The Werewolf I Love

ed her forehead against the cool glass of the train window, watching the tunnel lights blur into long, yellow streaks. She was eighteen, but most days she felt like she was a hundr

outh. That evening, the apartment felt too small. Her dad, Liam, was hovering by the stove, and her mom, Sloane, was sorting through mail at the counter. They were good parents-the kind who actually listened-but they looked at Ivy like she was a puzzle they couldn't quite solve. "Ivy, sit down for a second," Liam said, turning off the burner. Ivy dropped her backpack by the door and sat. She could tell by the look on their faces that they'd been whispering about her before she walked in. "We're worried," Sloane said plainly. She didn't sugarcoat it. "You spend eighteen hours a day with those headphones on. We love that you're artistic, but we're losing you, honey." "I'm right here," Ivy said, though she knew what they meant. "We're going to the cabin," Liam intervened. "That old place u