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I've always enjoyed that about Ophelia, her straightforwardness. My mother commented that I'd been less subtle of late—what she really meant was less practiced at subterfuge—but I appreciate candor, and Ophelia has it in spades. She's not quite as blunt as her mate, Enzo, but I think he's rubbing off on her.
"No, everything's fine. Truly. I'll figure it out," I lie, offering a small smile. It probably looks ridiculous through all the tears and rubbed-red skin.
She hums. "Dude. Are we friends?"
I lean back, "Of course we are. You've done so much for me. You're a wonderful friend!"
She waves her hand, "No, I haven't. You won't let me do anything. So… tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."
I shake my head, "No, it's not… It's complicated. It's my mess. I'll figure it out." Then I sniff into the tissue, and with tears streaming down my face, I'm sure I'm very convincing when I hiccup, "Everything's fine."
Ophelia never does what I expect, which would be a big hug or further assurances. Instead, she laughs, and it's so unexpected, I laugh, throwing a clean tissue at her. "I can't believe you're laughing at my pain!" I cry, but the hint of my real smile hidden beneath the wet cheeks is real.
"Sorry, it was just the least convincing lie you've ever told. You're usually so good at that."
My smile drops, and I sigh. "Ophelia—"
"No. If we're friends, you'll let me help. And if you won't let me help, at least unload your burden. That's what friends are for. If you really don't want to tell me what's wrong, I get it, and I won't bug you about it again. But it kind of seems like you might need someone to talk to. When you didn't answer your phone, I tried calling the club… Roxy told me you quit."
My wet, soggy lashes lower, and I wipe away the heavy tears that mostly stopped. I do want to tell her what's wrong. God, I need to tell someone. But it's not so easy. She's so close with Red and his pack. And she has a huge grudge against people like my parents.
That either means she's in the best position to give me advice, or the worst.
I take in her earnest smile, pleading eyes. I haven't had a genuine friend in years, not since I left the Academy in California. And the friends I did have… I'm not sure we would have stood the test of time. Not because they weren't good people, the omegas I grew up with. But because they had their own struggles, too. There were two classes within the system. Those who were fully on board with whatever propaganda the OFA preached, and those who wanted more independence but felt like we didn't have the resources to push back.
Ophelia pushed back. Ophelia's brave. Maybe she can teach me how to be brave, too.
"Okay… hypothetically speaking…" I hedge, and her eyes light up, leaning closer to me on the couch. I adjust, snagging the closest blanket and wrapping it around me. God, this is so hard. "What if I told you I wanted to be with Dante Pack?"
The brightness in her smile dims, but only a little. A thoughtful expression takes over, and she tilts her head. "Okay… hypothetically, if you wanted to be with Dante, if you were into Dante Pack, do you think they're into you too?"
She's doing a good job at not judging, but there's a tendril there, the same doubt I'd heard in Roxy's voice. Dante must have done a good job convincing everyone they wouldn't touch an omega with a ten-foot pole over the years. Good thing I cured them of that; now they think they can just go out and start courting an omega because, for some reason, Iggy now thinks he's safe to be with. Oh no.
My stomach churns. Is that what happens now? If I don't figure this out soon enough, they'll start courting someone else?
"Imogen!" Ophelia shouts, but it's somewhere in the background. I feel sick. My heart races, and I scramble off the couch, made all the more difficult by the blanket I've wrapped myself in, my legs tangle as I struggle, finally freeing myself and running to the bathroom, making it just in time to heave into the bowl.
I'm not surprised when Ophelia follows me in. Rubbing my back, she whispers encouraging words. When I think I'm done being sick, I lean against the wall. Ophelia hands me a cap full of mouthwash, and I take it, spitting it into the sink, then sit back on the floor next to her.
"Hypothetically, what if they were my scent-matches?"
She gasps, her back hitting the bathroom cabinet. "I think you should tell me everything."
I nod. "I've been wearing scent-blockers for the club. And they're very good, as you know. So when I spent my heat this past weekend with them, they had no idea I was their scent-match. I'm pretty sure I yelled things like, bite me, you're my mate, etc., but they probably just thought it was omega-delirium."
Stunned, Ophelia keeps opening and closing her mouth. Eventually, she says, "This is huge. Like, massive. They spent your heat with you? And they didn't even know you're their mate? Imogen, that's huge!"
I shake my head no, crawling up from the bathroom floor and heading back into the kitchen. I keep running from the conversation, but like a good friend, Ophelia follows behind, never letting me be alone with my misery.
"It's huge and also… they don't know who I am to them."
"Why don't you tell them?"
I pull leftover pasta takeout from the fridge, something I never used to eat but has become a staple since I've been staying in South Loop. I'm still feeling depleted from the heat, so I take a few bites. "For starters, they found out I'm engaged to Stevens."
"Oh shit," Ophelia cringes. "Shit! That was me!"
"What was you?"
