I lower myself to the couch, resigned to spend another night binge watching The Marvelous Miss Maisel and gushing about her clothes.
No. That’s a lie. There’ll be no gushing, not tonight.
What I’m hoping is that there won’t be any tears.
Last night was something. And now it’s gone.
The doorbell rings and my heart leaps out of my chest.
It’s Bren. It must be.
I scramble for the door and open it, choking on my hello.
Bren stands in front me with a bouquet of flowers wrapped in paper and tied with string. He’s in a dress shirt and his best pair of jeans. I beam. Danny must have picked out his clothes.
“Hi,” I say.
My smile fades when I see just how miserable he appears. He hands me the flowers.
“All the magazines said I should bring these,” he mumbles. “Except for Better Homes and Garden. They tried to get me to grow them first. But there was also an article on how to arrange them. If you have a cup or something, I guess I can give it a shot.”
I shut the door behind us and hug him. “Bren, why do you look so sad, love?”
He coughs, at least, I think he does.
I glance up, the extent of his heartache dulling his magnetic soul. This is so much worse than I thought.
“Don’t call me that, Emme.” He looks in the direction of the wooded path, but I doubt he really sees it.
“I’ve been driving for hours,” he admits. “Left my place an hour before I was supposed to be here.”
I clutch the flowers, crinkling the paper. “Why didn’t you come?” I ask.
Bren’s blue eyes, the ones that always reflect his humor, the ones so filled with passion earlier today, and the ones that fill me with joy glisten with grief. “I can’t do this, Emme. Not to you, not to me. I just can’t.” He bows his head. “Trust me when I say, you deserve a lot more than me.”
He turns away, his feet heavy as he makes his way down the steps. It’s good in a way. He doesn’t catch the way my tears soak the petals or sense that awful burn collecting in my throat.
He also doesn’t catch the small smile I manage.
Bren may not be ready for me. But the world is ready for us.
Read on for an excerpt from
A Weird Girls Novel
Cecy Robson
Chapter One
Her name was Celia. I never saw her coming. I didn’t know I’d needed her. But isn’t that how love is supposed to work?
I hop downstairs. I don’t mean I take the steps one or even three at a time. I mean I hop over the railing and leap from the second floor to the first, landing almost silently in a crouch, the backpack on my shoulders barely brushing against my spine.
I’m a were. A wolf to be exact. I can get away with leaping from landings physically, but not so much with my mother.
“Aric,” she calls, turning away from the stove. “You’re a were, not an animal. Take the stairs.”
Dad looks up from reading his paper and smirks. “Listen to your mother, son.”
I return his smirk and walk toward the kitchen. “Yes, sir. Sorry, Mom.”
All eight burners are going on the stove. The smell of several pounds of bacon and more pounds of eggs stirred my senses when Mom first opened the fridge. Yeah, I’m that sensitive to smell, sight, sound, taste, and touch. And at fifteen, I’m always hungry.
I plop down next to my dad, allowing the pack to fall to my side. “Smells good,” I say.
Dad sighs and turns the page. “It always does when your mother’s in there. Not so much when we cook.”
“Nope. We suck,” I agree.
Mom’s laugh draws my smile. My parents are supposed to lay into me and drive me crazy, force me to rebel, and scream at me when I do things they think I shouldn’t. Except, jumping down a flight of stairs and leaving my mostly destroyed clothes on the floor aside, I’m a pretty decent kid with awesome parents.
I reach for the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, yawning a lot louder than I intend. “Sorry,” I say, yawning a second time when I fill my glass.
My knife slices into the butter the second Mom drops several pancakes on my plate. I’m ready to dig in when the scent of fresh buttercream finds my nose. Instead, I blink several times, trying to brush off my fatigue.
I didn’t sleep much last night. My head spun with weird dreams that didn’t make sense. I was wrenched backward and away from her. No…that’s not right. She was ripped from me. They were taking her away from me. Whoever she was. I frown, remembering how bad it tore me up. I tried to hold on, tried to see her face. All I could make out were her delicate hands in mine. She sobbed, afraid to let go, while my eyes burned with rage-filled tears.
I was pissed and sad and…broken, except nothing I felt made sense. I didn’t recognize her and I couldn’t fathom why she meant so much to me.
The only thing I’m sure of is that a part of me left with her. And the way I feel this morning, it’s still missing.
“Are you all right, son?” Dad asks.
I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping my knife until I open my palm and all that’s left is a warped piece of metal. My anger at losing her lingers and I took it out on the stupid knife.
“Sorry. I was…” I was what? Angry that I let some girl I didn’t know go? “I didn’t sleep well,” I admit.
Dad folds his paper and places it aside, closely analyzing me. “Did you sleep with the window open?”
I don’t remember leaving it open, but I nod when I remember how the cool
