our little Manhattan terrace.

Unfortunately, it was such a good story that my Transylvania-hopping husband barely found time to call me three times in as many months. Once I'd started my internship at the Institute, I'd been able to distract myself with work—I'd been assigned to Malachy Knox's medical group, which was the veterinary equivalent of special ops. There wasn't much time or opportunity to ruminate about your faraway sweetheart.

But now Hunter was back, which filled me with relief and gratitude, and yet also made me want to bark: Who've you been sleeping with? If only there was a way to say this without saying it. Ask it without asking.

“You haven't told me much about your trip yet.”

“Abra? You're not going to blow this whole thing out of proportion, are you?”

I turned to look at him. He was clipping his words, getting prepared to be angry, just in case.

“I just want to know why you didn't—why you didn't want—” Me. I left that last pathetic