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"Sleeping. He's—did he tell you about his sleep patterns?"
I shake my head, and Cass nods. "He's got pretty bad insomnia. So when he crashes, he oversleeps. "
Red coughs under his breath, "Understatement," but Cass just shrugs, amused.
"So… he's oversleeping?"
"He didn't sleep much when you were… Well, not here. When things were unsettled." Technically, they still are, but I feel more solid with them than ever. "He's just catching up. You can wake him up any time, he's not dead to the world. Plus, I think with the hole in his bedroom wall, all that light will probably force him to wake earlier," Cass snorts.
"Oh my goodness, he broke the wall for the nest into his own bedroom? That's terrible!" I gasp.
Red rubs my shoulder. "Don't fret, angel, it's all good. We're just moving some walls around, making more space for you. We actually kept Iggy's bedroom, we're just moving it to the opposite side and making it a lot smaller, so the nest has a bathroom, which we'll all need. Don't worry about it, I promise, he's good."
"Yeah, Iggy won't hesitate to complain if shit doesn't go his way," Cass laughs, and Red joins in. I don't understand the inside joke, but I will say, Iggy is a strange mix of overemotional, prone to outbursts, yet hyper-focused and dominant, completely in control; it's unusual, but perhaps that's one of the ways he copes.
I save worry for the nest for later. In truth, with all my OFA training, it's ingrained in omegas to expect their alphas to build a nest, to provide. It's not that I didn't think Dante was capable of it, but, after everything, I suppose I worry about putting too much pressure on them to live up to the expectations I've grown to have.
Red tells Cass we'll be busy today since he's taking me on a date, which I'm so excited about. I'm embarrassed I'm still in yesterday's clothes, in a dress I'd worn to meet my mother, no less, but Red assures me it's not a problem.
Holding my hand, he leads me downstairs to his charming, beat-up old red truck, which looks like it belongs more as a movie prop than his primary transportation, but it makes it more fun to ride in. On our short drive to wherever we're headed, Red tells me he and Iggy, and even Cass, love to work on old cars, and it's one of the reasons they bought the warehouse.
He tells me they're always busy, trying to provide for their neighbors and their employees, and now, working with Ophelia, setting up the dominoes to bring down the mayor and Madam Fletcher, the director of the OFA, so he doesn't have as much time as he'd like to tinker.
Red spits Fletcher's name, and I refrain from sharing my own encounters with the woman. She seems nice on the outside. I don't think her intentions come from a nefarious place, but I do think she has a very specific worldview and refuses to grow or see reason. Not that I've ever argued with her; I would never.
Much like everyone else at the OFA, when I first arrived in town and attended some events—to introduce my presence, unveil my unbonded omega status, as she and my mother put it—Fletcher has poked and prodded at my body, complimented the quality of my obedience, on my downcast gaze and serene expression. She'd told my mother I was perfect. In fact, I believe that was the same event I'd met the Stevens Pack at.
We omegas never had a chance.
"Red, forgive me if this is out of line, but I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what happened to Alma. Ophelia has told me a lot about her, and I feel like she and I would have been great friends. Years too late, I'm afraid, but I am sorry for your loss." The OFA has done so much harm, and not just to omegas.
Red squeezes my hand before letting go and grabbing the clutch between us, turning the steering wheel to parallel park the truck. After turning off the engine, he turns to me, blinding me with his smile. He's too pretty for his own good, I swear I'd let him get away with anything.
"Thank you, Imogen. Alma was good people. What happened to her wasn't right. We'd never have lasted as a couple, it was high school stuff, friends more than anything, but it doesn't change how I felt when she died. It was hard. But I have my pack, Phe, now you…"
He sighs, the rattle of the truck engine finally quieting, the engine scent making Red's even stronger. Staring out the window, he says, "Death is hard on the living. When we lose people, we try to make sense of it, rationalize it. Search for the cause, the root, the reason. Anything to get our minds out of just experiencing the grief, feeling the loss. We do anything not to feel the pain. I'm sad she's gone, their parents, too. I've spent the last eleven years, me and Phe, feeling that hole get a little bit smaller, but if it ever goes away entirely, it'll leave a scar. The good news is, the smaller the pain gets, the more I actually can focus on the reason she died. Maybe we can't change the way omegas are treated worldwide. But I have to believe we can do some good, even just here, in Arrow Cove."
"And maybe that good will spread," I nod encouragingly. "I believe that. Completely."
Red winks then climbs out of the truck. I open the door, but he's already there, holding my hand, helping me down. In my heels, I'm nearly able to meet Red's eyes. So light, the antithesis of Iggy's, really, where Iggy's eyes feel like they hold mountains of secrets, Red's feel open, taking everything in. Lost in the haunting icy color, I lift on my tiptoes and give him a kiss.
I pull away first and follow Red in hand a few stores down. We reach a non-descript shop, and Red bangs on the glass door. A minute later, there's a loud grumble, "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" It sounds like quite the labored process, several locks unclicking, the door rattling, when finally, a beta woman opens the door.
"You're early," she grumbles, then steps back inside, letting the door fall closed behind her. Nervous, I look to Red, who doesn't look offended; he just holds the door open for me, and so I step inside, immediately at ease by the soft lavender scent of the store.
The walls are lined with various costumes, and in one corner, wigs of all kinds. Some appear for everyday wear, others more elaborate or decorated. "Betty's a seamstress. This is her shop," Red explains, leading the way to the back of the empty store, obviously still closed.
"It's a costume shop?"
"Yeah. But she also does repairs, makes custom pieces… she's a jack of all trades. Does a lot for us at Queenie's."
I nod like I'm supposed to know what that means. We find Betty, who we've clearly woken up for the day, at the back of the store, inside another room that looks like her workshop. It's overwhelming the number of fabrics and lace lining the walls, hanging off mannequins and racks.
"Alright, your requested pieces are here." Betty points to a clothing rack with a handful of black bags zipped up, hiding the material within. "Along with the order from Judy's shop, here," she points to a small velvet chest sitting on the table.
Red's grinning. I don't know what makes him so happy, but seeing him smile so big makes me happy. Betty harrumphs and turns on her heels, escaping out another door at the back of the room. I hear her footsteps stomp up a staircase.
Red's still grinning.
