Three days before Thanksgiving, I started the turkeys.
Two twenty-pound birds sat on the kitchen counter at dawn. I rubbed them down with salt and herbs, then lowered them into the brine I'd mixed the night before. The recipe called for apple cider, bay leaves, peppercorns, and brown sugar. I'd done this every year since I became Luna. It was tradition. The pack expected it.
Chandler came downstairs while I was sealing the second brine bag. He poured coffee and leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone.
"Big day?" I asked.
"Meeting with the Gamma," he said without looking up. "Then I've got calls this afternoon."
I nodded. I wiped down the counter and started pulling ingredients for the side dishes. Sweet potato casserole. Green bean almondine. Cranberry relish. Cornbread dressing. Roasted Brussels sprouts. Parker House rolls. I had a list taped inside the cupboard door. I'd been adding to it for weeks.
"Do you need help with anything?" he asked.
I glanced at him. He was still looking at his phone.
"No," I said. "I've got it."
He left twenty minutes later. I didn't see him again until dinner.
The next two days blurred together. I peeled potatoes until my hands cramped. I chopped onions until my eyes burned. I baked six pans of cornbread and crumbled them by hand for the dressing. I coordinated the contribution schedule—who was bringing pies, who was bringing wine, who was setting up chairs in the gathering hall. I made calls. I sent reminders. I checked off items on my list one by one.
Chandler was home, but he wasn't present. He spent most of his time in his office with the door closed. At night, he sat on the couch with his phone. Sometimes he'd step outside to take a call. He never explained who it was. I stopped asking.
On Thanksgiving morning, I woke at four. The turkeys went into the ovens at five. I set timers and started the side dishes. By noon, the pack house smelled like butter and sage and roasting meat. It smelled like home. It smelled like something I'd built with my own hands.
The gathering started at six. Pack members arrived in waves, carrying covered dishes and bottles of wine. They greeted me warmly. They complimented the decorations in the hall—the garlands I'd strung, the candles I'd arranged, the centerpieces I'd made by hand. I smiled and thanked them. I directed traffic. I made sure everyone had a seat.
Chandler appeared just before we sat down to eat. He wore a dark sweater that made his shoulders look even broader. He moved through the room shaking hands, clapping backs, laughing at jokes. He looked like a leader. He looked like an Alpha.
Shay arrived ten minutes later.
She wore a cream-colored dress that hugged her frame and a pair of heels that clicked against the hardwood. Her perfume reached me before she did—something floral and heavy that clung to the air. She smiled at Chandler. He smiled back.
"You look beautiful," he said.
She touched his arm lightly. "Thank you. So do you."
I was standing near the kitchen doorway with a platter of rolls in my hands. Neither of them looked at me.
When we sat down to eat, Chandler seated Shay at the head table. In the chair beside his. The chair that was traditionally reserved for honored guests. The chair that should have been mine.
I stood at the threshold between the kitchen and the dining hall, watching. My wolf stirred faintly. She didn't speak. She just… felt. A dull ache that had no name.
Shay picked at her plate delicately, then looked across the table at one of the older pack members. Her voice carried.
"The stuffing is a little plain," she said lightly. "But bless her heart, Elodie made everything herself. That's so much work."
Chandler laughed. He refilled her wine glass. "She's dedicated," he said. "I'll give her that."
I turned and went back into the kitchen. I checked the ovens. I refilled serving dishes. I smiled at pack members who came in to thank me. I kept moving.
By midnight, everyone was gone. The hall was empty except for the tables covered in dirty dishes and crumpled napkins. I started carrying platters back to the kitchen. Chandler was nowhere.
I scraped plates. I loaded the dishwasher. I scrubbed the roasting pans by hand because they were too big to fit. My back ached. My feet throbbed. I'd been standing for eighteen hours.
Through the window above the sink, I saw movement in the parking lot. I looked up.
Chandler was walking Shay to her car. She had her hand on his forearm. He was leaning in slightly, listening to whatever she was saying. His posture was easy. Relaxed. Attentive.
He never stood like that with me.
I watched them until Shay got into her car and drove away. Chandler stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching her taillights disappear. Then he turned and walked back toward the pack house.
I looked down at the roasting pan in my hands. Soapy water dripped onto the floor.
My wolf whimpered once. Faintly. Then she went quiet.
I finished the dishes. I dried my hands. I turned off the lights.
Upstairs, Chandler was already asleep. I slipped into bed on my side and lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything at all.
I just lay there. And I waited for morning.
