Kiley

I walk with my hands in my pockets.

Well, he walks with his hands in his pockets. I'm just observing.

This is a cute, well-maintained apartment complex. Looks like there are hundreds of units. My soulmate walks along the sidewalk underneath cherry trees in full, soft pink bloom. He looks down at the ground, trying to avoid stepping on the fallen flowers. He walks with the parking lot on his right side, so he can't hear it. A car drives by. His working left ear hardly registers it.

He walks up to a door set into a small porch alcove. Facing the door he knocks on leaves another door of the complex directly behind him. I don't like this, either. This vulnerability. It scares me as much as it drives me insane.

A young Black woman with a fantastically intricate pattern of cornrows answers the door. Her hair is short beyond the curving rows, which are formed into pleasing circular shapes that remind me of the cherry blossoms. Her body is slender and fit, her long fingernails beautifully manicured. Her eyes glow with a maternal love when she looks up at him.

Warmth fills my soulmate's chest. He is happy to see this woman.

"Hey, sweetie. He's not home now, but he should be back soon. You can wait for him," the woman offers, stepping back. I feel his mouth twitch into a quick smile of thanks. I don't think he talks much.

His entire body relaxes when he steps into the apartment. A warm, fuzzy feeling of comfort and safety buzzes through his body.

The woman walks to the kitchen of the cozy apartment. "You can wait in his room, if you want."

"That's okay," my soulmate says.

My mind nearly splits in half at this first instance of hearing my soulmate's voice. He can hardly hear himself talk. He can only feel the rumble in his chest and the movements of his mouth. He hears his voice as though he's underwater.

His eyes lock on a bottle of water on the table. "Could I have a drink?" he asks. I feel his thirst as though it were my own. Product of wearing a sweatshirt in July. But this apartment is heavily air-conditioned. It's almost freezing.

"Sure," the woman says from the kitchen. I hear a cupboard clatter as I watch his hand reach for the bottle. He takes a deep swig of it just as the woman appears in the entryway to the kitchen with a glass in hand. I notice her expression of alarm just as I register the taste in his mouth.

"Don't-" she starts, reaching for him.

My soulmate recoils, his throat seizing against the fluid on his tongue. He drops the bottle, cupping his hand to his mouth, trying not to vomit. The revulsion I feel from his body makes me think the bottle was filled with vodka. It burns like vodka.

But there is a flavor among the awful, sickened burning consuming his mouth, throat and tummy. The flavor of brine, of salt.

"Go puke, Ollie," the woman says, grabbing his shoulders to pull him down the hallway. My love, whose name I barely register to be Ollie among the sickness, stumbles to fall before the toilet. He pukes up the saltwater, his abdominal muscles seizing, his eyes stinging.

Over it all, he's embarrassed. His face burns beyond the exertion of vomiting. He wants the woman in the doorway to go away, to not witness this.

But she doesn't. She flushes the toilet and gives him the glass of tap water and wets a cool washcloth, gently dabbing away the sweat on his forehead.

"Low sodium," she explains. "I put a supplement in my water."

Ollie doesn't care why there was saltwater in the bottle. He just wants her to stop looking at him. "I'm okay," he mumbles, downing the fresh water. The cool, flavorless fluid eases the burning and satisfies his worsened thirst. He ducks away from the woman's attempt to dab at his forehead with the washcloth again. "I... I think I'll go wait in Marcius's room. I'm tired."

"Okay, honey. I'll bring you some toast and some more water," the woman says. She stands up and offers him a hand to help him to his feet, but he has already pulled himself up using the side of the bathtub. The woman leaves him be and he drifts down the hallway to a bedroom.

Ollie is comfortable in this room. He lays on the bed as though it were his own. His eyes glaze over art prints of oceanic paintings and figures of Egyptian mythology like he has seen them a thousand times before. His gaze settles on a high-end gaming PC in the corner. Custom-built, it looks like. I think he wants to use it, but is too tired.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts a contact simply labeled Marcius. Where are you?

Marcius doesn't respond. Not even as the woman returns to set a plate of buttered toast and a large glass of ice water on the desk. "Unsalted butter," she says with a teasing but reassuring smile.

"Thank you," Ollie says. He sits up before he holds his phone up for the woman to see. "Where's Marcius? He's not answering."

"Working, I think," the woman says.

Ollie says nothing. The woman, seemingly used to this, leaves him alone again.

Ollie looks up a store. Silver and Salt. The name is familiar to me.

How do I know it?

Ollie's gaze focuses on a confirmation that the store is closed. He calls Marcius's phone. No one answers.

He doesn't leave a voicemail. He tosses the phone aside as he reaches for the toast and water. He eats the toast slowly, probably not wanting to overwhelm his stomach. The gentle, almost sweet flavor helps soothe his fried taste buds.

When he finishes the toast, he lays back down on the bed. He's still so exhausted. I don't understand why.

Sleep comes for him easily.

***

When I wake, I ache for him. Now I have a name to put to the quiet, shy boy who will become my whole life.

Ollie.

I hug my pillow, wishing it was him. He looks so nice to hug, his body long and warm beneath the sweatshirt. I imagine wrapping my arms around his waist, burying my face in his shoulder. Feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

Pain laces me. I want him so badly.

I look at my alarm clock. It's eight o'clock in the morning. Probably too early to call Clareese, whose number Maria gave to me last night.

I call her anyway.

"Hello?" she asks. It is so easy for me to have conversations on the phone. It must be so hard for poor Ollie.

"Hello. It's Kiley Hawkins. Maria gave me your number. I didn't wake you up, did I?" I ask, sitting up. My room is a big, beautifully furnished, disorganized mess. Just the way I like it. Never have to search for clothes when most of them are laying on armchairs and ottomans.

"Oh, no. I've been up since sunrise. What's up?" she asks in a bright, chipper voice.

I think for a moment. "A member of my pack has been experiencing something strange. I wanted to get your opinion."

"That's what I'm here for, alpha," she tells me.

"Have you heard of someone with alpha blood having visions of their mate? Before their birthday?" I ask, hoping my voice is professional enough that she won't know I'm talking about myself.

She knows. I've heard many things about Clareese, and her intelligence was one of the highest-praised things about her. She knows this is about me, but she is polite enough to maintain the act.

"Well, it's a bit funny you ask," Clareese says. "A few days ago, I had a Skype meeting with NALA's Lycanthrope Witchcraft Committee regarding strange occurrences in wolves. We were discussing which we wanted to pursue. Having first-person visions of someone's mate was one of the things we discussed."

I jolt. No way.

"And what was the cause?" I ask.

"We don't know. We actually decided against pursuing it further in favor of researching more pressing things. But I can put it back on the table if you'd like, alpha. Or do my own research."

I pause. I don't want to give orders to members of Maria's pack.

"Oh, and I've been given free academic reign by my alpha," Clareese adds, seeming to sense my reservations. "Because anything I learn could benefit our pack. Having a direction to go in would be nice."

I decide. "Yes, Clareese, if you have the time, could you look into it?"

"Of course," she says sweetly. The pauses for a moment. "That aside... Kiley, how are you doing?"

She no longer speaks to me as though I am an alpha. Now she speaks as though we are both the teenage girls we are.

I sense a friend in Clareese. It would be easy for her to kiss my ass and keep me at arm's length. But she cares about me.

"I want to change my name. I want to cut off my hair," I say dully. "Get Kirk to tattoo me. Get weird piercings. Something."

"Body alteration is a way we regain control," Clareese tells me. "For decades, women have rebelled against outside influence and maintained control over themselves by changing their appearances. As coping mechanisms go, it's a pretty harmless one. But I'd advise against cutting your hair. It's so pretty. Want to dye it instead?"

I consider this. "I don't know how to dye hair."

I hear the smile in her voice. "I do. Go eat breakfast, then text me when you're done. Let's go a beauty supply store."

With everything going on, I want to dye my hair. I expected Clareese to scorn me for such a vain pursuit. Instead, she is allying herself with me in my fight against this downward spiral.

I smile. "Sounds awesome."

***

I follow my nose down the stairs, to the kitchen of the packhouse. Jose is alone in the kitchen. He sings softly to himself as he cooks. I don't recognize the scent, but I think it is some kind of meat.

I don't know why Jose is alone. He shouldn't be. It's breakfast time. The wide, industrial kitchen should be full of people making their own food.

Jose catches sight of me and smiles as he continues to sing in Spanish. He nods me over to the counter island. I sit and listen to the sound of his singing. His voice isn't particularly melodic, but it's comforting. I wonder if he sang to Luis when he was younger.

Jose serves me a dish I don't recognize. He doesn't speak as he sips a mug of coffee and washes the dishes he made with his cooking. He just keeps singing. When my plate is empty, he washes that, too.

"You look better," he finally says.

"Thank you," I say, both to the compliment and to the plate he washes.

"You're welcome, Kiley," he replies. He looks at me for a moment and I think he's going to say something wise.

Instead, he smiles silently, giving me a chance to speak. I can't think of any words good enough to express my gratitude. But I don't think I need words to tell him how much this meal means to me.

"Have a good day, Kiley," he says after a few long moments.

I manage to return his smile. "You, too, Jose."

His smile refreshes and he walks out of the kitchen. I sit there for a moment before realizing I should text Clareese about our plans to meet up at the store.

Someone joins me, creeping out of a hallway. "Kiley? Was that Jose Delgado?" a boy asks me. Once upon a time we were classmates. Once upon a time, we had our first kiss in the forest surrounding the packhouse, before either of us understood that I should wait for my mate. We were only nine. I thought I would marry him. Now I can hardly remember his name.

"Yeah," I say. I smile at him. "He's helping me."

***

I couldn't decide on a hair color, so I gave Clareese my debit card and went to wait in my car, giving her free reign. She follows me back to the packhouse, and then up to my bathroom. I sit on the toilet lid and look at the bag in her hands, curious about the color she chose, but she grins at me as she holds the bag shut.

"I have an idea," she says.

She blindfolds me as she dyes my hair. We speak about the sorts of things of things teenagers do. TikTok and new music, romantic experiences and plans for college. I didn't know I still had the brainpower for such trivial things.

She styles my newly dyed hair before she allows me to see it.

"Now, I think you look amazing," she says, her voice warm with excitement, ready to take off the blindfold she taped to my face. "But if you hate it, I bought black dye to cover it up."

I smile as she removes the blindfold and stand from my stool in my bathroom to look at myself in the mirror.

My hair is a gloriously dark, bloody red. The color isn't bright or obnoxious. In fact, it's just a few shades away from the natural rust red some people are born with. It makes my eyebrows look darker, my blue eyes more colorful. It brings out the natural blush of my lips. When my hair shifts, the glossy strands reflect rays of light and glisten crimson.

I used to look like a little girl. Now I look like a fearsome predator woven from miserable nightmares. I'm beautiful, yes, but for the first time, my appearance seems to reflect the depth of my mind and the weight I carry there.

Clareese doesn't ask if I like it. She recognizes the pure joy in my gaze as I study myself, my hands running along my new hair, unable to fully believe that it is mine. She rests her hands on my shoulders and beams.

"You look amazing," she says happily.

I feel like a new person. It feels like a surrender to allow myself to be so changed by some chemicals in my hair, but I don't judge myself. I will let myself have this victory. I will let myself feel beautiful.

"I look like an alpha," I say, swallowing.

"You look like you always have. This just lets you see yourself differently," Clareese corrects me.

I turn and hug her. She wraps me up in an embrace and I soak in her hug, letting myself enjoy the feeling of having a friend.

"Kiley, what was your father's name? Before he married your mother?" Clareese asks.

"Calloway," I say.

Clareese pulls away from me. "I think Kiley Calloway is a wonderful name."

A growing peace swells in me. I will always be my mother's daughter, but my name doesn't need to pay tribute to the sins of a failed alpha.

I feel myself strengthen. I will be Kiley Calloway.

"Alpha Calloway," Clareese says respectfully, stepping back and bowing her head briefly. "Clareese Gatewood at your service. I suggest you do one last thing before we find your mate."