Page 7 of Fated Secret Baby

It’s annoying. It was the other source of many conversations with the therapist, and I learned a lot about distancing myself from her.

The way she treats me isn’t fun. And it’s getting worse as she ages.

Still, I love her. I understand why she acts like this. She’s not a bad person.

She’s just afraid. Of everything.

I pull into the grocery store parking lot, park, and wander inside to get the steak that she wants us to have for dinner.

Oakwood is a small town. We have a small store. It’s old, the floor creaks when you step on it, and the butcher closes his counter for an unpredictable number of hours every day to take a daily nap—which I just happen to walk into.

I see Tom turning over his little ‘be back later’ sign right as I roll around the corner. “No!” I yell, causing several heads to turn and look over at me as I rush to the counter.

Tom, who is the oldest wolf I’ve ever met and either willingly or functionally unable to hear my protests, doesn’t flinch. He shuts the door to his office, and I know that I’m in for a several-hour wait now.

His naptime isn’t exactly short. It’s also not predictable. And there’s no guarantee that if he comes out and serves some customers, that he’ll stay for the whole day.

He could, and often has, gone right back in for another nap before his shift is over. There’s no point in leaving to come back later, because you never know if later is going to be just as fruitless. The only option is to wait it out and hang here until the creak of the office door sounds again.

I shut my eyes. Shit.

Might as well go grab a snack or something while I’m here.

I meander through the store, which is about half the size of the average store back in the city. There’s not a lot of space for me to just… noodle around.

I end up in the cereal aisle, where I notice that Sandra, the woman who owns the grocery, has finally restocked my favorite: Cocoa Krispies.

I reach forward, my fingers brushing the box, when I hear someone behind me suck in a breath.

I turn.

For a second, it’s like I’m hallucinating. There’s a woman in front of me who looks so much like Calista. It’s shocking. She’s tall, with the same dark brown hair that cascades over her shoulders, thinner brown pieces hanging around her face like a frame. Her dark brown eyes widen as she takes me in, and she shifts slightly, causing the muscles in her legs to flex as she moves them in her cutoff shorts.

When she raises one hand and smooths her hair back, I know I’m not seeing things. The gesture is exactly what Calista would do.

I can’t help it. I’m running on pure instinct. Any of the hurt and pain that I once felt is completely masked by the shock that’s rushing through me.

I open my mouth.

“Calista?”

She looks to the side, eyes darting at my shoulder, like she’s trying to judge if she can run.

“Is that really you?”

This can’t be real. It’s like everything I’ve hoped for in the last five years suddenly appeared in front of me.

All I want is more time with her.

And here she is.

Instead of sprinting away, which I have no doubt she was considering, she hesitates. A minute later, she nods, the movement stiff and jerky like she’s doing it without much control over herself.

“Hi,” she whispers.

It’s absolutely Calista’s voice. Five years ago, it was honeyed and sweet, and now there’s a little rasp to it, like she’s struggling to get the word out. But there’s no doubt about it.

This is Calista. Standing in front of me. In the Oakwood grocery store, in the cereal aisle.

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