Chapter 1 – I Accidentally Joined a Wolf Shifter Group Chat

SLOANE

TEN CUPCAKES, ONE PERSON, UNKIND MATH

My mother called from somewhere in Europe where church bells were ringing in the background and immediately asked why I had thrown away my future.

She didn’t even say hello first.

“Sloane,” she said with a strained patience that told me I was in for a lecture, “your father and I were just discussing that internship you left.”

I moved my phone farther from my ear and stared at the cupcake recipe on my laptop, trying to imagine a version of myself who had enough energy to produce them.

“I didn’t leave the internship, Mom.”

“You chose not to continue,” she argued.

“That’s not true. I wasn’t offered a job at the end of it.”

There was a brief silence on the line, followed by the distant sound of my father saying something about finding the correct entrance to a cathedral. My parents had been in Europe for two weeks and had already visited France, Belgium, Germany, and whatever country they happened to be standing in now. Their itinerary changed often enough that I stopped trying to follow it.

“Well,” she said, “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have stayed a little longer and proven yourself.”

“Because they stopped paying me.”

“I thought internships were supposed to be about experience.”

“They are, but experience doesn’t pay the rent.”

My mother exhaled into the phone. She had a sigh reserved just for me, one that suggested I had made adulthood unnecessarily complicated through poor planning and stubbornness. Growing up, I had heard the same sigh whenever I received a ninety-two instead of a ninety-eight on a math test, forgot to send a thank-you card within forty-eight hours of receiving a gift, or expressed an opinion that had not first passed through committee (i.e., her) review.

“We just hate seeing you give up on something so promising,” she said.

“I did not give up. They didn’t hire me at the end of the internship, and I was running out of savings while continuing to do graphic design work for free.”

“But weren’t the student loans enough to cover your expenses?”

I closed my eyes, imagining how far I could chuck my phone if I put my back into it.

The church bells continued ringing. Other people around them were probably standing beneath the bells having meaningful experiences, becoming cultured, falling in love, or eating bread that had been prepared by someone with high standards.

And I was sitting alone in my apartment, wearing sweatpants with a hole near the knee, explaining federal financial aid to my parents yet again.

“No,” I said. “The loans weren’t enough. I maxed them out.”

“Well, what happened to all that money?” she asked.

“College happened to it.”

I heard my father’s muffled voice. My mother moved the phone away and answered him, then returned with a new layer of distraction. “Your father says we’re supposed to go inside now, but I told him this was important.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“You don’t need to be sarcastic.” I could practically hear the scowl on her face.

“I’m not being sarcastic.” I was. Sarcasm was one of the few luxuries I could still afford in my mediocre life.

My mother lowered her tone into something more confidential. “I suppose I assumed you had some of the loan money left.”

“I graduated four years ago.”

“Yes, but you were always very responsible.”

“I am responsible,” I said, trying very hard not to raise my voice. “That’s why I’m paying the loans off every month.”

“That’s what I mean. If you’re paying them, then surely you’re doing well enough.”

I stared at the spreadsheet open on my second monitor. I had tracked every expense for the month, including the six dollars and forty-two cents I’d spent on cold medicine and regretted for four days.

“Paying them back is why I don’t have any extra money,” I said. “The minimum payment eats almost everything left after rent, utilities, groceries, insurance, and business expenses.”

There was another pause.

My parents weren’t monstrous. They were indifferent. Which was worse somehow. I spent most of my childhood feeling like an administrative error they were forced to manage. As an only child, I didn’t grow up with parents so much as I grew up with two emotionally distant landlords who happened to share my last name. They provided a clean house, a safe neighborhood, and enough résumé-building extracurriculars to make my upbringing look like a pristine college admissions campaign from the outside.

Because to them, the outside was all that mattered.

They had never been emotionally available when I was a child, treating my basic needs as minor inconveniences. And as an adult, my failure to secure a high-status, high-earning career along with a wealthy husband had turned from an inconvenience into an embarrassment. They didn’t care that I was struggling to find my footing; they cared what their friends at the country club would think if they found out their daughter wasn’t thriving on paper. To my parents, my lack of conventional success was a direct threat to their reputation.

“What about grants?” my mother asked.

“I didn’t qualify for much under FAFSA because you and Dad make too much.”

“What does what we make have to do with your loans?”

I curled my toes, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. “We’ve had this conversation dozens of times.”

“Maybe you explained it in a confusing way, Sloane.”

“The government calculated your expected contribution based on your income,” I said. “Because I was legally considered dependent for most of college, what you made affected what assistance I qualified for.”

“Well, we paid for plenty of things.”

“You paid for my first semester’s books.”

“And your dorm bedding,” she added.

I pressed my lips together until the urge to say something damaging passed.

My father came onto the line without warning. “Sweetheart, we’re not trying to make you feel bad.”

This was one of his favorite contributions to all conversations in which my mother was actively making me feel bad. “I know.”

“We’re proud of you,” he said.

“Okay.”

“You graduated with honors.”

“I did.”

“And graphic design is a real career now. Everything is digital.”

I swallowed an answer that would have required a separate argument. “Yes, Dad.”

“We only want you to make smart choices.”

“I know.”

There was a rustling sound, then my mother returned. “We’re just concerned because you’re twenty-six, and you don’t seem settled.”

Settled.

My parents used the word in the same way real estate listings used charming. It could mean anything as long as the speaker didn’t have to provide specifics.

“I have an apartment,” I said. “I have clients. I’m working.”

“But you’re still freelancing.”

“Yes. That’s work.”

“I know it’s work, Sloane. I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m only saying it lacks predictability.”

The irony of being lectured about predictability from two people who’d changed countries three times since Monday did not escape me.

My mother continued before I could point that out. “Are you still thinking about applying to that marketing firm you’d mentioned to us?”

“They rejected me six months ago.”

“Oh. Was that the one?”

“Yes.”

“What about the other one?”

“They also rejected me.”

“Well, perhaps your portfolio needs more polish.”

My eyes moved toward the client projects stacked across my monitors. Branding packages. Event posters. Logos. Social templates. Website mockups. A menu for a restaurant that had changed its concept twice without changing its deadline.

“My portfolio is polished.”

“I’m sure it is. I’m only suggesting there’s always room to improve.”

There it was. The family motto.

Always room to improve.

I had spent most of my life inhabiting that room. It had no windows, no chairs, and apparently no exit.

The cupcake recipe stole my attention from my parents’ lecture. Flour. Sugar. Butter. Eggs. Ingredients that became what they were supposed to become when combined correctly.

“Actually,” I said, before courage had time to reconsider, “I was going to ask you something.”

My mother hesitated. “What is it?”

“I’m a little short this month.” The admission scraped against everything in me. I hated asking for help, but I hated needing help more.

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