Page 99 of The Knotheads Next Door
His words hit something raw and tender inside me. The truth is, I've been running for so long—from my confusing biology, from intimacy, from the risk of being hurt. It's so much easier to leave before you can be left. To reject before you can be rejected.
"I don't know if I can," I whisper. "I don't know if I'm brave enough."
"You're the bravest person I know, Bunny," he says with such conviction it makes my throat tight. "Always have been. Even as a little girl, you faced things head-on while the rest of us were still figuring out how to react."
Gerald chooses this moment to start attacking my shoelace with the ferocity of a tiny tiger, providing a welcome distraction from the emotions welling up.
"I should go," I tell my dad, watching as Gerald gets his claw stuck in my lace and then acts offended that the shoe dares to follow him when he tries to run away. "I need to figure out what to do about my car. And... everything else."
"Call us anytime," he says. "We're here when you're ready. All of us. Even James, if you want to meet him."
The mention of my biological father sends a jolt of anxiety through me, but it's duller now than it was weeks ago. A problem for another day.
"Thanks, Pops," I say, meaning it. "I'll... I'll think about it."
After we hang up, I sit in silence, absently detangling Gerald from my shoelace for the third time while his little face registers betrayal that I would dare interrupt his mighty conquest.
"What are we going to do now, Gerald?" I ask him. He responds by attempting to climb my shirt like it's Mount Everest, tiny claws finding purchase in places that make me yelp. "Very helpful, thanks."
The logical thing would be to call a tow truck. Or Crystal, to let her know I won't be coming into work tomorrow. Or Lala, who would probably drive out here with a rescue party and enough baked goods to feed a small army.
Instead, I find myself staring at the road leading back to town, to the Victorian house where three alphas are probably relieved that I'm finally gone. The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through me.
A tap on my window makes me jump so hard I nearly dislodge Gerald from his perch on my shoulder. I turn to see my mother standing there, her expression cautiously hopeful.
Great. Just what this breakdown needs—literal and metaphorical maternal oversight.
I roll down the window, not trusting myself to actually get out of the car. "How did you find me?"
"Small town," she says with a small shrug. "Someone at the gas station mentioned a broken-down Tonda with a distraught-looking young woman and a cat. Wasn't hard to connect the dots... also your father texted me."
Of course. In Vineyard Groves, privacy is just a theoretical concept discussed in hushed tones, like Bigfoot or affordable housing.
"Well, as you can see, I'm having a bit of a transportation crisis," I say, gesturing to the still-smoking hood. "So unless you're secretly a mechanic—"
"I came to talk," she interrupts gently. "About everything. Please, Rowan."
Something in her tone—a vulnerability I rarely associate with my practical, capable mother—makes me hesitate. After a moment, I sigh and nod toward the passenger seat.
She settles in beside me, careful not to disturb Gerald, who is now watching her with suspicious kitten eyes from his perch on my shoulder.
"I made a mistake," she says without preamble. "A lot of mistakes, actually. Not telling you about James. Not preparing you for the possibility of late presentation. Not being honest when you started asking questions."
The straightforward admission catches me off guard. My mother has always been loving but rarely apologetic, more likely to show remorse through actions than words.
"Why didn't you?" I ask, the question that's been burning inside me for weeks. "Why keep it a secret for so long?"
She looks down at her hands. "Fear, mostly. Fear that you'd want to know him more than us. Fear that you'd be angry we kept you from him. Fear that you'd feel... different, once you knew the truth."
"I did feel different," I say quietly. "I felt like my whole life was a lie."
"It wasn't," she says, looking up with fierce intensity. "Not the parts that matter. We love you. We've always loved you. That's the truest thing I know."
Gerald, apparently deciding this emotional conversation has gone on long enough without his input, lets out a demanding meow and attempts to leap from my shoulder to my mother'slap. She catches him automatically, her expression softening as he immediately starts purring and making biscuits on her thigh.
"Traitor," I mutter to him, but there's no heat in it.
"He's beautiful," she says, carefully stroking his brown and grey fur. "Dad mentioned you had a kitten now."
