Maeve

4. A Broken-Hearted Boy

Fleetwood Mac - The Chain

GABRIEL

     "We're meeting again next Friday to discuss the issue of the rouge pack encroaching from Canada", Michael says, tone hushed. I look around, making sure no one's listening in, and catch sight of Maeve, who's talking with Remi. After what happened the other morning I'm finding it harder and harder to look at her, the shame crowding my thoughts. I sigh and turn back to Michael.

     "Are you even listening, Gabe?" Michael scolds, shaking his head and putting a finger to his temple. The stress of it is getting to him and I am overcome with sympathy for the weight put on his shoulders. As the eldest, the burden of head councilman falls to him and its been getting down on him since the issues with some of the border packs to the north arose.

     "I am, I am", I reassure. He nods.

     "I'm expecting your support on this, alright? We'll be sending any fighting able-bodied members from most midwestern packs, anyone who can mobilize by Monday after next", he says and I sit back in surprise.

     "That many?" 

     "We'll need to hit them with everything we've got. Preliminary scouting has estimated over 1000 rogues have gathered already, with over another 500 expected", Michael warns. I cross my arms, thinking, and pause for a moment.

     "Well then you'll have my support of course", I start.

     "But are you sure there aren't any more diplomatic routes that can be taken?" I suggest.

     "They're refusing to talk", Michael brushes off quickly. My brow furrows and I search his face.

     "You're hiding something", I guess. He sighs and looks at me apologetically.

     "It appears they've taken a hostage. A luna, from a pack up in Connecticut", Michael says.

     "That's close. Really close", I warn.

     "Look I didn't want to tell you because I know–" he starts.

     "You know I would get too personally invested", I scoff, shaking my head. Michael is silent.

     "What do they want for her?" I ask.

     "Oh you know those crazy motherfuckers, can't seem to get a rational response out of...", but he trails off as I feel a gentle squeeze to my shoulder.

    "Can we talk?" I hear her ask, voice like sweet honey to my ears. I look to Michael, who waves me off. She leads me away from the tables and the lingering crowds and back to the terrace just outside the house.

     "What's up?" I ask, feeling guilty and shameful and thinking about how curvy she looks in that satin dress. My hands start to shake and I unconsciously pull out a pack of cigs and a lighter from my jacket, a nasty new habit I've taken up. In the stress of everything, it helps a little. 

     "Since when do you smoke?" She asks and I can hear the judgment lacing her toe and I can feel the electricity between us like a battery charging up for a big fight. Fuck I'm so tired of fighting. I just shrug.

–

     My hands are shaking and I'm on my third cigarette. I can't control my breathing and my only thought is that I need to get the fuck out of here. I watched Maeve go back inside, but looking at her now is just making me sick. I hate her and I hate myself because I feel like all I've done is pick up the pieces of her broken life and try to put them back together, but I'm just Sisyphus, rolling a ball up a hill for forever. And she's right too. If it were up to me, she'd never leave the apartment again. She'd never be touched by another man again. She'd never be hurt again. And in a perfect world, I can protect her from everything, but I would have never dreamed the thing she'd want protection from was me.