A/N: Ignoring the fact that the update schedule has gone up in flames, here's a chapter! We are on track for three more (maybe a sneaky epilogue. No promises).

This update's honour roll recognises:

Riveriver: you're my unofficial life coach at this point. thank you/my condolences.

Dee: you predicted this plot point approximately one million years ago, and here it is, finally causing chaos. excellent work, nostradamus!

Coldbeatle89: nothing but love for my favourite Canadian

can your mom still do my taxes or is that awkward?

Scratch that.

diners, drive ins & dives is pretty great, but four seasons in a week is a lot. are you good?

Backspace it.

I made a mistake. Call me.

Delete message.

Scratch that - delete the whole idea.

Some time later…

"For God's sake, Parker, hit him like you mean it!"

The rookie defenseman, equal parts skittish and apprehensive, lowers his stick, skating back towards the boards with the sad, lumbering gait of a man critiqued. He's a little young, maybe too much of a pacifist, and his string-bean physique does little to bolster his chances of learning a decent check.

Parker looks at me dolefully, tugging nervously at his shoulder pads. "What if I don't mean it?"

"Then get off the ice!" I exclaim impatiently, gesturing wildly towards the gate. "Christ. Okay, everybody take five."

Parker retreats somewhere beyond the bench, his mouth twisted in an almost comical expression of despair but, right now, he's the least of my worries. I give the rest of the boys a thirty-second headstart to scatter before I lower my head into my hands, trying to massage away the dull throb behind my temples that screams impending breakdown.

That is if I'm not already there.

"Didn't pick you for the tough love type," says an amused voice behind me, and my heart sinks to my skates (on the bold assumption that I have a heart left). "I think you missed your calling in the French Foreign Legion."

"Hilarious, Leah," I grumble, reluctantly raising my head in greeting. "Please, kick me while I'm down. Aim for the kidneys."

She stares at me pensively for a moment, unsubtly sniffing the air. "Are you hungover, or are you still drunk?"

"Hair of the dog," I admit reluctantly, curling my hand protectively around my half-empty thermos. "It's been a rough one."

Leah's eyebrows knit together in an expression that conjures instant echoes of Seth, so casually beautiful and high-cheekboned and composed (and disappointed in my day-drinking, but let's not discuss that).

It hurts to even think his name.

"It's ten in the morning. What's going on?"

Her voice is uncharacteristically soft, her dark eyes a little less hard, and though she leans stiffly against the boards, she doesn't seem uncomfortable asking.

She's the first person who has asked, which says something.

"I'm not reporting back to Seth if that's what you're worried about," Leah says, gently prying the thermos from my freezing fingers. "But between his crying to R.E.M.'s Everybody Hurts until 3 a.m. and refusal to speak to anyone that isn't you, I'm worried. That, combined with you running a teenage fight club while tipsy. That's a little out of character."

"Violence is a part of the sport," I protest weakly, because that's the only part of her comment I can bear to address.

Leah sighs. "Cancel training. Make them skate laps. I don't care. We're talking, and then you're showering."

"I can't just-"

Leah puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles shrilly, instantly commanding the attention of every person with functioning eardrums. "Practice is over. Skate, leave, reenact Blades of Glory, I don't care. Just don't remind me you exist. Capiche?"

Unsurprisingly, Parker (who, in typical teenage boy fashion, is back to his usual blustering self) is the only person to say capiche. Regardless, nobody protests - at least, not loud enough for me to hear - nor does anyone approach us by the boards; they seem content enough to mess around with the bucket of pucks, checking-aggression entirely forgotten.

If only my issues could be solved that easily.

Leah tips her head towards the penalty box, gesturing for me to take a seat. She tentatively shuffles across the ice, clearly putting little faith in the soles of her sneakers, though her cat-like grace could surely cancel out any slipperiness left behind by the Zamboni. After a few teetering steps, she flops down on the bench beside me, kicking the perspex door shut with a tremendous thud.

She doesn't say a word.

The silence is, surprisingly, refreshing.

"Why did you come today?" I ask, instead of voicing the million questions that are actually playing on my mind.

Why are you helping me?

What has Seth told you?

Why haven't you throttled me yet?

Leah stares out at the ice, watching the pucks skitter around the rink. "I've always been protective of Seth - big sister thing, you know the deal. Then the wolf thing happened, and I had an extra reason. Did he ever tell you about the day we phased?"

I shake my head silently, curious.

"Mom and I were arguing about something stupid. I don't even remember what it was about, or what made that argument so much worse than the million ones we'd had before. I don't remember anything except feeling so fucking furious that I could explode, and I did. Shredded the living room rug when I phased, and the shock of it all gave Dad a heart attack. The last thing Seth saw before he phased was Dad convulsing on the floor, Mom hyperventilating, desperately trying to figure out how the hell to get us out of the house."

Leah stares blankly at her hands, seemingly grasping for words.

"Then, because the worst day of my life couldn't settle for just being bad, Sam's voice was in my head, rattling off all sorts about the legends and destiny and whatnot. Told me that he was in love with my cousin before my father's body had even fucking cooled. It didn't matter that we'd been together for years, that he'd promised to marry me the second I graduated, because fate existed and fate could never be wrong."

I don't realise until I feel my cheeks prickling that I'm crying, the tears trickling down my face like they have been all week.

"I didn't want Dad to have died for nothing," she says finally, her brow furrowed. "I realised that even if I couldn't protect Seth from whatever the universe had planned for him, I could still be there to help him work it out. He loves you. You know that, right?"

My head spins from the stomach-wrenching narrative Leah has just unfolded, painfully fleshing out the skeleton of Seth's childhood that I've clumsily cobbled together.

"I know he loves me," I say softly, wrapping my arms around my folded knees. "I love him, too."

"Then what's the problem?" she asks, her mouth set in a firm line. "Is it the wolf thing?"

"Kind of."

"Kind of," Leah parrots, shaking her head. "Seth loves being a wolf, loves all the heroic shit that comes with it. We're bred to fight, and you better believe we do it well. Still, he'd give it up in a heartbeat if that's what you wanted. He's always loved the pack, but he loves you more."

"I don't want to be the reason he stops," I say slowly, battling whether to share what I'm really thinking. "I don't want him to regret it when he gets tired of me."

Leah smiles sadly, laying her hot palm over mine. "Seth will never get tired of you. You're going to have to trust me on that."

"Is this related to the last big thing he needs to tell me?"

She nods, letting our conversation lapse into a thoughtful silence. Though Leah mildly terrifies me on a good day, and the whispers I've heard about her are enough to make a grown man shake in his boots, I can't deny that she's my best shot at getting Seth back - that is, if he forgives me for kicking him out of the apartment…

…and lying to him.

"My parents are getting divorced," I blurt, digging my fingernails into my palm until it stings. "They told us months ago."

Leah squeezes my hand, wisely saying nothing.

"The paperwork came in the mail yesterday morning. Mom can't afford to buy out Dad, so they're selling the rink. They've already got an offer."

"Just like that," Leah mutters, her hand still on mine. "That's rough. Does Seth know?"

I shake my head. "I thought if I didn't say it out loud then it wouldn't be real."

"Okay. Well, it's real. I'm sorry."

I laugh humourlessly. "Please. You have nothing to be sorry about."

She hums, a sheepish look crossing her face. "I may have said to Seth that you were PMSing. That was pretty bitchy."

"Well," I say, bumping her shoulder. "That's kind of…fair."

My sentence trails off as I process her words.

PMS.

I can't remember the last time I felt moody enough to instigate intra-hockey team brutality, nor the last time Paige and I cried our way through shitty Netflix originals (something that is entirely on Seth's dime, the gentleman he is).

I also can't recall the last time I bought a pack of tampons.

"What?" Leah asks with a frown.

"What's the date today?"

She pulls her cell from her pocket, checking the overly bright display. "February seventeenth. Why?"

I'm not normally one for cliches, but if my life were a movie, there would definitely be some histrionic line in the narration about the protagonist's blood turning to ice.

"My last period was before the Winter Classic."

"I don't even know what that is."

"January first," I say impatiently, my breathing coming in short, anxious bursts. "I'm late."

"First, just say New Year's like a normal person. Second, aren't you on birth control?" Leah demands, her fingers flexing like she wants to shake me. "Tell me my kid brother hasn't knocked you up."

"I'm on the pill," I say defensively, crossing my arms.

"Then why are you late?"

"Sometimes I forget," I mutter, avoiding her piercing gaze. "I take extra when I forget. It should've balanced out."

"Balanced out?" Leah exclaims, shaking me like a ragdoll. "This isn't fucking algebra, Stanley! Jesus Christ."

She hops to her feet, hauling me up by the arm. "Go clock out. Looks like we're going to CVS."

I wonder if CVS has dignity in stock.

"Take the test."

"I can't."

"Why not?" Leah demands, thrusting the flower-printed box in my direction. "Give me one good reason."

"I'm colourblind."

"Pink-white colourblindness? Congratulations, that'd make you patient zero," she says dryly, jabbing at my ribs with the box. "Try again."

"I'm outta pee."

"Doubtful. I didn't splurge on cherry Double Gulps for nothing."

"You set me up!" I gasp, taking a scandalised sip from my slushie. "I can't believe you'd betray me like this."

"I am literally helping you," Leah says, as deadpan as ever. "Take the test. If it's positive, then it's positive. We'll get nonalcoholic beer and throw rocks off the overpass and take bets on how long it'll take for Charlie to show up in the cruiser."

"How long does it normally take?"

She shrugs. "A while. Charlie's big on the whole protect and serve thing. Apparently, arresting your girlfriend's drop-out kid doesn't jive with that whole agenda, so he mainly just hopes that I quit it."

"Efficient," I remark, taking the box from her outstretched hand. "I guess this is it, then. I take the test. The test for pregnancy, the test to tell me whether or not I am making you an aunt. That test?"

"I don't get paid enough for this," Leah mutters, walking towards the checkout with such speed, such purpose, that I almost have to jog to keep up.

"Hi! Did you ladies need help finding anything?" the cashier chirps warmly, glancing between me and Leah. "We have a two-for-one sale on cosmetics."

"Will that make me un-pregnant?" I mutter, digging in my backpack for my wallet.

"Well, we do have -"

Leah holds up a palm. "Sarcasm. Don't answer it."

"Gotcha. Well, if that's it, I can ring y'all up now. Paper bag?" the clerk asks hesitantly, withering slightly under Leah's frosty stare.

"Why not," I declare, fishing out a handful of crumpled bills. "Let's splurge a little."

Leah snatches a box of Advil from the register display, dropping it on the counter for the clerk to scan. The girl rushes to cram the items into the too-small bag, the pointy edges of the box poking holes in the flimsy paper, and she's all too glad to thrust it into Leah's waiting hands.

"Thanks," she says simply, giving me a firm nudge towards the door. "Keep the change."

The thought occurs to me after we've already left, when she's already crammed into the driver's seat of my car with her too-long legs bunched up, driving like a woman possessed.

"Was there change? I don't even know what I paid her."

Leah shrugs. "It seemed like the right thing to say. I'm sure Charlie can drop off the tab the next time he comes to flirt with my mom."

Evidently, I have a lot to learn about problem-solving.

"So, what's the plan? Please don't tell me we're going to your house," I say, half-dreading an affirmative answer.

"Relax. Diner's closed since Quil found a rat in the fryer, so we'll drop by, I'll scrounge up some rodent-free food, you pee. If all else fails, there's booze and icecream ready to go," Leah says, a tight smile stretched across her face. "Mom will be home babying Seth, probably. Don't worry."

(I do. A lot.)

Mercifully, Leah cranks the radio up until all I can think about are noise ordinances and hearing damage, two things that are, unsurprisingly, less stressful to contemplate. Her erratic driving is almost enough to distract me from werewolves and unplanned pregnancies and Chapter 11 filings, and when I get too lost in thought, Leah is all-too-willing to jolt me back to the present with a precise jab to the ribs. Not only is she far more patient than I've ever given her credit for, she'd also make a fantastically talented getaway driver, even if she does bump over the nature strip bordering the diner. She cuts the ignition, chugs the remainder of her mostly-melted slushie, and swallows a handful of Advil before I can even think to stop her.

"Jesus God, Leah -"

"Chill. Freaky metabolism, remember?" she comments, beckoning me towards the diner. "Use the unisex toilets. Quil started a rumour that someone died in there so now nobody will touch it with a ten-foot pole. Do you want me to come with you?"

She's giving me one of those concerned big sister looks, the type that Paige typically saves for break-ups and big family blowouts, and it's familiar enough to make me want to cry.

"I'll take that as a no. Come find me at the counter when you're done."

Leah gives my shoulders a quick squeeze before hopping up the wooden steps, skirting her fingers along the top of the door frame until her hand closes around a silver key. Within seconds, she barges into the diner in a perfect imitation of a person without a care in the world.

I don't have the energy to pretend.

Instead, I pull my hoodie up over my head, keeping my head down as I slink through the rows of tables to the potentially haunted bathroom. Aside from the grotesque flower patterned tiles and a peculiar mildew scent, it has a homely sort of charm, if the framed inspirational quotes on the back of the stall doors are anything to go by.

Live more. Laugh harder.

I contemplate the quote as I tear open the packaging with shaking hands, narrowly avoiding dropping the test into the god-forsaken depths beneath. Never in my life have I thought so heavily about a tiny piece of plastic, but sitting here alone, staring at the stick in my hands, the gravity of the situation hits me with full force.

I'm twenty-two, sitting alone in a diner bathroom, going through what could potentially be a life-changing three minutes, and the person I most want to share it with is currently not speaking to me.

For reasons that are entirely my fault.

What follows are the longest one hundred and eighty seconds of my life; I watch the digits tick over on my phone timer, wondering if I could pinpoint the exact moment where everything got so messed up.

Wondering if I would change how things went.

The timer buzzes before I'm ready to face whatever comes next. Logically, I know there's only two options for what is on the other side of the stick, and I'm not sure which one terrifies me more: the idea that I'm expecting a baby with a high schooler, or the empty knowledge that whatever Seth and I had going on is completely and truly over.

I tuck the test into my pocket, sight unseen, and hurry through freshening myself up. At this point, I can't bear the thought of looking at it - not alone, at least - and I know I can count on Leah to keep it real.

Even if said keeping it real ends with her kicking my ass.

Leah's exactly where she said she'd be, leaning against the lunch counter in deep conversation with a man I don't yet recognise. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's Pack, given the hulking physique and sharp features, though I can't quite place him in Seth's increasingly convoluted social circle. They look up in perfect unison as I approach the counter, their expressions eerily similar, though the concern is obviously apparent.

"Well?" Leah asks, her brow raised.

I glance at the stranger beside her, wondering how exactly he fits into this conversation.

He tips his chin in greeting. "Tristan. Also, leaving."

True to his word, he's gone before I can reply, and I make a mental note to thank him - in the slim possibility that I'll be coming back to the Rez anytime soon.

"I didn't look," I confess, pulling the test out of my pocket. "I don't know what I want it to be."

"Well, I'm stuck with you either way," she comments, holding out her hand. "How about I look? And then I can tell you."

"Are you going to, like, beat me up?" I ask, reluctantly passing the stick over.

"Well, I was thinking about it, but now you've cooperated, so I probably won't have to," Leah says, flipping it over.

She stares at the test for a long moment, squinting at the tiny window like it's going to reveal the meaning of life.

Maybe it will.

"Well?" I ask, gnawing nervously on my lip.

"One line. Negative," she says finally, handing it back over for me to check.

She's right, of course; there's one thin pink line, as clear as day, ushering me back on track to the life plan I thought I had.

Leah throws an arm around my shoulder, unexpectedly pulling me in for a tight hug, and maybe it's the warmth or the feeling that someone actually gives a damn that makes me burst into tears for the second time today. She doesn't say anything, nor does she need to; she holds me while I cry, letting me fall apart on her shoulder, and the whole thing doesn't feel anywhere near as weird as I thought it would be.

The voices carry into the dining room only moments before the footsteps; Leah steps away, I clutch the test to my chest like it's some sort of talisman.

"I'm telling you, man, it's the biggest damn roach I've ever seen -" Tristan declares, walking backwards through the kitchen doors, and then I see.

Not a roach.

Him.

Seth looks at me. I look at him.

(Tristan drags Leah back into the kitchen like a wingman possessed.)

I can do nothing but look at him; how could I not, after so many days apart, and all at once he looks entirely familiar yet completely different. His grown-out hair is scruffy, falling into his eyes; eyes that were once bright, skin that glowed radiant copper in the sunlight is a ghoulish shade of grey in the fluorescents. That's without taking into consideration the stubble situation, which is well past his usual five o'clock state of affairs.

"You're here," he says first, his frown deepening. "And you're crying. In my hoodie."

"You left it in my car," I say quietly, scrambling to shove the test back into the pocket.

"Jess, I don't care about the hoodie. I care about you," he says, and maybe I'm crying again, or maybe just because he wants to, but I'm in his arms and his chin rests on my head and for a moment, things just feel right, werewolves and life crises and pregnancy tests be damned.

I know that I'll have to fill him in before Leah does, and that one single hug can't erase the hurt and confusion and heartache that has bloomed since our last conversation, but at least I can pretend for a moment with his hand cradling the base of my skull like it's fine china.

Maybe I'm not so bad at pretending after all.

A/N: [shameless plug for reviews.]

This week's deleted nonsense:
Seth: In your opinion, what's the height of stupidity?
Leah: *turning to Jess* How tall are you?