Howling For Divorce Part 2-Love, Laughter, and Lycanthropy

He bursts through the door, a lopsided grin plastered on his face, cheeks flushed like he’s just run a marathon in Antarctica. Or maybe it’s from spending all afternoon in the garage. He’d been loud earlier — way too loud, considering my ongoing peace negotiations with the sofa. His green eyes flash, his teeth gleam, and his curls? A greasy, chaotic mess that screams, “I tried fixing a car but ended up fixing myself into a grease trap.”

“Ta-da!” he announces like he’s just invented time travel. His shirt’s already halfway off as he thunders up the stairs, shedding clothes like a trail for breadcrumbs. His pants? Gone. His brother follows, muttering something about cars and forgetting to eat, but I’m too distracted by my husband’s dramatic exit to care.

My book snaps shut around my finger as I try to comprehend the situation. Why is he always so… much? I glance at the window. Clouds drift across the moon like lazy marshmallows. His brother scrubs his hands at the sink, muttering about how working on cars is messy. Messy? I stare at his hands. They look like he tried to finger-paint the Mona Lisa in motor oil.

The water upstairs stops running, and moments later, my husband appears, towel over his head like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. “More work tomorrow,” he declares triumphantly. “Your car’s next!” He sounds like he’s announcing a reality TV show.

“Uh-huh,” I mumble, gripping my book like it’s the only thing tethering me to sanity.

Then I notice his stomach. It’s… weird. Bloated? Stuffed? Like he swallowed a beach ball. “Did you eat dinner?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He shakes his head, toothbrush in his mouth.

“Nope. Did you?”

“No,” I reply. Then his brother yells from the kitchen, “I’m still hungry!”

“You don’t say?” I mutter under my breath. My husband chuckles and pats his suspiciously rounded belly. “Been gaining weight,” he teases, shooting his brother a look. “Your fault!”

Suddenly, the room feels like someone turned the thermostat to paranoia. A cold sweat pricks my skin. My instincts — those untrustworthy jerks — are screaming Run! He’s been replaced by an alien!. But no, I remind myself, he’s probably just bloated.

“I need to shower,” I blurt, edging toward the stairs.

“Oh?” His grin widens. Why is he blocking the stairs? Why is he smiling like that? My eyes dart to the fireplace tools. They’re decorative, sure, but desperate times…

“What’s wrong?” he asks innocently, but his head tilts at an angle that screams villain monologue incoming.

“Nothing!” My voice cracks, making me sound like a 13-year-old boy at band practice.

The moonlight spills across his face, and I swear his smile grows a full inch wider. “I love you,” he purrs, arms open wide. “Give me a goodnight hug.”

My brain short-circuits. Run! Hug! Throw something!

“I…” My hand brushes the vase of flowers he gave me last week. Could I smash it over his head? Would it work, or would he just catch the shards and juggle them?

Before I can decide, he lunges, pulling me into a bear hug so intense it feels like he’s trying to squeeze the stuffing out of me. His chest is warm — like a preheated oven — and smells… coppery? Oh no. Oh no no no.

Then it happens. His ears elongate. His teeth sharpen. Fur sprouts like he’s a contestant on Werewolves Gone Wild.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan as his claws rip through my sweater.

He howls, a sound so ridiculous I half-expect him to pull out a karaoke mic. “This is why you didn’t eat dinner, isn’t it?” I shout, dodging his grab.

I grab the vase and smash it over his head. “Ow!” he complains, mid-transformation. “That was a wedding gift!”

“Well, so was my peace of mind! Now back off!”

I dart to the kitchen, chucking plates like frisbees. He ducks, one plate smashing into the wall. “Do you have any idea how much those cost?”

“Less than the therapy I’m gonna need!”

By the time I’m halfway to the back door, I hear his voice behind me. “Babe, let’s talk about this!” His human hands grab my wrist. The moonlight shifts again, and I see his sheepish grin.

“Listen, I might’ve… borrowed a vial,” he confesses.

“Borrowed?”

“You know, for science?”

“Science?!” I screech. “This is why we can’t have nice things!”

Before he can answer, the moonlight fully engulfs him again. His body twists back into a fur-covered monstrosity. “Oops,” he mutters, moments before his teeth sink into my arm.

I stare at him, my voice dripping with sarcasm as the blood trickles down.

“Great. Now I’m infected too. Happy now?”

He lets go, looking awkward.

“Maybe? Couple goals?”

I throw my hands up.

“We’re not doing this. I’m sleeping on the couch!”

His howl of protest follows me as I stomp to the living room. Marriage, am I right?

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See Chapter 1 : Howling for Divorce : Surviving a Werewolf Husband and a Kitchenware Apocalypse