Page 10 of When Hairy Met Stella

“Did you want it to be?” Eric asked as he joined his brother.

“Did I want your ball to go as far as mine? No. I’m quite used to being the stronger sibling. No need for change.”

“No.” His brother elbowed him in the chest. He’d sure gotten a lot bonier since he wasn’t a full-fledged werewolf anymore. “I meant, did you wish last night would have been a set-up?”

Nate rose from the bench like his butt was on fire. “Heck no,” he responded, not sure why it came out all screechy. “Why, why, why would you even suggest that?”

“Because, because, because,” he began, and this time Nate wanted to smack him even more than before. “I dunno…you spent an evening with her, doing nothing but making goodies. Then you come here the next morning, and you’re wound tighter than a yo-yo.”

“Maybe because I’m upset that Stella was right and that you guys really did try to set us up.”

“She said that?” Eric’s eyes twinkled with something Nate couldn’t decipher, but he doubted it was anything good. “How did she say it?”

“Uh…‘Hey, do you think they’re setting us up, Nate?’”

“No, no. I meanhowdid she say it? I know you’re basically devoid of emotions anymore, but can you tell me if she said it like it was something that made her happy or something that made her sad?”

“What does it even matter? You knew howIwould feel about it.” He was a lone wolf. Though last night, with his hands in that popcorn bowl, he was an intrigued wolf. Not important. “I don’t need to be set up. I don’twantto be set up. What I want is to be left alone. It’s always been better for me that way.”

Eric paused for a beat, walking to his bag and pulling a pitching wedge from the set. “Oh, the lies we tell ourselves.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he spat. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so irritated, but he was…well, quite irritated.

“You were so happy with?—”

“Don’t even say it,” his voice boomed, calling the attention of a few nearby golfers.

“What, we can’t even say Carrie’s name?”

“No.”

“Fine. I know that was rough for you, realizing she didn’t love you.”

Rough? Sandpaper was rough. What Nathan had gone through was…razor blades on sandpaper, set on fire, and rubbed over his bare skin. It was devastating.

He still saw it so clearly: Lucy sitting next to Eric in the woods, declaring her love for him under the light of the full moon. Nathan had long believed the love spell was a rumor. A hoax. A written lore to give werewolves hope that one day they could break free from the shackles that tied them to the phases of the moon.

When Nate had confessed his feelings to Carrie, she’d repeated the sentiment just as he’d hoped. But he shifted a couple nights later. And instead of accepting that—of accepting him for who and what he truly was—Carrie…didn’t. And that was putting it mildly.

But Eric hadn’t shifted that night last year, which meant two things: Lucy had truly fallen in love. And Carrie had not.

“Can I say something?” Eric asked after several moments of silence.

“When have I ever been able to stop you?”

“Funny.” He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I only want you to be happy. And if being alone does that for you, then I’ll support it.”

“Thank you,” Nate said, happy this conversation was over. Except, it wasn’t.

“But I don’t think you’re really happy. And if you say you are, I don’t think you’re being honest with me. Or yourself. The thing is…wolves aren’t made to walk this earth alone. And I think deepdown”—he poked Nate in the chest, right over his heart, when he said that—“I think you’ve forgotten that.”

Oh, he definitely hadn’t forgotten that. In fact, that fact weighed heavily on his shoulders every single day. Because it was true. He really had been happy once. But at what cost? And while both wolves and humans had this innate tendency to need companionship of some sort, they certainly weren’t meant to have it with each other. He definitely had enough evidence of that. No way was he putting his heart on the line again for a relationship. He wasn’t a moron.

He was a monster.

Still, that didn’t stop the memories of last night from flashing through his mind like photos spitting out of a Polaroid camera. Stella’s smile. That rogue strand of hair he so badly wanted to brush from her face. And the streak of chocolate on her cheek he’d wanted to kiss off. The delicate slope of her neck that he’d gotten a good look at when he’d stood behind her.

He had no need of a camera, because all these memories were more vivid, more powerful than anything an electronic device could print. This was bad.

---