HEARTBLOOD - Paul Lahote

EIGHT

The next morning, Paul was waiting for me by the school gates, his face tired but determined. He looked like he hadn't slept, his eyes shadowed and weary.

"How's Emily?" he asked, his voice low.

I gave him a thumbs-up, signing, "Better. I think she just needs time."

Paul nodded, his jaw clenching as he looked away, his hands fidgeting restlessly. "I'm worried about her," he admitted. "And about Leah. They're both hurting, and I feel like... like I can't do anything to help."

I reached out, squeezing his hand, the warmth of his skin grounding me. "We'll get through this," I signed, my gaze steady. "We'll find Sam, and we'll bring him home. And maybe... maybe then, everything will start to make sense again."

He looked at me, a hint of a smile breaking through the sadness in his eyes. "Thanks, Nicolette. I don't know what I'd do without you."

The bell rang, pulling us back to reality, and I gave him a small smile, signing, "Me neither." I joke. He shakes his head but heads off to go find Sam.

As I walked to class, I felt a strange sense of peace settle over me, a quiet reassurance that, despite everything, I wasn't alone in this. The pack was fractured, yes, but we were still holding on, still fighting to stay together. And as long as we had each other, I knew we'd find a way to keep going.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Angela had invited me over to her house that evening, and the offer came with a warm smile that made it hard to say no. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had dinner with someone other than Dad or Emily, and the idea of sharing a meal with someone else's family felt both exciting and a little overwhelming.

The Weber house was cozy, with yellow light spilling out through the windows as I walked up the driveway. A wreath still hung on their door, half-buried in fresh, damp pine that filled the air with the smell of winter. Angela opened the door before I could even knock, grinning.

"Nicolette! Come in, come in!" she said, waving me in with enthusiasm. I stepped inside, taking off my coat, and was met by the warm, inviting smell of garlic and tomatoes—spaghetti. Angela's mom poked her head out from the kitchen, smiling with a friendly wave.

"Nicolette, it's so nice to meet you," Mrs. Weber said, coming over and pulling me into a soft, motherly hug. "Angela has told us so much about you. We're glad you could join us tonight!"

I smiled back, giving her a small wave, and signed "Thank you." Angela quickly interpreted, translating my gratitude.

Angela's dad was sitting at the dining table, setting out a salad bowl as he turned to me with a welcoming nod. He was quieter than Angela's mom, his face gentle but reserved. Still, he looked up and smiled, gesturing toward a chair.

The table was covered with plates of spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread, along with big glasses of lemonade. It felt simple and homey, something I hadn't realized I missed until just then. As we sat down, Angela's mom offered me more spaghetti, piling my plate high.

Dinner conversation started easily, thanks to Angela. She took charge, keeping her family in the loop with bits of sign language she'd picked up from me over the last few weeks. I noticed her dad and mom watching her, a little surprised, but proud. They asked polite questions, curious but careful not to pry too deeply, and Angela's mom would often glance at Angela to see if she could help explain.

"So, Nicolette," Mrs. Weber said, placing a napkin on her lap, "Angela mentioned you're interested in sports medicine. What's it about sports that makes you want to go into the field?"