He could end it, that much was true. A small dip of his head, a gentle prop of her chin, a reassuring word spoken in low tones and she would be enticed and willing. He was so well-practiced, it wouldn't be hard.
Well-practiced, he thought, and grimaced in spite of himself. I should be proud of that. Instead, it sucked his confidence into a void. If he induced her, and he absolutely could, then he would never see the moment that would put his mind at ease. Would never see the tilt of her eyebrows as she made the decision that he was worth it. Never experience that quintessential moment of insecurity as he realized she was leaning closer to him, going to kiss him, finally.
Suddenly, vividly, Peter felt six years old. He remembered the jolt that accompanied the leaps in his mental development. The way he felt when he realized the meaning of infinity, the way he could only hold the thought in his mind for a fraction of a second before he could no longer understand the concept, deciding eventually that infinity must exist all at once, independently of time. He remembered cooking pancakes for the first time at two years old, following the recipe that he'd just learned he could read. How proud he'll be when he sees, except that Walter never saw, and the pancakes grew soggy in the cottage air and the plate sat on the table and molded over because his mother hadn't the heart to throw them away. He remembered a fever, how the sheets were never dry, how everything spun. His father was a doctor, he knew, and his father could cure him. Why wasn't he there? Why hadn't he brought the medicine? And as his internal temperature inflamed him, sent peacock spots into his eyes and dimmed the world altogether, Peter felt alone and lost and worthless.
Now, Peter chased. Everything. He waited for nobody, for nothing. He pursued, cornered and devoured, and he was superlative. Now there was no question of worth. If it was desirable, he had it. There was no other way around. He didn't miss trying to find people to value him. He knew, anyway, how many people in the world would vet him, and he could count that number on one finger. If I could count myself.
Romanticizing the lone wolf was no problem. It was all so archetypal, his was light work to convince women to swoon. His employers, too, were easily swayed by his rugged, no-strings approach. Everything came easily. He could snipe his needs as they surfaced. Over time, he began to admire himself. How different he'd become. How much distance he'd put between himself and the fevered, needy child grasping with empty hands.
He had economized, like a hunter, and used every part of his animal. He'd exploited his intelligence, his able body, his sociopathic charisma, mining until he'd exhausted the vein. When he slept, he went deep under, dreaming black.
For decades, he hadn't stopped.
Now he was planted.
Now he was scared of himself. A lone wolf in the wild was all well and good, but mixed with the villagers? Fantastic. And yet it was all he knew to do. Now every instinct he had was useless, or worse, backwards. He wanted to run, all the time. Surrounded by people he would see every day, there was nobody disposable, no prey animal to fulfill him momentarily. And, to make everything just perfect, here was his father. The original human merchant. Reminding him every day of the instability of his past, and that garage sale bin from which he just couldn't remove himself.
"Peter?"
He blinked to attention. Olivia looked more awake. He supposed the cold would do that. She was squinting at him across that thirteen-inch space between them, her head to one side, and he could see that the vulnerability of sleep hadn't yet worn away. Those eyes. He could feel the chemical compounds still pouring forth from the hollows of her neck. It would be so easy. It would feel so good. His fingertips were tingling. See, the problem is that the wolf is a deeply social animal, after all. It's the lone human you have to watch out for.
"Yeah," he huffed quietly. He would not herd her towards anything.
"Did you want...to..." she trailed off. She wasn't sure what he was waiting for, or what he wanted. He hadn't let go of her arm or asked for his jacket, and he certainly didn't look like a guy who was going to make a move on her. He looked like he was going to cry.
"I have to bring dad home," he said quickly. Olivia opened her mouth to speak and stopped on a dime. Dad.
"What?" she said, her face leaning into his.
"Jerry Lewis needs his bathtub sleep," he said.
Olivia nodded. Dad. She wasn't sure whether to repeat it.
"Okay." She lifted her arm from his, slowly, as if to ameliorate the separation. Smiling apologetically, she slipped his leather jacket from her shoulders. "Thanks," she said. He took it with a curt bow, backing away and pivoting toward the waiting car.
"We'll swing by for you in the morning," he called back.
"I can cab it," she said.
"What, you don't like clown cars?" He pulled a sad face. She smiled. "Extra coconut cream pie for you," he said, leveraging into the car.
Olivia watched him pull away, then shuffled wearily inside. The gibbous moon forced blue light into the rooms by the bucketful. Everything looked peaceful, dreamy, and serene. Yet the longer she stood there, the more awake she felt. She could hear the blood in her ears, humming like the ocean in a shell, and it was - and wasn't - like flies climbing the wall and her neighbors fighting over wine. It was loud and important and omnipresent but it was normal, a harbinger of the not-nearly-supernatural.