Page 16 of Howling Mad
I open my mouth, but my head is blank.I scramble for an answer, rummaging for data I know by heart, but it’s tangled with memories of Finley’s grin.
He sets aside his notes and calls me out.“You missed a critical figure.”Not loudly, but with enough disappointment to sting.He expects more from the wolf with the fancy degree, who’s proven his acumen many times.
My face burns, and colleagues avert their eyes.A wave of shame floods me.I stammer an apology, correct myself, and vow to read the briefing more carefully.
Carl sighs, his expression stern.“Michael, I need you to focus.What’s the projected growth in emerging markets?”
I shuffle through my notes, my panic rising.“It’s...around four percent but fluctuating due to recent investments.”
Carl nods, though his patience is clearly thin.“Ensure you get the precise figures by the end of the day.”
I nod, swallowing hard.“I’ll have them ready.Apologies for the oversight.”
The meeting continues, though my pride is bruised.Colleagues glance at me with a mix of pity and frustration.As I return to my desk, I tap a pencil against the keyboard, my mind swirling.That scolding was deserved.I’m not paying attention because I can’t stop remembering how Finley’s hair gleamed in the fluorescent office light.
I exhale, switching tasks, but my mind remains stuck.Should I text her something unrelated to business just to see if she’s also dwelling on what almost flickered between us?
I pick up my phone.Her contact name stares back, a simple “Finley M.(Romance Expected).”My thumb hovers.Is it unprofessional to text about nothing?Probably.She might scold me for crossing boundaries, or she might reply with that witty banter I crave.My heart pounds.I lock the phone, setting it face-down on the desk.Not today.Maybe I should wait until I’m certain how I feel.
Around noon, my stomach growls, but the idea of enduring the corporate cafeteria’s crowd is unappealing.I remain at my desk, nibbling a protein bar.I’m half through a spreadsheet when my phone rings with a call from Aunt Eleanor.Anxiety and fondness twist together.She’s my father’s older sister, but she’s the only one in the pack who actually respects my choices.I never know if she’s calling with good news or a subtle warning.
I answer in a controlled tone, mindful that coworkers might overhear.Eleanor’s voice is breezy but direct.“Michael, dear, your father asked me to remind you about the pack gathering this weekend.”
My shoulders tense.I forgot about that.“Aunt Eleanor, he knows I hate those gatherings.Why is this mandatory?”
She sighs, a gentle sound.“He insists all family attend this one.It’ll probably be more talk about future leadership changes or scolding you for yourhuman nonsense.I’m not sure, but I’d like you to come anyway.I miss you.”
A pang of guilt.I can never say no to Aunt Eleanor outright.“Fine.I’ll be there.Not promising I’ll stay long.”
We exchange small talk.She asks about my job.My supervisor’s reprimand still stings, so I keep answers vague.Then she gently probes about my dating life, which sets my heart racing.I sense her genuine concern.She’s never judged me for wanting something less traditional.I weigh telling her about Finley but hold back.“I’ve tried a few dates.No luck,” I say.
She hums.“Keep an open mind.Or maybe an open heart, dear.”
The call ends with her warm goodbye, leaving me unsettled.She’s the only reason I still show up to these gatherings.The rest of the pack either pities me for my career or distrusts me for living in the city, and my father leads the negativity.I rub my brow, shutting my eyes and contemplating a weekend of forced small talk, sideways glances, and muttered references to me being a “failed wolf.”Great.
I glance at Finley’s contact again, ignoring the flutter in my chest.Telling her about the dreaded pack gathering is tempting.She’d likely commiserate and share stories of her own mother pushing her into endless alpha dates, but that’d only deepen our personal bond.Am I ready for that?My heart says yes, but my head warns me to keep things simpler for now.
The rest of the day drags in slow increments.I triple-check numbers for Carl, trying not to let daydreams sabotage me again.By five, I’m drained.I skip invitations from coworkers to grab drinks, heading straight home.The city’s hustle envelopes me, but I remain in a silent bubble of my own thoughts.
My apartment greets me with neat minimalism.I toss my briefcase on the couch and slump into a leather armchair to stare at the ceiling.The memory of Finley’s easy laughter keeps intruding, especially how she listened so attentively to my frustrations about not fitting into wolf society.Even if it’s purely professional curiosity, it felt real.
An hour passes before I realize I haven’t moved.My phone buzzes, and I pick it up, half-hoping it’s Finley.Instead, it’s a spam text about used cars.With a groan, I fling the phone aside.My father’s probably itching to corner me at the gathering with new demands about returning to the pack.Another wave of dread washes over me.
Finally, I force myself to stand, rummaging in the kitchen for a half-decent meal.I find leftover pasta and heat it in the microwave.The beep jolts me from reverie, and I settle at the small table, stabbing at lukewarm noodles.Usually, I’d watch the stock channel or read market analyses.
Tonight, I scroll through random social media feeds, half-checking if Romance Expected posted anything.They didn’t, or if they did, it’s overshadowed by a new success story featuring a flamboyant peacock shifter.I smirk.Red’s operation is something else.
Saturdaydawnswithasense of foreboding since it’s the day of the mandatory pack gathering.I throw clothes into a duffel bag, choosing casual wear that won’t draw too many remarks from the old-school wolves.My phone’s silent with no new messages from Finley, which is for the best.There are also no warnings of an imminent asteroid collision or some other reason good enough to get me out of this, so I lock up the apartment and head down to the parking garage.
The drive out of the city is long through about two hours of winding roads.The hustle fades into rolling hills and then denser forests.My shoulders tighten the closer I get to pack land, though nostalgia stirs, mixed with longing for something I never found there and never will.I grew up here, learning to shift with the pack, but I never belonged the way they expected.I pass a battered sign that reads “Wilson Pack Grounds.Authorized Wolves Only,” which always makes me roll my eyes.My father’s father posted that sign decades ago, paranoid about outsiders.
I follow a dirt road to the main compound, which is an old lodge surrounded by cabins.Cars line the gravel lot, and wolves from various branches are already inside.A pang of anxiety hits me, but I park, stepping out to greet the faint smell of pine.Birdsong merges with distant chatter from the lodge.I stand there, breathing in the forest air and remembering how I used to run here at dawn before heading to human school.
I walk up the lodge steps, and the wooden porch creaks.Two older wolves nod politely, but I see the flicker of disapproval in their eyes.They probably heard about my “human job” through the gossip chain.I muster a polite nod back and step inside.
The main hall brims with conversation.I keep to the perimeter, ignoring a few halfhearted attempts at small talk.Someone tries to ask me about “the big city,” but I slip past, scanning for Aunt Eleanor.I spot her across the room, an elegant figure with silver-streaked hair pinned in a neat bun.She’s deep in conversation with a cluster of middle-aged wolves, calmly flipping through an old genealogical ledger.
She sees me and excuses herself, gliding over.Relief floods me.She’s the only one who genuinely seems happy I’m here.She opens her arms, and I step into a quick, warm hug.Then we step aside, away from the throng.
