“Fuck,” I shout, throwing my hands up over my eyes. I leave them there, breathing into my wrists.

I allow my left hand to come down, let it slowly drop.

The wolf is still there. There, with one eye covered. Like me.

I step away from the mirror, and it does, too.

Its lips curl. My lips curl. It growls.

I growl.

I watch myself growl. Teeth bared. Face desiccated. Hateful.

I’m transfixed. Horrified.

And I’m alone now. Just me. Growling. Alone.

“This is bullshit,” I snap.

I get it. I understand. The wolf will always be there in the mirror. The wolf is me. My second face.

I turn away from my reflection and step into the shower. I turn the water all the way hot, then all the way cold. I wait for my fists to unclench, for my spine to unwind. I wait to calm down.

I don’t think it’s going to happen for me. It’s one of those days. My mood has been ordained. I’m a wretch.

I towel off and blow-dry my hair. It doesn’t take long. It’s thick and shiny and perfect. My lashes dark and curled, no mascara required. Lycanthropy is good for something, I guess.

I clip my nails, which has now become a daily requirement; otherwise it’s like I’ve got on stiletto acrylics. There have been several unfortunate incidents including accidental scratches and a severe eye poke. Also makes it challenging to masturbate.

After carefully considering everything in my closet, I select a fitted navy dress with a cowl neck and long sleeves. I put my white satin blazer on over it and pair it with my rose gold heels.

I feel like myself again, like the person I was before I left the city. The person who woke up at four thirty a.m. for prework Pilates and wore high heels and jewelry and perfume, who drank green juice. A person who didn’t sleep all day and hoard bags of beef jerky in their nightstand drawer.

I find some gold jewelry in my case. A pair of chunky hoops and a delicate necklace with, ironically, a moon charm. Fuck it. Why not?

I put it on.

All dressed up for . . . Party City.

I sneak out of the house before Scarlett can see me and ask me why I look nice. It’s sad that my looking nice is now cause for suspicion, but I suppose I’ve earned it, since lately I’ve been couch fuzz incarnate.

It’s too early to pick up the balloons, so I drive around for a while, listening to the band that Ian recommended. I’ve been doing my best not to think about him, but my best isn’t good enough. I want to hate this band, but I don’t. I really love them. Upbeat indie rock, a raspy-voiced singer, solid lyrics.

Ian knows my taste. We used to make each other playlists back in high school. I still listen to some of them.

I sit in the parking lot of Party City with my head on the steering wheel, stewing in my bad mood. I decide this is all Matty’s fault. If he’d never left, I wouldn’t have had to come here, and I wouldn’t have been bitten. I hope he never comes back around. If I ever see him again, I might kill him.