“You don’t have to know,” I say. “You can guess.”
He props one ankle on the opposite knee, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his hand in the air by his face as he regards me carefully, slowly, then glances back out the window, at the moon.
“Of course they do,” he finally says.
“Of course?” I ask. “That’s a lot of certainty for a creature that doesn’t exist.”
“Well, they’re human, right?”
“Sort of.”
“Then of course.”
He pauses, and I feel rather than see his gaze slide from the window to me. In my lap I press my palms together, like that can fight off the heat I feel.
I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have.
But now we’re here and we’re talking about the moon, and I can already tell that in a few hours I’ll be alone in my bed, remembering the way he looked at me.
“You’ve howled at the moon, haven’t you?” he asks, and now he’s looking over at me, a grin on his face.
“Never,” I say.
“Come on, Thalia,” he says, his voice even lower, a cajoling note there, like he already knows the answer and wants me to say it. “Not even once?”
I start to laugh.
“I swear I haven’t,” I tell him. “Why on earth would I howl at the moon?”
“Because it’s the moon and it’s right there,” he says. “You’ve never looked up at night and been struck by that wild, primal urge to howl?”
I’m breathless, wordless for a moment, because I can’t help but imagine him outdoors, shirtless, howling at the moon, and I can’t help but want to hear more about his wild, primal urges.
“You have,” I finally say.
“I can’t believe you haven’t,” he says.
“My urges are civilized,” I say, looking back through the window, at the sliver of moon hanging low in the sky.
There’s a long, long pause, and I have the chance to really mull over what I just said and wish I’d said something else instead.
“Are they?” he says at last, and I don’t have an answer, because he’s right and they’re not. They’re wild and primal as anything and it’s all I can do here, now, to take another deep breath and press my hand into the velvet of an antique chair and remind myself where I am, what I’m doing.
There isn’t a night that’s gone by without me lying in bed, thinking of him saying I want to see what you sound like when you come. It’s been almost two weeks and that memory is as potent as ever, tinged with the frustration and allure of wanting what I know I can’t have.
“Do you howl at the moon often?” I ask.
“Not any more.”
“But you did.”
“I’m not sure I should answer your questions,” he says. “You’re going to think I’m a werewolf.”
“That often?” I tease.
“It was a long time ago,” Caleb says, stretching out his arm, resting on it on his knee. “Don’t worry, I’m civilized now.”
My heart beats in my through for one, two, three.
“Are you?” I ask, my voice low, soft.
Caleb gives me a long, slow, searching look.
“When it counts,” he finally says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t howl sometimes.”
Before I can ask when he still howls, my phone buzzes in my dress pocket. Yes, this dress has pockets. All dresses have pockets.
“Sorry,” I say, as my brother Bastien’s name pops up on the screen, and I hit the red button, sending him to voicemail.
“Junk call?”
“Little brother,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket.
“I hear those are annoying,” he says, grinning, and I laugh.
“Sometimes he drunk dials me on the weekends,” I say. “I don’t even know why, it’s not like I’m —”
My phone buzzes again, and I sigh.
“Dammit, kid,” I mutter. “Chill.”
“He’s in school?”
“William and Mary,” I say, shoving my phone into my pocket again, hoping that Bastien moves on to drunk dialing someone else. “It’s not exactly a party hot spot, but he’s having a pretty good time with all the football players who graduate high school and then start questioning their sexuality.”
“Does he help them find answers?” Caleb asks dryly.
“He’s very helpful in that regard,” I say, then sigh, looking out the window again. “And I think he drunk dials me because I’m the only one in the family who knows he’s gay.”
“I see,” Caleb says, just as my phone buzzes one more time.
Bastien. Again. He hasn’t left a voicemail yet, just keeps calling. I flop my head against the back of this chair and sigh.
“Fine, you win,” I say aloud. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”
Caleb just nods as I walk for the door, pulling my phone from my pocket.
“Hey, what?” I ask, facing the far wall of the room we’re in.
On the other end of the phone, there’s a long, long intake of breath, and I frown.
“Did you drunk dial me again?” I ask.