It feels like I’ve been pushed down and forced back to step one. Further even, since I don’t even have my own bed anymore. I’m just sequestering this couch in an already crowded apartment with four other college students. It’s been the longest month of my life.
Not to mention, I don’t trust Cindy’s roommates in the slightest. Every day, I wake up with the fear that more and more of my personal items will be gone, taken as collateral forthe weird omega girl sleeping on their couch. If any of them touch my yarn and crochet hooks, I may actually blow a gasket. An omega’s art supplies are sacred.
And I love Cindy, I really do. She’s my oldest friend. But being so close to her, being forced to see her every day, is reminding me of how amazing it was living with Rory. It was a dream, and now I feel like I’m living in a sunken reality. No kind words, no sincere reassurance, just bold honesty and tough love every which way.
Maybe I’m just sensitive. Maybe being my friend just isn’t that easy for her anymore. The freckled, wide-eyed girl I met in middle school—the one who stood up for me time and time again—mainly exists in my memory now. It’s like our charges have malfunctioned, and instead of being pulled together like magnets, we repel.
But she is my oldest friend. I want to make it work.
Every morning, I quickly change into my clothes so no one can walk in on me with my pants off. I pull out a small compact mirror from my early adolescence to put on minimal makeup, just enough so the flush in my cheeks looks more natural and less like my hormones are fluctuating at an irregular rate.
I throw on my favorite cardigan and prepare to leave, relieved that the tedious and weary process is over. Footsteps click down the hall–kitten heels that I’ve become familiar with for the past decade.
“Oh, good. You’re up,” Cindy says as she walks into the living room, her dark brown hair lying on her shoulders impeccably. She looks me up and down, eyeing the crocheted watermelons on my cardigan very closely. “You look so… bright.”
I try to give a light laugh. “I feel like you should be used to that by now.”
“Yes, but don’t you start that student teaching gig today?” she asks.
My teeth grit as I try to distract myself with the strap of my purse. I fiddle with it, then straighten out the little plush sunflower that’s hooked onto it. “I’m teaching elementary school. I think my outfit is perfectly appropriate.”
Cindy doesn’t say anything, just raises her brow and shrugs as if to say, ‘whatever.’
Luckily though, the reminder of my first day as a teacher’s assistant for the local elementary school gives me an unexpected boost. The stressful part was getting the right assignment last semester, but now that’s over. Today I will be officially teaching a 1st grade class for the first time, and I am stoked beyond belief. All I’ve ever wanted to do is teach, and now the reality is right here in front of me. No more lectures, language requirements, or humanities. No, just my full-time assignment to get some real experience under my belt for future employers.
The notion of today almost makes all of the anguish worth it. I love being a student, but now, being a studentteacheris even more exciting.
“Do you have many classes today?—”
“When do you want to start dating again?” Cindy interrupts as she reclines on the couch, her eyes fixated on her nails. The question comes out bored, like she hasn’t asked me more than ten times already, despite me telling her repeatedly that I don’t want toeverdate again. Much less ablinddate… especially one organized by her.
Not that I’ve given her a good reason. There have been many excuses that I can’t keep up with, but telling her it’s because I have ascent match? One that doesn’t know in the slightest? One that already has an omega? That is not information I want her to have.
I’m not sure why Cindy has such an obsession with setting me up on blind dates. She has a horrible track record when it comes to it. In fact, the worst date of my life was one she set me up on. Whenever I think back on it, my skin breaks out in a sweat. The alpha that recognized me, claimed to be my date, was not what I was expecting. He was foul, rude, and I spent the entire date wondering why the hell Cindy thought I would like him.
His vulgar language put me on edge, and the comments he made left me wary. There was no way for him to know that I had a rare disorder that caused premature heats, but the things he said terrified me, and I’ve been on blockers ever since.
The only good thing that came out of that night was running into Stacia and Rory. They were there to help me when I needed it, and it’s something I’ve never forgotten.
“I told you, that last date was horrible,” I reply. “I don’t want to ever experience that again.”
“It was a fluke.” She waves me off. “There’s creepy alphas everywhere. You’re bound to run into one.”
My fist closes over my bag strap, clutching it as hard as I can. I want to believe that itwasa fluke, but Rory’s voice echoes in my mind. She’s always been suspicious of what happened in that bar the night we met, but I defended my friend. I couldn’t fathom why she would set me up with a creep like that, so when she denied it and said the real guy didn’t show up, I believed her. I’m not so sure anymore. “It still doesn’t make what happened okay. And the fact that my real date didn’t show up, but that man pretended it washim…”
“Opportune moment. He was a creep,” she replies like it’s nothing.
I look at her, brows raised, and ask the question I’ve wondered for months. “Whowereyou setting me up with?”
She looks at me with suspicious, narrowed eyes but then her lethargic tone returns. “You know I didn’t do that.”
My body tenses. She says it like it’s a fact. Like she doesn’t have to say anything else to convince me. I used to believe her. But her insistence on pushing me back into dating leaves me hesitant. It’s as if she doesn’t even care how traumatic that date was for me. She should be accepting my boundaries, but she keeps interfering. I think she’s always been a bit pushy.
But if being friends with Stacia and Rory has taught me anything, it’s healthy communication. So, despite my reluctance, I open my mouth and say, “That last date was just that. Mylast. It makes me uncomfortable that you keep pushing me to reconsider it. So, please let this be the last time you ask me.”
Cindy blanches. “But what about?—”
I cut her off. “I’ll figure it out.” It doesn’t matter why the dating started in the first place. My desperate need to find an alpha or a pack was pushed along by something out of my control, but that doesn’t matter now. The worst has already happened.
