Page 9 of Not My Mate

Chapter 2

Lost hopes

"Are you okay, honey?" asked my mom on the other end of the phone. "We never hear from you lately."

"I'm fine." I tried to hold the cell phone gingerly, wondering if I was getting dirty, smudged fingerprints on it. It had been a gift from my parents. It was an expensive one, I knew that, but I didn't really like using phones at all. My parents were the only ones with the number. I never used the phone except to talk to them. Sometimes I forgot to keep it charged. But so far, I hadn't dropped this one. They would replace it if I did, of course — they were always giving me expensive gifts, trying to take care of me, or fix me — but it would be embarrassing.

"Do you need anything, Charlie?" I could hear the concern in my mother's voice. She'd never stopped thinking I was fragile and needed to be taken care of. Maybe she was right about the fragile part, but money had never fixed me before and probably wasn't going to start now.

"I'm fine, Mom. Sorry. I've been busy."

"Are you...doing well?"

I shifted the phone slightly, trying to get into a more comfortable position with it. If I could see and smell whoever I was talking to, it was so much less robotic and strange. I couldn't get comfortable on the phone, even with Mom, whose expression of concern I could clearly imagine. Most people didn't seem to have this problem. Was it a wolf thing? Or just another way I was weird?

Mom never knew how to talk to me about what had happened. She blamed herself, I know, but I didn't. The man who had groomed and used me had not given any warning signs, at least none that we ever caught. Mom didn't even find out until years later, when the man was arrested for another crime he had committed. She couldn't believe it — neither could Dad — but when they spoke to me about it, it all came out. Too late to fix. Whatever damage had been done, was done. The counseling they'd sent me to hadn't helped much, either. Mostly, I just wanted to forget I'd ever been dumb enough to think an adult loving a child was normal or okay, or was real love at all.

Learning that I'd been groomed had been one of the worst parts of the whole thing. I'd known something wasn't right, but I'd trusted my feelings, and the things he'd told me had pushed aside any doubts. Learning how stupid and awful and ultimately damaging it had been for me had also taught me that I could never trust my feelings again, or anyone who expressed interest in me. It was true that I was no longer a child and probably had better judgment than I'd had back then. Also, who tries to groom and use an adult man? Not many people, I'd bet.

But I still couldn't trust anyone, not really. I hadn't had a proper relationship since then, because I just didn't want to bother. I didn't want to risk something and find out I was even more broken than I knew. The one man I'd thought I loved had turned out to be the worst sort of person — a predator of the young — and I'd never fucking guessed until the steps he'd gone through had been pointed out to me in great detail.

My illusions now stripped away, I was left with not just the hurt of that confusing relationship and that mixed-up time in my life, but also with the knowledge that I'd been a fool. The things I'd thought I'd decided for myself — that I was old enough, it was time, this was real — had all been manipulated. Faked. He'd known just what to say to make me feel real and special and grown up — and he'd gotten what he wanted for as long as he wanted. If he hadn't been arrested later, I doubt I'd ever have told my parents. I'd have taken that confusing secret to my grave.

And I wouldn't have had to go to counseling and learn what an idiot I was.

Maybe I would have been just as much of a mess as ever. But I wouldn't have known the truth; there must be some solace in that. Just living a messed-up life, not having to know how duped and stupid you'd been.

Ah, I was foolish for even thinking these things. Of course I'd been fortunate to have the resources my parents could provide. Of course they'd meant well by sending me to counseling. If it hadn't helped, that wasn't their fault, or Sahil's. It was probably mine — another thing I didn't want to think about.

"Do you need any money?" asked Mom, sounding cautious and wary. She seemed to think she was insulting me with the offer, but I wasn't insulted. People could be odd about money. Somehow it hadn't stuck, for me, that wariness and hesitation about it. The need for lots of it, or anger about not having enough.

Perhaps because I'd never had to worry about such things. My parents had always been there if I needed anything, even if I wanted anything, but at the same time, I mostly preferred inexpensive activities, like running through the woods as my wolf self, or fixing engines with my human hands. It was during these times that I felt the most alive, the most real and competent.

"I'm fine," I said, because I was. The job paid, and I spent little. I didn't even pay rent because I lived here, in the house or the garage, depending on whether or not Grant Ralstead was here. I was secure enough, and I didn't feel like I was lacking anything.

Except a heart that can love anyone but Sahil. And Sahil, of course. I'm lacking him, too.

I knew if I told Mom, she'd try to get him for me, too. She'd tell me I should try to tell him how I felt, or something silly like that. But she'd never understand how hopeless it was, and that I couldn't even try. It would be wrong.

My parents had always taught me to go after what I wanted, that the sky was the limit. I think they were disappointed that I'd turned out not to be much of a go-getter. I'd been contented too easily; I would never be a captain of industry or a leader of any sort.

"How are things at home?" I asked, and I could tell it was the right question because she cheered right up. Referring to their place as "home" made her happy, and she had a lot to tell me as well. I listened carefully, taking in the names and ages of their new rescue dogs, the funny things they'd done and were doing, and Dad's upcoming wedding speech for one of his golf buddies' third wedding.

"He's been practicing and practicing," she told me with a laugh. "It wouldn't surprise me if the speech ends up lasting longer than the marriage!"

I couldn't help but laugh a little, too. Perhaps not a very nice thing to say, but Dad's buddies were notorious for going through wives. I was always surprised that my parents had stayed together through thick and thin. It wasn't a very fashionable choice in their circle. Any fundraising event you'd see them at, though, it was always the two of them, arm in arm, glittering and sparkling with class and wealth and their love for each other.

They'd survived childless years, then adopting me, and much more. They were two of the few who'd made it through all the bad stuff and still clung to each other instead of running away from each other.

What would that be like, to have someone you loved and wanted to keep forever?

I had always felt alone. My parents loved me, and had tried their best, but I was very much a cuckoo in the nest. I'd been clumsy, grubby, and extremely shy when I was small. I was never going to fit in with the wealthy people I'd grown up around. Expensive schools and clothes and haircuts couldn't really change who I was. I'd grown up into an inarticulate loner who fiddled around with engines and wished desperately that he didn't have to be around people at all.

The first wolf I ever saw, aside from myself in the mirror, was a non-shifter in a zoo environment. I remember standing outside the cage, staring and staring, fascinated. I'd have stayed all day if I could have. The wolf noticed me, too. I don't know how much he understood, but he kept watching me more than anyone else. I felt so special.

Meeting my first wolf shifter had to wait till I was older. I never really got to know many at all. Those I did know, I didn't have close friendships with, and I'd never even tried to join a pack. The idea of more mingling and crowds and not fitting in once again made me break out in a cold sweat. No, I was clearly a lone wolf. I barely got along with Russ even though we worked together, and I absolutely could not stand Grant Ralstead. My contact with other wolves was minimal.

As I listened to my mother's enthusiasm about their new rescue dogs, I wondered (not for the first time) if adopting dogs had been more emotionally rewarding for my parents than adopting me. They loved me, but I'd been confusing to them, and they'd never really known what to do with me. Everything they could give me hadn't been enough to keep me from being a lonely, awkward, miserable boy — and apparently easy pickings for a predator, too.