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I’m too afraid to speak up, though. What if they decide I’m not worth keeping now that they’ve decided to peddle stale, generic pastries instead of mine?
Instead, I took every knock their boss threw at me, hunching and lowering my eyes every time I was barked into submission. My quivery nerves eventually gave out, though, and I wound up choking down whines and swiping tears out of my eyes for most of my shift.
It was a relief to get home and have a proper breakdown. But even an hour spent crying on the floor of my closet-nest isn’t enough to make me feel anything, other than terribly alone.
I haven’t stopped thinking about Meg’s thinly veiled offer to sign me up for a scent-matching service. The fact is, I need to find a good pack as soon as I can. My suppressants won’t work forever. And the thought of having to go back to a heat clinic terrifies me.
As much as I wish I had a fairy tale like Meg’s, most packs are not scent-sensitive like hers. Of the ones who are, even fewer meet by chance. Most use scent-matching companies… and Forever Matched is the best of the best.
Am I crazy to turn this offer down?
Should I get over all of my silly hopes and dreams and face reality? Or is that settling?
I hate being my best friend’s charity case. Before I turned eighteen, my whole life was trash bags full of donated clothes; Christmas gifts given to me by church charities; treats passed over by strangers with pitying smiles.
I don’t know why this feels so similar, but it gives me that same clench of humiliation in my gut. Embarrassment that I’m in this situation in the first place… and heartbreak that I know exactly why.
The fact is, finding people who want me has always been hopeless. I mean, it sort of makes sense; my own mother surrendered me at birth. If she didn’t want me, what use was it trying to convince strangers to take me?
Still, I spent years spinning plates on my nose, doing everything I could be loveable to the families that considered me. Nothing ever worked. And the only alpha I’ve ever had a connection with made it clear I was firmly in his friend zone—and barely there, at that.
Thankfully, my body never had a chance to betray my attraction to him. The same day I found the sweatshirt in front of my door, my designation came through, and I was promptly “re-homed” to a facility for single omegas without family or guardians.
Meg was my roommate. Sometimes, I wonder if the universe knew I needed a distraction—and the reassurance that there were, in fact, more pitiful new omegas than me.
The poor girl didn’t know anything about our designation. I leaped at the opportunity for a new mission to divert me from my misery. Projects were one of the many coping skills I honed over the years. Sometimes, I feel like I have dozens.
See a happy family walking down the street and feel a pang in your gut? Sing a happy song to yourself.
Need a way to get through holidays when you have no one to spend them with? Try that new baking technique that will take hours to perfect.
Feeling lonely and depressed in your new apartment all by yourself? Paint the walls pink.
Trying to forget your mortifying crush on a hot almost-alpha and the way his borrowed hoodie made you perfume for the first time? Give the new girl a lesson on slick-absorbing panties.
I pull my borrowed (stolen) sweatshirt over my face, huddling down into it. Pretending it’s a blanket and not a relic of all the things I used to think I could have.
How much longer am I willing to live like this?
And what happens when I can’t do it anymore?
chapter
five
There’s a moment at the beginning of every game.
The lights go out. The music swells. And some disembodied voice says my name.
It shouldn’t be me. I shouldn’t be here.
But that’s the thing about me: even when every odd is stacked against me? I’ll make it.
When I realized I hated living with my biological parents? I somehow charmed my way into people’s houses for a weekend, a summer, a semester.
When I realized I’d never pass my high school classes on my own? I happened to date smart girls who helped me get by.
When my grades still weren’t good enough for college, and I had to find some other way to make money? Well, thank God I was good at hockey.
