Even if it breaks my heart when it ends.
Grayson nods in agreement. "Theo, can you send that number over? We should probably coordinate before?—"
A soft snore interrupts him.
Theo. The bastard is already asleep in the backseat, his head tilted against the window, his breathing deep and even.
Grayson and I share a look—the kind of long-suffering expression that comes from years of dealing with Theo's ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and become impossible to wake once he's out.
Waking that man up is like trying to revive the dead. We've tried everything over the years. Loud noises, cold water, physically shaking him. Nothing works until his internal alarm decides it's time to be conscious again.
"I guess tomorrow morning we'll have to find our new fake Omega," I mutter, resigned to the situation.
Grayson pulls into the driveway—gravel crunching under the tires, the motion-sensor lights flickering on to illuminate the house and garage. "You think this is going to be a good idea? With the holidays coming up and everything?"
Do I think pretending to be the pack of an Omega I'm already half in love with based on one elevator conversationand watching her get kissed by my packmate is a good idea? Do I think fake claiming someone for a business deal when we all clearly want her for real is smart? Do I think we can pull this off without making it complicated?
I laugh—the sound is slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "I don't fucking know, man. But we'll have no choice but to find out."
CHAPTER 13
Special Delivery
~REVERIE~
ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOUUUUU?—
I'm belting out Mariah Carey at the top of my lungs, completely off-key and absolutely not caring one bit, because my tiny bathroom has surprisingly good acoustics that make my terrible singing sound almost tolerable and nobody can hear me anyway through these thin-but-not-that-thin walls.
I'm soaking in my bathtub—and I use the term 'soaking' very loosely because I can barely fit in this thing that was clearly designed for someone significantly shorter than my five-foot-six frame. My knees are bent at awkward angles that are going to leave marks. My back is pressed against the cold porcelain that never quite warms up no matter how hot the water is. And every time I shift position even slightly, water sloshes dangerously close to the edge and threatens to flood my already questionable bathroom floor with its peeling linoleum and grout that's probably older than me.
But despite the cramped quarters and the fact that my tub is approximately three sizes too small for any human withlegs longer than a ten-year-old's, I'm deeply committed to this moment of self-care that I desperately need after the emotional rollercoaster of the past twenty-four hours.
Morning self-care. Even though it's clearly afternoon—2:17 PM according to my phone sitting precariously on the closed toilet seat lid—and I haven't even had breakfast yet. Or lunch, technically. Details. Completely unimportant details when you're practicing the fine art of treating yourself.
I've got a green tea face mask slathered on thick enough to make me look like Shrek's long-lost cousin who got into the good moisturizer. The kind that promises to 'detoxify and rejuvenate' and costs three dollars at the drugstore, which is about my skincare budget these days. My hair is piled on top of my head in a messy bun that's already coming undone and dripping honey-gold strands into the bathwater, turning the clear liquid slightly murky with whatever products I used yesterday.
There are bubbles everywhere—vanilla-scented because I'm nothing if not aggressively on-brand with my aesthetic—threatening to take over my entire bathroom like some kind of sudsy invasion force. They're cascading over the edge of the tub in places, creating little foam mountains on the floor that I'll have to clean up later but refuse to worry about right now.
The Christmas music is blasting from my phone's tiny speakers that really weren't designed for this volume level, filling my cramped apartment with holiday cheer and Mariah's legendary vocal runs that I'm absolutely butchering with my enthusiastic but completely untalented rendition.
My apartment is... well, it's not much to write home about. A studio that's generous to call a studio—more like a large closet with delusions of grandeur and a kitchenette. The entire space is maybe four hundred square feet if you're being extremely optimistic with your measurements. The bathroom is so small you can sit on the toilet and wash your hands in the sink at thesame time without stretching, which is either efficient design or a building code violation depending on how you look at it.
The bathtub is wedged into a corner like an afterthought by a landlord who realized at the last minute that bathrooms need tubs, barely long enough for me to lie down without my feet hanging over the edge or my shoulders cramping from trying to fit my entire body into a space clearly not designed for comfort.
The walls are thin enough that I can hear my upstairs neighbor's footsteps and my next-door neighbor's surprisingly active love life. The heating is unreliable at best—either blasting me into a sauna or leaving me to freeze in multiple layers of blankets. The windows don't seal properly, letting in drafts that make the curtains flutter even when they're closed.
But it's mine. I pay the $500 rent every month with money I earn myself through serving drinks and creating content and cobbling together whatever freelance work I can find. Nobody can take it away from me or use it as leverage or threaten to kick me out because I'm not being useful enough. Nobody can walk in here uninvited and tell me I'm not contributing enough or that I need to be more grateful for the roof over my head or that I should just accept my role and stop wanting more.
Freedom is expensive. Freedom is cramped quarters and cold bathtubs and not quite enough hot water to fill the tub properly. Freedom is choosing between heat and groceries some months. But it's still freedom, and I'll take expensive freedom over comfortable captivity any day of the week.
I ordered Uber Eats this morning—well, technically forty minutes ago which is definitely not morning anymore—which I absolutely should not have done when I'm literally scraping together pennies to pay next month's rent that's due in two weeks and my suppressant prescription that I still need to refill and the electric bill that's going to be absolutely brutal thiswinter when I have to choose between being warm and being financially solvent.
But today feels like it warrants an exception to my usual strict budget. After the night I had, after everything that happened at the bar, after experiencing the kind of sex I didn't even know was possible, I deserve a little treat. Some fancy sushi from Sakura Downtown—that place I've been eyeing for months but never let myself order from because twenty-three dollars for raw fish feels absolutely obscene when you're living paycheck to paycheck and sometimes choosing between name-brand and generic mac and cheese feels like a luxury decision.
Today is an acceptance. An acknowledgment that sometimes you need to splurge on yourself even when your bank account is actively crying. That sometimes good things happen—miraculous, unexpected, life-changing things—and you're allowed to celebrate them even if your checking balance is giving you anxiety and you really should be saving every dollar for emergencies.
Besides, I picked up that extra shift last week. And I got a decent tip from that bachelor party that came through on Thursday. So technically I can afford it. Technically. If I don't think too hard about what 'afford' actually means when you're always one emergency away from financial disaster.
