Page 20 of Knotty New Year

This must be what it looked like to fight the true mate bond.

“You’re perfect, princess…” he began. But I knew, no matter what he said now, no matter how he tried to dress it up in platitudes about me having my whole life ahead of me—of how it wasn’t me, it was him—the truth of it was clear.

I wasn’t enough for him. I was a young, immature, uneducated girl. Not a fit mate at all.

“You don’t need to take care of Benjamin,” he said softly. “I’ll watch him. If you want to come down for lunch…” He trailed off and departed.

I didn’t cry when he left. I was numb, and I knew that staying that way was all that might save me.

Sometime around noon, I heard snowplows and trucks. I put my mother’s clothes back on and gathered my purse, stuffing the socks I’d missed in my nest deconstruction into the bottom of the bag. I kissed Benny on the head, nodding tersely to Pax as he held the front door wide.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t… what you expected,” I said stiffly. His eyes dropped to my hands, and I realized I was clutching my tote so tightly that my knuckles were white, to keep from grabbing him.

“You certainly weren’t,” was all he said, but his eyes were filled with so many emotions, it was hard to tell what he felt.

In an hour, I was home, with my parents fussing and worrying about where I’d run off to.Mom pulled me into a hug. “Anyone could have hurt you, sweetheart!”

“Anyone did,” I mumbled into her hand-knitted Christmas sweater. I knew there would be one just like it under the tree for me.

“Want some mulled wine, birthday girl?” Dad called from the den.

“Great idea,” I called back, impressed at how normal my voice sounded. If I was lucky, I’d be able to stay numb until I was alone.

Mom pinched my cheek as she went past. “Pale, you look too pale. Come open your birthday presents, then go to bed early, maybe? We’re having the Vanderwalls over tomorrow for Christmas!”

I stifled a curse, and went for the wine. A lot of wine. I managed to stay numb for almost twelve hours. Only sixty or so more years to go.

* * *

Mulled wine hangovers were brutal.

The only thing worse was throwing up mulled wine at two in the morning after your twenty-fifth birthday, reliving the exact moment your true mate rejected you.

The only thing worse than that was your mom being there, holding your hair back and listening to every detail of the rejection.

I’d had to lock her out of my room to get away from her maternal rage. Migraines and shouting did not go together. At eight a.m., my phone pinged at seven million decibels next to my head. I managed to find it, swiped past the two hundred missed calls and the birthday greetings, and read the only texts that mattered.

Rain: Your mom called. CALL ME

Rain: CALL ME CALL ME

Rain: Your mom told me what happened. I texted Soleil. Let your mom in.

Soleil: Rain texted this morning. I’m coming home.

Rain: Your mom is going to call the fire department to chop down your door.

Soleil: ACK it’s Christmas. No flights out until tomorrow. NO DESPAIR ALLOWED

Rain: On my way over.

Rain: I’m outside.

Before I knew what was happening, I’d dragged myself to the door and Rain was in my bedroom, hugging me awkwardly. Rain almost never hugged anyone, so I appreciated the effort. My stomach was sloshing, and my head spinning, and the final bit of the mulled wine numbness wore off in an instant.

“Tell me everything, Candy,” she said, and I did. When I was done, she stayed silent for a long moment, then demanded, “Say that last part again.” She handed me a glass of orange juice that had appeared somewhere between me telling her about the nest I’d built, and me pulling his dirty socks out of my purse and practically stuffing them into my nostrils.

“The part about not being enough for him?” My nose was so snotty, I could hardly understand myself.

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