Page 123 of Such Sharp Teeth

I suspect I’m annoying Scarlett.

It’s the Q-tip dust of the baseboards that gets her.

“Enough,” she says. “You need to hold still. You’re stressing me out.”

I go upstairs and hide in my room, delve into work emails. Most people are out of the office this week, but whoever didn’t take off probably regrets it now, as I micromanage while still technically on leave.

Mia messages me the day before the party to ask if I’m going.

Still undecided. You?

What else is there to do??

I respond with a contemplative emoji and leave it at that. Usually, I’m all about New Year’s Eve. I always find someone to kiss at midnight. Some beautiful stranger at some exclusive party downtown with good music and expensive champagne. I wear some glittery dress and my faux-fur coat—ha-ha—and my hair in an elaborate updo. There’s this energy in the city on New Year’s Eve, this electricity. It’s glorious.

I find the edges of these memories have frayed, gone sepia toned. My life in the city, who I was there, it’s in the past, and I feel surprisingly at peace with this.

I remember something Scarlett said at the cemetery. Once I stopped thinking about what my life wasn’t going to be, I started to see what it could be.

I could attempt to arrange a remote-work situation or maybe branch out on my own. Freelance for a while. Find a house nearby and fix it up. Start going to Lowe’s on a regular basis. Put up funky wallpaper and learn woodworking. Take up gardening. Host dinner parties for Scarlett and Matty and Ash and Seth. Make cheese boards. I could spend time with my niece, spoil her with toys.

I could go back to hooking up with random Kevins at bars if I wanted, though I don’t think I will.

I could build a special werewolf shed or finish off a section of my basement with legit Hannibal Lecter–style restraints, no more flimsy handcuffs or dog crates. It isn’t fair that I have to live with this, but I have to live.

I’m resilient.

My strength doesn’t come from the bad things that have happened to me. It defies those things.

It’ll be all right. No matter what, I’ll be all right.

I close my laptop and set it on my nightstand, shut my eyes, and fall asleep.

—

Scarlett wakes me by knocking on my door. She opens it without waiting for a response.

“Smells lovely in here,” she says, pulling back the curtains to let some light in. “What are you doing?”

“Well, I was sleeping.”

“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Are you really not going to the party?”

“Can I continue to put off the decision until the last minute?”

“It is the last minute.”

I groan.

I guess if I’m going to try to build a new life here, I’m going to have to rip off the Ian Band-Aid at some point.

“I’ll help you get ready,” Scarlett says.

“Yeah, okay. What the hell?” I say, acting casual even though the thought of seeing Ian sends a fiery chunk of bile rocketing up my throat. I swallow it back down.

Scarlett does my hair and makeup, plucks my eyebrows, files and paints my nails. It’s an absurdly long primping process. She dresses me in a backless, long-sleeved black minidress.

“I miss fitting into my clothes,” she says when I model the finished product.