Happy new year, folks! Once again, this will be a long-haul story, likely spanning several years (can't stop, won't stop?), and sometimes it's tough to find a balance between character-building and jumping straight to the big stuff. I'd rather take my time than rush through anything!

I found comfort, I fell in love with avoiding problems, and that was the problem – "Come On Mess Me Up" by Cub Sport

Quil

Claire falls asleep against my chest, the damp material of my shirt clinging to my skin.

It's not a restful sleep she's having, and I can only hope her dreams are few and far between. She needs a break.

So does Hannah.

God, cancer. What a dirty fucking word.

As I digest the news, my eyes float across Claire's childhood bedroom. Her walls are painted seafoam green. (Before this it was periwinkle. Yes, I did most of the work painting. Yes, seafoam and periwinkle are different. No, I don't know how.)

Polaroids are taped to the wall above her bed in a mosaic medallion.

In the center sits a photo of a map of the world. A picture of Claire and I sits just to the left. To the right, Claire and Callie. Below, Claire and her father. Above, Claire and her mother.

That one was taken on one of the rare days I wasn't here, so I don't know the story behind it. But their eyes are bright, shining with tears brought on by laughter at something that's not remotely as funny to anyone else. They laugh a lot together.

Although these are her core four—me, Callie, her mother and father—her mom has always been the north point of her compass.

One of Claire's surfboards leans in the corner, tucked away in a knitted board bag now that winter is settling in. She still goes out sometimes, even when it's freezing, but not with the longboard. Her favorite—a hybrid—is at my house since she uses it the most with me. If she ever gets a car of her own, I imagine it will live there instead.

The Swear Jar sits on her dresser, stuffed full of bills of all sizes from where I've had to make change over the years. Jacob and Embry bedazzled it as a joke, but Claire loves it. I think they're the only rhinestones she owns.

She shifts, nuzzling further into my chest as her leg comes up near my hip.

I've gotta say, this was not how I imagined getting Claire in bed.

And yeah, okay, I've imagined it. I think we all know that ship sailed when her knees were around my waist on her front porch.

Claire's a smart girl. I know she knows why we haven't had any alone time since that day. She's sixteen, legally able to consent in the state of Washington (I googled a lot to make sure).

But she's precious. When I think about giving Claire what she's after, it twists a hot knife in my gut. When we take it there, it's irreversible. We'll never go back to what we were before, what we are now. And I love what we are now. I like being able to hold her like this without the pretense it will go farther.

One day it will.

Right now we have much bigger fish to fry.

The maybe-cancer fish.

And I hope it fucking fries.

I'm restless the next day. Usually when I'm restless at work, Chief Marston will force me to go hit the punching bag or flip tires in the parking lot. If that doesn't work, the next step is to scrub the truck grates with a toothbrush.

Those are the days I beg for a call. Nothing serious, like a house or structure ablaze. Something small. Just a tiny little dumpster fire. Helping a kid with their head stuck between banisters. A dog down a storm drain. Every time the alarm sounds, my pulse races to match it.

I run toward danger the way Claire runs toward water.

But I'm not at work today, and the thought of being alone right now makes me want to pull my hair out. Callie skipped school today to have time to digest everything, but Claire refused.

So I text Embry: Come over. Bring beer. I'll get pizza.

After placing our normal order of two large pizzas and a dozen buffalo wings apiece, I take to pacing around my living room floor. I'm going to rut the carpet.

Oh well. It's probably time to replace it anyway.

Now that my focus isn't on keeping Claire together, my heart aches with the weight of everything. Claire may be a brick wall, but I'm also her soft spot, and I don't want to add to her pain by having my feelings on display. I love Hannah like my own mother, and I'm sad for me. But I have to bury my feelings. Claire's will always come first.

The idea of her having to grow up without her mom breaks me. What if Hannah isn't there to see Claire get married? Will that affect her desire to tie the knot in the first place?

A part of me feels selfish too, which is why I need to talk to my friend.

So, of course, it takes Embry far too long to get here, especially with the offer of free food.

By the time he shows up, I've abandoned pacing in favor of sitting and staring at the kitchen table. That one little wood swirl in the corner looks a little like Santa Claus. Hannah would like that. I should send her a picture.

When I meet the eyes of one of my best friends, my armor falls. And I say simply, "Claire's mom is sick."

He slides the six-pack across the table to me. "Sick how?" he asks, dropping next to me.

The years have been kind to Embry Call. The whole I'm-not-aging thing really helps, too. But it's deeper than his skin and build. There's a lightness in his eyes that didn't exist three years ago. It didn't exist until the night he met Bethany. Even though they've been through some rough stuff these last few years (and are still in the rough stuff right now), it hasn't ever gone out.

She might be a giant smart ass and actually enjoy things like salad and exercise, but I'm glad they have each other. Embry has taught Bethany how to accept help, and Bethany taught Embry how to be more selfish. They are better for having known each other, and I love her for it.

I pull one of the cans free but can't force myself to open it. Embry's words slice something open in my chest. Sick. Hannah's sick, maybe dying. My eyes burn with sudden tears as I finally confront our new reality.

"Maybe breast cancer," I say, meeting his eyes. "They think it's hereditary." Last night while I held Claire while she slept, I heard her parents talking. They won't force Claire to get tested, but they want to. They like having all the facts. Claire would rather bury her toes, and subsequently her head, in the sand.

He blows out a breath, grabbing a beer for himself. "So… Claire could—"

"Don't." My voice is little more than a growl, and I'm sprayed by cold beer when I bust the can with my tight grip. "Don't fucking say that."

A world where Claire Young doesn't exist is not a world for me. Claire won't get sick. Whatever it is, Claire is fine. She has to be.

But—what if she's not? My face twists, and I let everything loose. The beer, my fist, my pain. My chin drops to my chest.

"Maybe it's not that," Embry offers.

"She's really sick, Em. The doctors—" I swallow down my tears, but it only clogs my throat more. He hands me a roll of paper towels.

I appreciate the shit out of Embry Call as I press the meaty part of my palm to my eyes, one then the other. Maybe if I press hard enough I can dam up the emotions that keep leaking out. "The doctors said they could get tested, Claire and Callie. Emily, too, if she wanted."

"Tested how?"

I force out a snort. "You know that DNA testing you despise?"

There's this thing about werewolves: those genes are hereditary too. Three families carry the gene.

Ateara. Black. Uley.

Embry has to be one of those. Nobody knows which, except his parents. He won't ask his mom, and he can't ask his dad. But he can ask science. Jacob, Sam, and I have offered to be tested, to put his mind at ease.

He hasn't yet, but I wish he would. I see it in his eyes, how he wants to stake a claim on this piece of himself but is scared what he'll find out when he does.

I continue through my bitterness. "It can tell you all sorts of shit. Are you gonna get diabetes, cancer? Claire doesn't want to do it."

I shouldn't go anywhere near this right now. I'm self-aware enough to know I'm not in a good headspace. Anything I say will be transference of my feelings about Claire onto him. Best to just keep it in.

He sits up straighter, maybe guarding himself from me. "Why not?"

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me? What reason do you have for not finding out about your dad?"

So much for keeping it in.

But Embry can't either. His temper flairs, probably goaded by everything he has going on at home with the adoption. He's on his feet before I can blink, his fists raised. I'm not sure if he's playing offense or defense.

"You don't get to do that, Quil. That's different. They're different." He's so angry, his voice so quiet I'd have trouble hearing him if I were normal.

I'm not normal. And right now, I'm not even rational.

Because I laugh. Laugh. "What if it's not?" I rise to my feet. "Josh Uley's an alcoholic. Dad had a heart condition that would have killed him by fifty if the ocean didn't do it first. Billy has diabetes and high blood pressure and God knows what else. You don't think at least some of that's hereditary?"

He growls. "Stop, Quil."

I think this is it: the moment we throw fists instead of words. I shouldn't do this. I know, know this is misplaced anger. And yet...

"No." I shove him in the chest.

"Stop," he says, firm and unmoving.

I've always admired that about Embry, how even if the world is in motion around him, he's steady. I wish I was more like him. If he is my brother, why didn't I inherit that trait? It's not fair, is it? Life?

This is what makes me throw the first punch. He catches it, but I still push forward. "Don't be a pussy." I try to shove my knee into somewhere painful. It lands near his ribs.

Through a grunt, he says, "This is about Claire's mom. Don't drag my shit into this."

He's right, but I shove him anyway. "Just find out." I pull free the fist he's still holding and pull back for another slug.

He dodges me, my knuckles only grazing his ear. "Why does it matter so much?"

I'm having a Claire moment, my feelings too many and vast to put into words. It matters because he matters, because whether or not he realizes it, he's my rock. Because—

"I can't lose you, too."

It's an admission I wasn't expecting, and it surprises me so much I go for a sniffle and end up sobbing. That surprises me too, but what is there to do now? I can't take it back. It's the truth.

He might not be my brother—we might never know if he doesn't want to—but he's my best friend. We watched each other skin knees when we were kids, make awkward moves on girls in middle school, explode into wolves and fight for lives that never belonged to us in the first place.

Jacob's dad taught us all how to shave at the same time. My mom fed Embry after school when his was still working. At Embry's wedding, I was the best fucking man. The best best man, we'd said. He's always been mine, too.

He has every right to be angry with me, retaliate and spit vile things in my face.

Instead, I'm pulled into his chest, and he hugs me, fiercely, quietly. Exactly like him.

"I'll… I'll think about it, okay?" he murmurs, before pushing me away to reach for an unbusted beer. "Now. Where the hell is the pizza?"

Christmas morning in the Young Household has always meant one thing for me: organized chaos. Claire and Callie are far too old for Santa, but one of them will wake up before the sun and jump on the other to rouse them. By this point, I've already slipped out Claire's window and knocked on the front door.

Her dad Jonathan and I both pretend he doesn't know what I just did. Year after year, it's the best gift he gives me.

This morning, there's already a coffee mug for me waiting next to my usual spot on the couch. Another unexpected olive branch.

Jonathan Young and I get along just fine for the most part. It was hard for him to accept me at first, but I'd expected as much. When a scrappy teenager knocks on your door and says he's imprinted on your two-year old, things can get a little tense. Especially after you explain just what that means.

Between both of Claire's parents, though, Hannah holds all the power.

Which is why I'm so surprised to see her looking depleted of it when she comes into the living room. Dark circles ring her eyes, and her cheekbones are more sunken in than I'm used to. There are no answers yet. I try to remind myself this is okay. It's only been a few weeks. A month, at most. Things in the medical world move at a snail's pace, she told me a week ago.

Maybe if the doctors saw how exhausted she was, they'd move faster.

Before I can voice this, Claire and Callie come bounding down the stairs, giggling through tandem yawns in their matching red-and-white striped pajamas.

That's also a Young Christmas tradition. Matching PJs. So what if my eyes watered when I got my very own pair? It was allergies.

Callie's always been the one to pass out presents, so while Claire comes to tuck herself back into my side, Callie plops down by the tree.

As Jonathan heads to get Hannah a mug of coffee from the kitchen, Claire sneaks a peck onto my jaw. She'd done the same thing last night, and I had to shut her down again, despite my body having other ideas. Alone with Claire is one thing. Alone with Claire in a bed is a beast I'm not ready to slay.

But the girl makes it hard.

Like now, when her lips graze my ear and whisper, "Good morning," in a gritty voice.

Several things. She's making several things hard.

A present lands in my lap, forcing a grunt from me and a giggle from my attacker. Callie's two years younger, but the girls could almost be twins. Callie inherited more of her father's looks, his cleft chin and chiseled cheeks. A narrower face.

Claire is a spitting image of her mother, round cheeks and wide eyes. A downturned mouth that somehow still manages to tilt up at the very corners. It's a mouth that demands to be kissed often. Fervently.

"Quit making out and open that," Callie demands before turning back toward the pile beside her.

"We weren't making out," I protest, glancing to Hannah.

While she looks amused, Claire shifts beside me, pressing her thighs together.

Fantastic.

Claire is aroused, I've got a semi, and we're in front of her entire immediate family.

Merry fucking Christmas to me, I guess.