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.

“I look okay?”

“Yes,” she says. “You look exceptional.”

I check the mirror. She’s not wrong. “You’d never guess I occasionally kill and consume whole deer.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I say, taking a swig of mouthwash.

“Do you know what you’re going to say to him?”

I spit the mouthwash into the sink, run the faucet for a second. “I’m not going for him. I’m going because it’s New Year’s Eve and it’s my best friend’s party. And I know there will be pigs in a blanket. You know how I love pigs in a blanket.”

“I know,” she says. “Okay. Off you go, then.”

“Off I go. Bye.”

I start walking out of the room, which is hard, because my legs are suddenly rubber.

“Rory,” she calls.

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

“See you next year!” I tell her.

I pull up at nine thirty. The party started at seven. Inside, there are clusters of people everywhere, and I can tell by the volume of conversation that everyone’s already drunk. I can smell the alcohol on their collective breath. I smell too many spritzes of perfume, too-strong cologne. There’s a lack of inhibition, a lack of awareness. These people are disconnected from their bodies; their bodies don’t hold them in a vise grip the way that mine does. They sway happily, free. Unaware of their surroundings. Unworried.