Page 102 of The Good Boys Club

To pines instead of skyscrapers. To dirt roads instead of highways. Level crossings instead of underpasses. Tiny cafes open at the owners’ whims instead of reliability and consistency of chain brands. To daytimes felling trees and tracking deer instead of texting Ci about every single inconsequential moment of my life. Of evenings watching whatever Mam or Nana wanted to watch on the telly, instead of getting over-comfortable on Ci’s sofa. To the things I would have to give up: kicking my legs up onto the coffee table while I tugged his feet into my lap, nudging his fingertips with my forehead until he relented and sank them into my hair, breathing in the scent of him, just being near him.

“To the end of my world. To . . . to . . . the end of us,” I said.

Cian’s lip wobbled, and the next second he mashed his mouth against mine. The desperation was clear from his kiss. He felt the same.

This was the end of an era.

No more Bangers and Mash.

He held on to me as though the moment he let go, he’d lose me forever.

Eventually, our bodies’ overriding tenacity for survival kicked in and we had to break the kiss for air. Cian butted our foreheads together, our chests heaved against each other.

“Okay, I need to show you something. Come on.” He took my hand and began pulling me away from the restaurant and towards his parked car.

Shoot for the Moon

Ten Years Earlier

Mash

“What do you mean you won’t be back for Harvest Fest?”

It was two thirty in the morning, the night after Zach and Kai’s mating ceremony, the night after I kissed my best friend on the mouth—snogged him, actually. And dry humped him until I wasat the brink of coming in my expensive suit trousers and ruining everything between us. I still wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t.

Cian had said we were cool, that our friendship was stronger than an impulsive fumble. That we had both been kinda drunk, and the atmosphere had been kinda romantic—what with the stars and the summer evening air—and that we had both been low-key panicking about the future. Cian about never finding true love and me about this entire mess which was my life.

Mam stood at the kitchen counter, tears in her eyes. She’d been sneaking leftover meat from the fridge when I jump-scared her with my news. The fridge door still hung open.

Even though I didn’t care much for my degrees, I wanted—no, needed to stay in Remy. Science wasn’t for me. I mean, I loved trees, and nature, and sticks, and moss, and lichen, and mushrooms. And I loved the field research—being out amongst the things I was studying, learning about the environment—but I hated being in a lab.

I hated numbers, and measurements, and decimals, and how clinical things were, and my boring lab partner Chris. I hated calculations, and computers, and all the different pointless systems and programs we needed to log stuff and communicate with each other. I hated deadlines. I hated coursework. I hated exams. I hated all the fucking university red tape if you wanted even one silver to put towards your research ideas. I hated extenuating circumstances. I hated the coffee at the biosciences building. I hated that the vending machines were always sold out of Peanut Goobers.

I hated it all, but computers aside, I was really good at it.

For once in my life I felt smart, and the weird thing was, I didn’t have to put that much effort in. I was just naturally skilled at this stuff. I’d graduated with first-class honours from my bachelor’s degree and a distinction on my master’s, and I didn’t even try.

Okay, I did try . . . a little. I read the texts I was supposed to read, attended all my lectures and workshops and seminars, got my papers in on time . . . But I also partied hard, like super hard, so it kind of felt as though I shouldn’t have received the grades I did. Like a fluke.

And despite intensely disliking the work and uni and pretty much everything else, I didn’t hesitate when my mentor asked if I was interested in studying for a doctorate.

Professor Sonny Daye was a three hundred and fifty year old fae, but you’d never know. He behaved as if he was thirty-five. He taught mycology and was obsessed with mushrooms and gardening. He had an allotment in Waterside, which he encouraged me to visit often. I did because it got me out of the labs and lecture halls.

One afternoon, I was turning over the compost in his veg beds and he asked if I wanted to stay and do a PhD and that he would sponsor me. It would mean another four years away from Howling Pines—at least four more years in Remy with Cian.

I had said yes before he’d finished his question.

What I failed to consider was how my entire pack would handle the news. But now, standing in front of Mam in the kitchen while everyone else slept off the weekend’s festivities, I half wished I could take everything back.

“Mash,” she continued, placing the plate of chicken thighs on the counter. “You have to be here. You’re the successor and you’ll be twenty-five in two months. You have to accept the call of the alpha in September. Your grandmother cannot lead the pack forever. She’s already in her seventies.”

“I can reject the call,” I said. My voice wavered at the end. There was nobody besides me and Mam in the kitchen. I thought I’d break it to her first.

She nodded, then slowly released all her breath through pursed lips like she was trying to stop herself from slipping into hysterics.

Mam never got mad. Never. One time Zach drove a cherry picker through the side of the barn—luckily, the boom was only extended a little, and the damage wasn’t so great the whole barn would imminently collapse like Alba swore it was going to—but Mam didn’t get angry. Nana got angry, but Mam just made Zach find replacement panels. She still never raised her voice.

And about six or seven years ago, when Alba told Mam she wasn’t staying with the pack after her twenty-fifth birthday, that she was going to live in Gwindur with some werewolf girl she’d met named Jade, Mam still didn’t get angry.

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