My phone starts ringing, the sound cutting through Mariah's high notes and jolting me out of my fantasy spiral.
It's probably Marcus checking in on me. Making sure I'm okay after last night. Maybe asking if I can come in tonight to cover another shift because someone called out and the weekend rush is always brutal.
I reach for my phone carefully, trying not to knock it into the toilet or drop it in the bathwater. My fingers are pruney and slippery with bubbles, making it difficult to grip properly.
I answer without looking at the caller ID.
"Hi, Marcus? Do you need me to come in again tonight? I can probably?—"
"Reverie! Hi, it's Charlotte Webb from Evergreen Media."
Oh. Oh no. It's the agent. The one I met yesterday when I went into the city for what I thought was a courtesy meeting but turned out to be a real opportunity that I'm definitely blowing because I don't have a pack.
I sit up too quickly, water sloshing everywhere, bubbles cascading off my shoulders. "Charlotte! Hi! I'm so sorry, I thought you were my other boss. Marcus. From the bar. Not that you sound like Marcus, obviously, you sound nothing like him, I just?—"
Stop rambling. Stop embarrassing yourself. Breathe.
She laughs, the sound warm and professional. "No worries at all! I hope you have a clear schedule though, at least until Christmas."
Clear schedule? Why would I need a clear schedule? Is she letting me down gently? Telling me they're going with someone else but phrasing it like a scheduling concern?
"Um, why?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady and failing spectacularly.
"For the deal, silly!" Her voice is bright, enthusiastic, like this is obvious. "Didn't you get the final paperwork? I express shipped it to your address so you should have received it. You just need to sign it and send it back."
Wait. What? The deal? Final paperwork? What is happening right now?
"Uh, no. Not yet. Must be early still," I manage to say, my brain struggling to process this information.
I'm working on getting out of the bath now, standing up too quickly, and nearly slipping on the wet porcelain. Water streams off my body, bubbles sliding down my skin. I grab for the towel hanging on the hook by the shower curtain. I turn on the tap, readying myself to pull the plug so it can drain and wash the bathtub from the glittery beauty of my bath bomb, but I decide to confront the obvious elephant in the room.
"Charlotte, I'm confused. How would I sign the final papers when I haven't found a pack yet? You said that was a requirement. That corporate policy requires pack representation for Omega talent."
I'm dripping all over my bathroom floor now, trying to wrap the towel around myself one-handed while keeping the phone pressed to my ear with my shoulder. The face mask is starting to itch and crack. My hair is dripping down my back in cold rivulets.
"Oh, but you do have a pack now!" Charlotte says cheerfully, like this is totally normal information. "Your pack leader came in yesterday afternoon, right after you left. He signed all the representation paperwork. Very professional, very thorough. Asked all the right questions about contracts and obligations."
Pack leader. My pack leader. The pack leader I don't have because I don't have a pack.
"What? I don't—I don't understand. I don't have a pack. I told you that yesterday. I'm?—"
The doorbell rings.
No. No no no. Please be my Uber Eats. Please just be the sushi delivery and not the express-shipped paperwork that apparently exists even though I have no idea what's happening.
I curse under my breath, clutching the towel tighter around my waist. It barely covers me—hitting mid-thigh at best. My hair is still dripping wet, leaving dark spots on the towel fabric. The face mask is definitely cracking now, probably making me look like a deranged swamp creature.
An Omega should not be answering the door in just a towel at 2 PM in the afternoon. This looks like I'm asking for a booty call. This looks like I have no self-respect or boundaries. This looks like?—
The doorbell rings again. More insistent this time.
"Charlotte, one second, I'm so sorry, someone's at my door?—"
I rush through my tiny studio apartment, nearly tripping over the rug that's perpetually sliding around on the hardwood floors no matter how many times I try to secure it with thatdouble-sided tape that never works. Past my bed that's really just a mattress on a cheap frame from IKEA with sheets that desperately need washing. Past the kitchenette that's barely big enough to make ramen without bumping into the mini fridge and singular burner stove.
Past the two pieces of furniture I own that aren't the bed—a thrifted armchair with questionable stains I've covered with a throw blanket, and a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks organized by absolutely no system whatsoever, spines cracked and pages dog-eared from multiple reads.
There's a tiny Christmas tree in the corner—three feet tall, fake, decorated with ornaments I've collected from dollar stores over the years. Twinkle lights are strung haphazardly along one wall because I can't afford a proper setup but refuse to let December pass without some holiday cheer.
