Still Me
But she's right. My bladder is staging a revolt, probably from the three glasses of ceremonial wine I downed for liquid courage. The wine tastes like fermented berries and regret, but it's doing wonders for my confidence levels.
The bathroom is an old outhouse near the elder lodge. It smells like cedar and ancient trauma and that pine-scented disinfectant that somehow makes everything smell worse. The walls are covered in decades of pack graffiti—initials carved into wood, mating announcements, crude drawings that would make a middle schooler proud.
I do my business, trying not to look too closely at the mysterious stains on the floor, then turn to the cracked mirror hanging above the tiny sink. My reflection looks back at me: flushed cheeks, slightly wild hair, mascara that's somehow migrated south despite being "waterproof," and eyes bright with wine-fueled determination.
I give myself a mini pep talk in the cracked mirror—"You are mate material. You are majestic. You are not sweating through your shirt"—though the pit stains suggest otherwise. I adjust the moon pendant, fluff my hair, and practice my "surprised but pleased" expression for when Caleb inevitably feels the mating bond snap into place.
Then I step outside and into destiny.
The night air hits my overheated skin like a blessing. The temperature dropped while I was inside, and now there's that crisp bite that means autumn is really here. Stars scatter across the sky like spilled diamonds, and the almost-full moon hangs overhead like a cosmic spotlight.
I see Caleb.
Alone.
Standing by the main fire, looking contemplative and hot and very much like someone who needs a mate to emotionally balance him.
The firelight turns his hair copper and gold, and he's staring into the flames with that brooding expression that makes me want to write terrible poetry. His shoulders are relaxed for once, not carrying the weight of future leadership, and there's something almost vulnerable about his posture.
This is it. This is the moment I've been waiting for.
I inhale deeply, tasting woodsmoke and possibility on my tongue.
Walk.
Try to do that sexy, effortless stride I practiced in front of my mirror three times yesterday before tripping on a laundry basket and knocking over my mom's herbs. Hip sway but not too much. Confident but approachable. Mate material in motion.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I close the distance between us. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
Caleb looks up.
Looks at me.
And… oh.
Oh.
He's checking me out.
His eyes scan me head to toe, lingering in places that make my skin burn. There's something different in his expression—less brotherly tolerance, more adult male appreciation. The push-up bra is earning every penny I spent on it.
Then pause.
At my butt.
Ohmygod. OHMYGOD.
He's—HE'S LOOKING AT MY BUTT.
The wine makes everything feel heightened, electric. This is the moment. This is—
"PFFFFFTT—oh my GOD," someone behind me gasps.
The voice cuts through my euphoria like a bucket of ice water.
"What the hell—"
"Is that—"
"Oh no," Amy says, with the unmistakable tone of a best friend realizing it's already too late.
I freeze.
Every muscle in my body locks up as understanding crashes over me like a tidal wave of pure mortification.
My stomach drops.
I whip my head around.
There it is.
Flapping in the breeze.
Clinging to the back of my jeans like a white flag of surrender.
Toilet paper.
A whole strip.
From waistband to mid-thigh.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Visible.
Floating.
Like a goddamn matador's cape inviting a bull to come ruin me.
The toilet paper streams behind me in the evening breeze, probably six feet of quilted shame advertising my bathroom incompetence to the entire pack. It must have tucked itself into my waistband when I adjusted my jeans, and now it's announcing to everyone within a fifty-foot radius that I am a walking disaster.
Laughter erupts.
Packmates. Elders. Children.
Even the Omega puppies are barking.
The sound starts as isolated snickers and builds into a crescendo of pack-wide amusement. Someone's phone camera flashes—because of course someone's documenting this. Mrs. Rodriguez is actually crying with laughter, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. The teenagers are pointing and nudging each other, and I can already hear the nickname forming: "TP Julia."
I hear someone gasp-laugh, "She's got a TP TAIL!" and I know. I know I will never recover from this. This will be written into the history scrolls. The Beta's daughter, future warrior, deliverer of toilet paper-based shame.
Somewhere in the crowd, I catch a glimpse of Amy pushing through people, her face a mask of secondhand embarrassment and loyal determination to reach me.
But it's too late.
Caleb—still staring, eyes wide—makes a sound.
He's trying not to laugh.
His lips twitch. His shoulders shake slightly.
He fails.
He snorts.
Actually snorts, like a teenager trying to hold back in church, and the sound hits me harder than any outright laughter could have.
And that's it.
I bolt.
I full sprint into the woods, my face burning with shame so intense it probably glows in the dark. The toilet paper finally breaks free somewhere behind me, probably floating to the ground like a white flag of my social death.
I trip on a root, my ankle twisting as I go down hard on one knee. The pain shoots up my leg, sharp and immediate, but I roll, push myself back up, and keep running. My palms scrape against bark and stone, and I can feel the sting of broken skin, but nothing hurts worse than the sound of that laughter following me into the trees.
Because there's no recovering from this.
Not in this lifetime.
Not even if I do wake up mated to Caleb tomorrow.
(Which now feels deeply unlikely.)