The Wolf Under My Window

Blake Harrow replied in less than ten seconds.

Is this your idea of a joke?

Then:

Go annoy someone else.

Then:

You think I am something you can summon whenever you want?

I put my phone down and went to shower.

When I came back, there were thirty-two messages, nine missed calls, and one voice message that was just him breathing angrily for six seconds before hanging up.

I opened the latest texts.

Why did you delete every photo of Adrian from your profile?

Did something happen?

Are you drunk?

Where are you?

Answer me, Evelyn.

I swear to the Moon, if you do not reply in ten seconds—

I laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours.

Then I called him.

He picked up immediately.

I could hear wind on his end.

“I wasn’t joking,” I said. “If you have time, come to my wedding. Preferably as the groom.”

There was a long silence.

Then Blake said, “Open your window.”

I froze.

“What?”

“Window. Open it.”

I walked to the window and pushed it up.

Cold night air rushed in.

Under the streetlamp outside my house, Blake Harrow leaned against a black car, one hand in his pocket, a cigarette between his fingers.

He looked up.

Our eyes met.

He threw the cigarette down, crushed it beneath his shoe, and waved like an idiot.

My phone was still against my ear.

“You were already here?” I asked.

“I was nearby.”

I checked the time.

It had been exactly forty minutes since I sent the first message.

Blake lived forty minutes away.

Nearby, my ass.

I grabbed a coat and ran downstairs before I could change my mind.

The moment I got into his passenger seat, Blake stared at my wet hair.

Then his face twisted.

“Are you stupid?”

I blinked.

“What?”

“You came down with wet hair in winter? Did Davenport suck out your brain along with your youth?”

He was still as infuriating as ever.

Before I could snap back, warm air blasted from the vents.

He turned the heat to maximum without looking at me.

My chest tightened.

I turned toward the window.

“I want to see the ocean.”

Blake said nothing.

For a few seconds, the car was quiet.

I thought he was preparing to mock me.

Then the navigation system spoke.

Mooncliff Coast. Distance: 298 kilometers. Estimated arrival time: 5:07 a.m.

Blake started the car.

“Good,” he said. “We’ll catch the sunrise.”

I stared at him.

“I said that randomly.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we going?”

He glanced at me.

“Because you said it.”

I suddenly could not speak.

The city lights blurred outside the window as we drove away from Silverlake.

For the first time since seeing Adrian’s messages, I felt like I could breathe.

Halfway to the coast, my phone buzzed.

A message from Luna Hart.

I should have blocked her.

I opened it anyway.

She sent a photo of Adrian asleep beside her. A bright red lipstick mark stained his cheek.

Then came two texts.

My boyfriend looks good from every angle.

He said he never touched you after coming home. Love is obvious, isn’t it?

I stared at the screen until the words blurred.

A laugh suddenly exploded beside me.

I turned.

Blake was grinning so hard he looked like he might die from joy.

“Wow,” he said. “So this is why you suddenly needed a groom.”

I glared at him.

“Were you reading my phone?”

“No,” he said shamelessly. “I was looking openly.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“You are pathetic.”

I should have been angry.

Instead, my eyes burned.

Blake’s smile faded.

He kept one hand on the steering wheel and tossed a box of tissues into my lap with the other.

After a while, he said quietly, “Twelve years. That must hurt.”

I looked out at the dark highway.

“How could it not?”

He was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “If he does not love you anymore, twelve years and one day are the same thing.”

The words landed hard.

Cruel.

Clean.

Necessary.

I pressed the tissue against my eyes.

For twelve years, I had measured love by how long I could wait.

No one had ever told me that waiting did not make a cage less cruel.

At dawn, we reached Mooncliff Coast.

The sun rose over the sea like molten gold.

Blake parked on the cliff road, opened two cans of cheap beer from somewhere in his car, and handed me one.

I took it.

“Drinking at sunrise?”

“You wanted drama,” he said. “I am providing atmosphere.”

I laughed.

This time, it did not hurt as much.

For a while, we sat there without speaking.

Then I asked, “How are we getting back if we both drink?”

“I called a driver. Also booked two hotel rooms.”

I turned to him.

“When did you do that?”

“When you were crying.”

“I was not crying.”

“Sure. Your eyes were just leaking from admiration of my beauty.”

I rolled my eyes.

Blake smiled, then looked away toward the sea.

The morning light softened the sharp lines of his face.

For the first time, I allowed myself to really look at him.

Blake Harrow.

The boy who once stole my love letter.

The man who drove forty minutes because I sent one ridiculous message.

The wolf who cursed at me for having wet hair, then turned the heat up before I could ask.

Maybe he had always been standing somewhere nearby.

Maybe I had simply never turned around.