Page 30 of Fate, Interrupted

Henry, who has confidently attributed the invention of the modern lightbulb to Benjamin Franklin, nods solemnly. “I contain multitudes.”

“You contain chaos,” I say.

“Same thing,” Henry says, entirely at peace with this assessment.

I laugh loudly before I can stop it, and a couple of nearby tables glance over. I don’t care because Silas is looking at me sideways with a warmth in his eyes that has nothing to do with the bar lighting. All my pats on the back for handling the Silas situation are doing what they’ve been threatening to do since I walked through the door and found him watching the entrance.

They’re collapsing.

Without any drama whatsoever. Which is worse than if they’d made a scene about it.

“I have a burning question. Can I pick your brain.?”

Silas turns his head toward me. “Pick away.”

“Fated mates,” I say. “Is that real? Or is it wolf mythology? Like the paranormal version of soulmates?”

He takes a drink before he answers. “It’s real.”

“How does it work?”

“The wolf recognizes it first,” he says. “Before the man understands what’s happening. It’s permanent,” he says. “It doesn’t dissolve.”

I turn this over. “Have you ever met yours?”

He looks at me steadily. He doesn’t answer.

“That’s a no,” I say.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

He picks up his bottle. “No,” he says. “I didn’t.”

I read this as confirmation. I turn back to the answer sheet.

By the time the host announces the final scores, we are in first place, and I’m taking full personal credit because it was my flier and this is my bar and my idea. Henry has been wrong about four things and inexplicably right about one, and Jewell has said nothing for twenty minutes because she’s been writing something in the margins of the answer sheet that she’ll turn into a song by Tuesday.

“Team: The Last Chapter,” the host says, and our corner of the bar erupts, table drumming, hooting, and making more noise than its size warrants.

I turn to Silas.

“Well,” I say. “The gamble paid off.”

“It did,” he says.

“For trivia purposes.”

“Among other things,” he says, smiling.

Henry leans over from across the table. “I’d like it noted,” he says, “that I contributed to team morale.”

“You tried to give us Benjamin Franklin,” I say.

“Morale,” he repeats, untroubled. “Not accuracy. Different skill set.”

Jewell looks up from her margin notes. “I like him,” she says, which from Jewell, who extends approval approximately never, is the equivalent of a standing ovation.