Page 6 of Good Luck Charm for the Wolf

No shame.

No tips.

Just entitlement and the lingering odor of too much body spray.

And yeah, I am this close to making a sign that says:

No shoes. No shirt. No respect? Get the fuck out.

Carina would probably veto the language, but honestly? Worth it.

Still, my sisters expect me to eventually find my calling.

But maybe my calling isn’t some fancy gallery or prestigious art collective.

Maybe it’s right here.

Making food.

Creating colorful murals and pizza logos.

And sketching magical things hardly anyone sees but me.

God, though, sometimes it’s lonely being the only sister currently not dating.

Carina has Horace now. He’s gruff, sometimes furry, and head over heels for her.

It’s disgustingly adorable.

MJ is always going on dates. She is a natural flirt, flitting about like the social butterfly she is.

Meanwhile, me?

I’m over here doodling Werewolves and Witches in my sketchbook, listening to love songs, and pretending it doesn’t sting when nobody looks at me that way.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

I don’t want a fling.

I don’t want a nice guy who thinks I’m cute, even though I’m chubby, and then tries to change me.

I want someone. My someone.

Someone who sees me, the pizza-slinging, headband-wearing, art-loving hot mess that I am, and still wants me.

Someone who gets me.

Who thinks my short curls are adorable and my weird art is brilliant.

Who understands that simple doesn’t mean dumb.

Someone who chooses me.

And yeah, recently, ever since the supernatural world sort of crash-landed into my orbit, I’ve found myself wondering, could that someone be something more than human?

I mean, lately, my art’s been full of Wolves, Bears, and beings that don’t belong to fairy tales anymore.

I even sold a few of those pieces under my secret alter ego, DinArt (yes, cheesy, but whatever—branding matters).

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