Page 4 of A Wulver for the Week

“Riiight?” I draw out the word.Am I missing something here?

“The wedding is in six weeks.”

“So we have time to get our stories straight,” I chuckle, beaming. I can’t tell you how much I love this. Can’t explain how nice it is to catch each one of Minerva’s worries like a fierce fish, then dispatch it and watch her eyes gleam with joy each time I do. Her cherub-like cheeks are permanently creased in a happy smile at this point.

“I know a lot of guys would think a resort would be all nightlife and clubbing, but in my family, they'll expect us to either be setting off alone for romantic walks on the beach or acting like sun-starved tourists with everyone, doing something like deep sea fishing off the Keys.”

I try not to let out a whine. “Deep sea fishing? You know how I love to fish.Loveit.” It’s in my blood. No, like literally. The first wulver (the child of a fae and a werewolf) was born by the river and lived in a steep cave above it. To teach the local folk of the Shetland Isles that he was benevolent (something not all fae or werewolves could claim), he would take most of his catch and leave it on the windowsills of widows and poor folk. Even today, hundreds of years later, I cannot wait to fish, but even more, I can’t wait to drop my catch off at the retirement home or gift it to a recently discharged patient. Unlike the first wulvers,my catches are presented cleaned, cooked, lightly battered, or in a lemon-butter sauce, and usually with a side of green beans almondine and an applesauce cake for after.

“You do love to fish. But—you’ll have to wear a suit. Probably a tux. I’m a bridesmaid. You might have to pose for pictures.”

“Don’t all people pose for pictures on their vacations?” I shrug and cross my arms. “Minnie. I want to go. Any objection you have, I’m going to beat it. It’s—it’s nice to go somewhere outside of work sometimes. Maybe we can even talk about something other than bed sores or staffing turnovers.”

She smiles at me. A howl bubbles up inside of me, and I fake a hiccup to quell it.

“I’d like that. A lot. You really wouldn’t mind playing along? Pretending to be something you’re not for almost a week?”

I shake my head, hoping the sadness in my eyes is hidden by my broad smile. “I don’t mind at all,” I reply quietly.And I wish it wasn’t just make-believe. I wish it was real...

3: Minerva

“Our story” isn’t a tissue of lies. We met at work years ago. We’ve been friends and work buddies. Our departments work closely together, and we’re both civic-minded, so we end up seeing each other at town meetings. There’s only one really awesome coffee shop in town if you want to grab a quick lunch (you can only eat so many of the hospital cafeteria’s specials before your stomach rebels) so we have “gone out to lunch” a bunch of times.

I guess technically we’ve even spent the night together... during a blizzard that caused everyone on staff to pull extra shifts until we were plowed out.

Okay. Good. I’m good. I can tell my parents something with a straight face.

It’s good that I’m composed because when I answer the call on my laptop, I stare straight into two sets of stern “take no prisoners” eyes. My father has his arms crossed. Mama—God help me—has her laptop balanced on her knees. “What’s this boy’s name, baby?” she says.

“Hi, to you, too. His name is Craig Macpherson—what are you doing? Are you doing a background check?” I gasp, horrified. “That’s a terrible invasion of privacy, Mama!”

“You’re our only daughter. You’re single and desperate—”

“Not desperate,” I mutter.

“You see a lot of older women get taken in by these smooth players,” Daddy says, hand on his graying stubble, nodding and looking wise.

“I’m notolder! Older is like late forties, even fifties! I’m not older, I’m not desperate, and I’m—”

“He’s Scottish? Is this him? Craig Macpherson, lives in Pine Ridge, thirty-five, born in Caithness? Got his degree in social work at Antonia College in Pennsylvania?”

Mama is rapid-firing off questions as she shoves the computer in her lap so that its screen faces the desktop screen. I see a blurry face with long, wavy dark hair and a beard that suddenly reminds me of a certainLord of the Ringsranger and dark-haired Viking.

He’s handsome. Even blurry. I try to focus on the details of his face, but I just end up blinking and thinking it’s time to take out my contacts. I know Craig is a good-looking guy, but I can barely describe him.

You're probably just overtired and dehydrated.

“Aw, hell. Is he gonna wear a kilt to the wedding? Plaid? Plaid at awedding? It’s going to clash. Rose pink and palm green are the wedding colors, that’s what Aunt Belinda said.” Daddy closes his eyes and tips his head back in a gesture of supreme suffering. “Does he talk funny?”

“No more than the Georgia side of the family ‘talks funny.’” I cross my arms.

“Social worker... That’s a noble profession—with crappy pay,” Mama sighs.

“Well... He’s the head of his department. And hello, nurse? Also could use a raise.” I cross my fingers behind my back since I know my hospital offers a good salary for its small size and semi-rural location. “And, Daddy? No, he’s not going to wear a kilt. I told him a tux or a suit, and he was fine with that. He’s... He’s really excited to meet all of you in six weeks. He’s also thrilled that I invited him. A week of sun and fun, amazing food, fishing, a resort in the Florida Keys...”

“Is he a gold digger?” Daddy’s eyes flash warningly, and Mama gasps and shuts her laptop with a bang.

“No! No, he’s a perfectly nice guy. He’s in a related field, and he’s handsome, funny, kind, and responsible.” He’s perfect on paper. Why haven’t I ever asked Craig out? For real?

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