Page 36 of Bred By the Wolfman

And yet, that’s only because of Bill. So here I am, holding onto Robbie because I crave company, and then holding onto Russ because I crave Bill—just using other people left and right.

Man, I’m a shitty person. A selfish, shitty person who can’t seem to get over a stranger I met twice, and I never even saw his face.

I take out my phone and type a message.

Thank you for the cream, it helped immensely. But I probably shouldn’t see you again. I’m sorry, Russ. I really enjoyed getting to know you.

I hover over the arrow that would send it. Can it still be considered a break-up text if we were never dating? That would be the end of whatever this is, and it won’t go any further.

But what if there could be something there? I quickly delete the message, then smoosh my face into my throw pillow and wriggle on the couch. I don’t want to utterly destroy something when I don’t even know what it means yet.

The whirr of my robo-vacuum starts up, signaling the beginning of its scheduled, late-night trip around the house. I bought it to try to assuage Robbie, and now I simply watch it traverse the room, picking up one dust bunny after another while the television plays an infomercial.

Boomer gets up and nudges me, looking for a pat. He’s not a big fan of our new friend. “Good boy,” I tell him, scratching him behind the ears but avoiding the wound. “You always know when I need you.”

Maybe I can divorce my libido from my interest in Russ. Maybe I can get to know him, on this platonic level, and see if what I feel for him is because of Bill, or because of him.

Still, strangely, it feels like cheating on Bill to even consider another wolfman. That’s the most irrational thought in all this, and yet I still can’t stop thinking about him.

Hoping for him.

Waiting for him.

fifteen

DEE

I go a few more weeks without hearing from Russ. I know he’s waiting for me to reach out, and I appreciate that about him. And how I want to, but it doesn’t feel right. Whenever I get the urge, I go on a long walk with Boomer, or find a new, more complicated knitting pattern to try.

But sometimes when I’m up at night with my fresh case of insomnia, I sit in front of the TV, absently stroking my belly, and think about texting him, maybe even asking him to get coffee again. I know he would be up because he works the late shift. He might also be wrist-deep in a C-section.

Boomer crawls up onto the couch and lies down on my legs, his favorite spot. I got him a nice, fluffy bed on the floor, but he barely touches it. Right when I’m about to doze off to an old episode of Contact List, my phone buzzes.

It’s Russ, as if he could read my mind. I eagerly open the message.

How are you and the cub? I hope you don’t mind me checking up, but I don’t want you to feel alone in this.

My eyes well up immediately. They weren’t kidding when they said pregnancy hormones make you emotional, because I also cried like a newborn at the ending to a movie about dinosaurs. But it’s such a sweet gesture that it makes me warm knowing someone is thinking about my emotional health. Robbie’s nice to me, but I wouldn’t call him attentive, and he avoids touching my belly now when we have sex.

I think that Russ would take me and the baby as a package deal.

Thanks for the thought.

I wipe the tears away from my eyes.

It’s nice, actually.

I thought you might need a friend now.

For a moment, I almost wonder if he can see into my living room. Or maybe right into my brain? It’s like he knew exactly when I could use a helping hand.

Yeah, I do. Can’t sleep. When I do sleep, I sleep all day.

There’s a brief pause, and then the three dots appear.

That happens sometimes. Your body is working hard and your rhythms are out of whack. The best thing you can do is not guilt yourself for it.

No advice about things I could do to help me sleep, suggestions which everyone and their mother seems to have. I’ve already tried them all, and none of them have worked.

---