door and put weight on first one foot, then the other. They hate me for it, but nobody is going to carry me inside, so they’re just going to have to suck it up. And they’re not the only things that are complaining. My body is hurting all over—the PMS fun has begun. Lower back tightness and pain, bloating, and a slight headache, all present and punishing me for having a uterus. I’ll mark it on the calendar when I get inside later that all the warning symptoms have joined the party. (And I do mean all: stabbing shocks to the ovaries, aggressive cramping, and the most public fun of all, gas.) Note to self: Bleeding will commence in about a week. Joy.
Also note to self: the werewolf living with us will notice the special time of the month. All the werewolves at the pub do—it was probably the hardest thing to get used to, to know that they know. They know when it’s coming on and they know when you’re bleeding. It’s awkward. But they’re also really great, with someone stocking the breakroom fridge with chocolate silk pies suspiciously around the week I’d kill to have chocolate the most. Also? A lot of wolves tip waitresses more if they’re on the rag. The sympathy somehow makes surviving your whole crampy, bloaty shift a little easier. Weird but true.
Anyway, for the rest of tonight, I don’t have to hardly be on my feet, and a heating pad and some shuteye does wonders for my monthly woes. For the rest of tonight, I don’t have to worry about taking orders, messed up orders, closing out tabs, busting ass for tips, or counting tills.
I’m home.
My keys are in my hand and I’m reaching for the lock when the front door opens, and Finn steps out. “Welcome home, a stór.”
“Hey, Finn,” I smile wearily. “You here to check on Deek?”
Uncharacteristically, Finn’s face looks troubled and his gaze sinks to the level of my thighs. He brings a hand to the back of his hair and shoves his fingers through it, sort of half-scratching, half clutching. “Um, Sue...”
I’m staring at him, my fatigue being rapidly replaced by concern. “What’s wrong? Did something happ—” I don’t even finish asking him. I push against his shoulder, shoving past him into the house.
“Sue, it’s going like clappers—wait, no, you can’t use that phrase in regards to children. Let’s see. It’s going all good, rather. Wholesome good!”
I hold up a hand in his direction, not even sparing him another glance. “I don’t even want to know what you just said.” I point to Ginny, and watch her eyes go wide—she wasn’t expecting me to pick her. “What happened?” I ask.
Charlotte raises the remote and kills the TV, the glow from the screen ebbing from their faces and the room.
Still wide-eyed, Ginny looks behind me at Finn. “My—”
Maggie sighs and shoves off from the couch. “It all started when Deek needed help at the park. He lost his clothes. And the key fell out of his pants. I carried his shirt,” she thinks she’s explaining, “and then I made him five sandwiches,” she stresses, “I brushed his hair but couldn’t braid it and—”
“Maggie,” I start. “Did I ask Ginny—”
“—then Deek bit Miss Connolly on the leg and he held her mouth so she’d stop screaming and then he put her in Finn’s car before Finn told Ginny we’re werewolves too,” Maggie finishes. She looks up at me wearing a hopeful expression. “Mom? Can I have a cookie?”
“WHAT?” I shout.
Maggie’s face crumples. “Please?”
I clap my hands over my now pounding temples, shaking my head violently. “Wh-whoa—just!”
Finn’s arms come gently around me, and his hands close over my arms. “Although that was technically an accurate summary of the day, allow me to assure you that it wasn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“And we’re not werewolves,” Charlotte says to Maggie. “Just Ginny.”
“No,” Maggie insists. “Ginny, and Miss Connolly, and Deek, and Finn and now us!”
Charlotte crosses her arms. “Not us, Snow Pea. You’re wrong.”
Maggie gasps and straightens, bracing her hand on Deek’s tall lupine shoulder so that she looks like some tiny fairy queen who commands a Dire Wolf. “I am not! Ask Finn! He said so!”
“He did not.”
“He did TOO!” Maggie shouts.
I pull out of Finn’s hold and catch Maggie. “You do not need to get louder to be heard. And,” I take her chastised face in my hand. “I’m sorry, honey, but we are not werewolves.”