Instead, I circle around to the north side of town and slowly approach the little blue farmhouse that's just at the edge of everything.
I reach the porch and climb up to the front door, and then I sit there for a long time.
Should I knock?
This is stupid.
I should knock, though, right?
Finally, just when I've made up my mind to shift into my human form and knock, the door flies open and two legs appear in front of me.
"For fuck's sake, Foxy," he says. "It's been twenty minutes. Just come inside."
Chapter 2
Brendan
The fact that I haven't seen or spoken to Foxy in five years should be reason enough for me to ignore the fact that she's on my porch, but I can't. Foxy avoids me just as carefully as I avoid her, so the reality is that this must be some sort of emergency.
She's in her fox form, after all, and she wastes no time in darting past my legs, into my house, and hiding under a chair. She’s anxious, and she smells like fear and sadness. Something’s happened to her, apparently, and she chose this place as her refuge. My heart clenches as I realize that she’s had a bad night, and I hate seeing her sad. She’s not my problem anymore, I know. We aren’t dating. We aren’t together. We don’t have any sort of relationship, but she’s scared, and she’s here.
I stare at her for a long time before I finally close my door. I’m not entirely sure what to do, but I’m sure she’ll tell me what’s wrong soon enough. I move into the first-floor bedroom and grab a soft blanket. Then I come back out and gently urge her to come out from under the armchair.
"Come on, Foxy."
She shakes her little fox-face, eyes blinking up at me. Her mouth is clamped shut, but her eyes are wide as she takes everything in.
"I have a blanket," I tell her, carefully trying to coax her.
Foxy has always been very special and very sweet. She's always been what I would consider to be a "good girl."
She's not the kind of girl who gets in trouble.
So why the fuck did she just show up at my house at 10:00 on a Tuesday night?
And why is she in her fox form?
"Foxy, it's time to come out from under the chair."
She shakes her head this time, and I raise an eyebrow.
I really, really didn't want to resort to this. I know how she feels about her full name, but it's time for her to come out, shift back, and tell me what the fuck is going on. Obviously, something - or someone - scared the shit out of her. She's whimpering under a fucking chair. She's scared out of her mind, and I want to comfort her, but I can't do anything until I know what's wrong.
"Felicity Anastasia Martin," I say in my deepest, firmest voice. "Come out from under the chair right now."
I don't add "or else."
We're not lovers anymore.
We don't play silly sex games with each other.
We're broken up.
But using her full name seems to work as far as getting her attention goes, and she slowly, reluctantly, comes out from under the chair.
I hold out the blanket and she crawls into it. I wrap it around her tightly, pick her up, and carry her to the couch. Then I sit down, and I tug her into my lap. Fuck. Even after all of these years, I can't stand her being scared or sad or hurt. Even when I was the one hurting her, I hated knowing that our break-up caused her pain. I hated knowing that what happened between us was something that agitated her: that hurt her.
She shifts back into her human form and she wraps her arms around me and snuggles me, pressing her body against mine. I close my eyes and I just hold her as she starts to sob. These aren't tiny cries, either: they're big, gut-wrenching sobs, and to be honest, they scare me a little bit.