over the Pack," I continued.
"And pick out your flowers and a cake," Dwayne added.
"Yep—cake and flowers. And we have to make sure Granny can still shoot a gun straight," I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track of what was actually important.
"I resent that, sugar lips," Granny said as she downloaded Scrabble onto Dwayne's phone.
"And we have to get a caterer and a band and a photographer and a…" Dwayne reeled off his list like an auctioneer on crack.
"I'm gonna elope," I hissed as a large and ugly headache exploded between my eyebrows.
There was silence.
Blessed silence.
And then there were tears.
"Do you hate me?" Dwayne blubbered.
"Um… no?" I answered wondering if this was a trick question.
"Well, I am feeling hate. I have only been in one wedding in my three hundred years. The bride was an absolute cow and the groom had three teeth."
I winced at the image he'd just planted in my brain and hoped this was going to be one of his shorter diatribes.
"There were a total of three blind people and four others that no one knew at the wedding and I had to wear a robe."
"Why in tarnation were you wearing a bathrobe?" Granny asked.
I kicked her under the table. We did not need to encourage these nightmare-inducing stories.
"It wasn't a bathrobe," Dwayne huffed indignantly. "I have far better taste than that. It was a clerical robe."
"I'm about to ask a question that I'm sure I don't want the answer to, but… why were you wearing a clerical robe?" Because as much as I didn't want to hear the rest of the story, my morbid curiosity always got the better of me.
"It was when I was a Catholic priest," he said as if that were even a little bit logical.
"I got nothing," I mumbled as I held up my hand and tried to get Donna Jean's attention so we could order, eat and leave.
"I wasn't an actual priest," Dwayne explained. "It was because I was bald. The monastery was full of hair-impaired fellas and I fit right in. It was winter and they were an unending blood supply. It was totally awesome. Plus those holy men had a wonderful glee club and they let me sing tenor."
"You ate monks?" I asked as the headache moved to my temples.
"Noooooooooo, I just sipped. They were a bit bland, but what would you expect?"
I decided to ignore him and move on. Sometimes that was the easiest thing to do with Dwayne. The waitress, Donna Jean, was clearly on her break as she was sitting at the counter and had taken off her shoes. She was a Were Fox and had bunions. That was a mystery to me since all the Weres I knew were exempt from most human ailments. Granny said she was just lazy and I tended to agree.
"Guys, we're out of here," I said as I stood to leave. "Donna Jean has her shoes off. That means she's about to go out back and have a smoke which she'll make Chauncey hold so she can pretend that she quit. Getting fed is out of the question."
"Seeing as Dwayne doesn't eat food and I had five breakfast burritos this morning, I'm good with that," Granny said.
I gaped at her and wondered where she put it. She was tiny—looked like a young slim Sophia Loren. She was eighty but didn't look a day over forty. Werewolves aged very slowly.
"Doesn't anyone want to hear about my time as a man of God?" Dwayne asked, a bit miffed.
"You weren't a real priest, were you?" I asked as I slurped down the rest of my soda.
"Oh heavens, no."
I paused and placed my glass back on the table. "Oh my God, all their lives that woman and her three-toothed husband thought they were legally married."
"Sweet Baby Jesus in a thong," Dwayne gasped as he paled even more than his usual shade. "I never thought about that. There could be thousands of toothless bastards running around the world thinking they're legitimate. Sweet mother of Lady Gaga," Dwayne wailed, attracting the attention of everyone in the small diner. "What
"And pick out your flowers and a cake," Dwayne added.
"Yep—cake and flowers. And we have to make sure Granny can still shoot a gun straight," I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track of what was actually important.
"I resent that, sugar lips," Granny said as she downloaded Scrabble onto Dwayne's phone.
"And we have to get a caterer and a band and a photographer and a…" Dwayne reeled off his list like an auctioneer on crack.
"I'm gonna elope," I hissed as a large and ugly headache exploded between my eyebrows.
There was silence.
Blessed silence.
And then there were tears.
"Do you hate me?" Dwayne blubbered.
"Um… no?" I answered wondering if this was a trick question.
"Well, I am feeling hate. I have only been in one wedding in my three hundred years. The bride was an absolute cow and the groom had three teeth."
I winced at the image he'd just planted in my brain and hoped this was going to be one of his shorter diatribes.
"There were a total of three blind people and four others that no one knew at the wedding and I had to wear a robe."
"Why in tarnation were you wearing a bathrobe?" Granny asked.
I kicked her under the table. We did not need to encourage these nightmare-inducing stories.
"It wasn't a bathrobe," Dwayne huffed indignantly. "I have far better taste than that. It was a clerical robe."
"I'm about to ask a question that I'm sure I don't want the answer to, but… why were you wearing a clerical robe?" Because as much as I didn't want to hear the rest of the story, my morbid curiosity always got the better of me.
"It was when I was a Catholic priest," he said as if that were even a little bit logical.
"I got nothing," I mumbled as I held up my hand and tried to get Donna Jean's attention so we could order, eat and leave.
"I wasn't an actual priest," Dwayne explained. "It was because I was bald. The monastery was full of hair-impaired fellas and I fit right in. It was winter and they were an unending blood supply. It was totally awesome. Plus those holy men had a wonderful glee club and they let me sing tenor."
"You ate monks?" I asked as the headache moved to my temples.
"Noooooooooo, I just sipped. They were a bit bland, but what would you expect?"
I decided to ignore him and move on. Sometimes that was the easiest thing to do with Dwayne. The waitress, Donna Jean, was clearly on her break as she was sitting at the counter and had taken off her shoes. She was a Were Fox and had bunions. That was a mystery to me since all the Weres I knew were exempt from most human ailments. Granny said she was just lazy and I tended to agree.
"Guys, we're out of here," I said as I stood to leave. "Donna Jean has her shoes off. That means she's about to go out back and have a smoke which she'll make Chauncey hold so she can pretend that she quit. Getting fed is out of the question."
"Seeing as Dwayne doesn't eat food and I had five breakfast burritos this morning, I'm good with that," Granny said.
I gaped at her and wondered where she put it. She was tiny—looked like a young slim Sophia Loren. She was eighty but didn't look a day over forty. Werewolves aged very slowly.
"Doesn't anyone want to hear about my time as a man of God?" Dwayne asked, a bit miffed.
"You weren't a real priest, were you?" I asked as I slurped down the rest of my soda.
"Oh heavens, no."
I paused and placed my glass back on the table. "Oh my God, all their lives that woman and her three-toothed husband thought they were legally married."
"Sweet Baby Jesus in a thong," Dwayne gasped as he paled even more than his usual shade. "I never thought about that. There could be thousands of toothless bastards running around the world thinking they're legitimate. Sweet mother of Lady Gaga," Dwayne wailed, attracting the attention of everyone in the small diner. "What
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