He had made no conscious decision to go visit her. It was simply a spur of the moment idea, occurring to him as he swallowed down a piece of bread in the morning-lit kitchen. In the blink of an eye, he found himself putting his shoes on and hitting the streets, footsteps retracing the path he'd walked after leaving the surreal, dream-like home of the woman he had slept with. It was that murky shelter that he sought out now, his eyes still tired from lack of sleep. He wasn't sure how he would be received: slap on the face? an arrangement for 'next time'? no one opening the door? Clayton had never dealt with a situation like this before; it was all a mystery to him.
Soon, he arrived at that familiar brick building, cosy-looking and innocent. He was about to knock when he stopped short; he could smell others in the vicinity. He took a step back from the door and stared up at the second floor; Elena had roommates, and they were probably sleeping, but the last thing he wanted to do was attract attention.
He sneaked around to the back of the house, where he knew was Elena's room. He peeked in through a window and, sure enough, saw her lying in bed, dark hair obscuring her face.
(It was an effort, not to envision Violet sleeping there.)
It was enough to stir her. With a few more insistent knocks on the window pane, Elena spotted him, and instantly she froze. Clayton drew his hand away from the glass, unable to read the look spreading over her face. Relief coupled with indecision and shock, melting into helplessness and guilt. Should he have come? He made to step away, disappear back into the woods where he belonged, but before he could do so she clambered out of bed and slid the window open.
"Hi." Her voice was still painted with sleep, though her eyes were alert. She was dressed in a large t-shirt and pyjama shorts. Her breasts made the shirt tent and fall loosely around her figure.
"I didn't want to wake your roommates."
A smile briefly lifted her features. Amusement: oh Clayton. But it flickered and vanished, like a dying flashlight. Something was wrong; the energy and youth she'd offered him was absent. He could smell it. Was it simply because he was here? "Climb in." She put her hand on his arm and helped him in, leaving the window open behind him to let in some air.
Now that he was inside, Clayton realised he was lost for words. It was stupid to have come here. What could he say to her? I had a good time that night, but it wasn't personal. It didn't mean anything to me. How are you?
And just as he was about to speak, she beat him to it: "Clayton, I need to say something."
"Oh." Here it was. She was going to tell him that it had only been a one-night stand, that she really didn't need to see him, that he'd wasted his trip. They could stay in touch, sure, be friends, fine—
"Don't get mad, please? I didn't know until a few days after you left and I've been trying to find you—" Why were there tears in her eyes?
"I'm so, so sorry, Clayton, but I'm pregnant. It's your baby. Ours."
A second passed, and the first thing that came out his mouth was a laugh. High and abrupt and ridiculous. The blood was being drained from his brain. He could not think. "What?" Again, that demented half-laugh, like someone drowning and gagging on sick, oily water. The wind sucked right out of him.
"Stop it." Furious tears glistened in Elena's eyes, rolling down her cheeks. "I'm carrying your child, and - and I'm going to have it. I thought you should know."
Ice particles crusting his blood vessels. When had his knees started trembling? Another laugh bubbled in his throat, but this time it caught there, snagged on disbelief, frozen stock-still and strangling his cowardly voice. Elena took a step toward him, and as she wrapped her arms around his waist, he realised she was scared and sorry. Maybe he was too. Maybe he wasn't. He was suddenly suspended and grounded, lost and clarified. Thoughts everywhere at once yet his mind was numb, a sea of fog and shock. Couldn't even lift his arms to hold her as she pressed herself closer, again seeking comfort from his useless shell. There were sleeping persons above them oblivious to the storm beneath. A world away.
"Clayton." Her voice was feather-soft and shivery on his ear. "I think…I think someone—another werewolf—he wants to hurt me." She was crying again. Hot tears pooling in his shirt, on his skin, salty and sticky. "I don't know what to fucking do. I mean, without the baby, I wouldn't be so…but—" a raspy gasp "—I'm scared he'll do something.
"I know you're a good man. Please. If - If you don't want the baby…I'm not asking you to be a father. But just help me, please. I don't know what to do."
Perfumed shampoo and bedsheets and pine trees through the window. Yet still he felt cold. Pinpricks everywhere, in his bones and edging into his heart. Elena's ragged breaths, silently beseeching, waiting, needing…
I'm not asking you to be a father.
But just help me.
Please.
