Kit’s eyes widen with surprise. “Okay,” he replies, getting up from his spot on the floor. “That’s good to know. I assumed you enjoyed my presence a little bit, but I’m glad I make you happy in some regards.”
I shake my head. “No, not like that. I mean, you make me happy as a friend, too, but that’s not what I’m trying to say.” My hand immediately goes to the back of my neck in distress. “Imeant…” I try again and stop short. He’s watching me, listening intently, and waiting patiently. I feel like a mess as I work through the way I’m feeling, but he stands strong, considerate in every way.
“You make me happy when you fiddle with your hoodie strings,” I start, the words finally flowing like water. “You make me happy when you burn freaking scrambled eggs, and when you play your TV a tiny bit too loud because, for some reason, it helps you concentrate. You make me happy when you ask about my hockey schedule and when you leave your shoes by the door after a long day, and when you let me sniff whatever candle you’re about to light just to make sure the scent doesn’t bother me.
“You’re one of the most caring people I’ve ever met. You always check to make sure we’ve locked the doors at night. You keep the pantry stocked with my favorite protein powder even though I’ve never asked you to do so, and it touches me every day to look and see that you’ve added more to it. And in Connecticut?—”
Kit holds his breath, momentarily stunned by my confession, his scent bursting with anticipation.
“When you held my hand, it was the happiest I have ever felt. I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life. But the thought that you didn’t know that… that’s unbearable. I need you to know what you mean to me.”
“What do I mean to you?” he asks.
“You’re my firsteverything.” The sentence is stuttered, the truth scary on my tongue, but it also brings a bout of relief.
“Holy shit,” he whispers. A sheen coats his rich green eyes as he inhales sharply, finally breathing in some air.
I continue, “Kit. I was afraid before. But my biggest mistake was not letting you in onwhyI was afraid.”
“You can tell me anything.”
I know that now, which is why—when I open my mouth, and the truth flies out—it finally feels easy.
“I’m demisexual. I’ve never been with anyone. I don’t know how to react to it or go through the motions, because this has never happened before.”
I swallow as Kit’s eyes flash with something, like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Thatcher… I would have never rushed or judged you.”
My head shakes on its own, unsure. “I know that. You’ve always been educated and understanding, even more than me, which is why it’s been hard. I don’t fully understand itormyself. I still don’t know what it means for me, but I think I’m ready to try. Rather than running away from it.”
He gets closer, so close the heat of his body pushes up against my skin in a soft caress.
“I want us to try again,” I whisper. “But if it’s too late, I understand. I just couldn’t go another second without telling you how I feel. How IknowI feel this time.”
He nods, a gentle smile appearing as he wipes a tear from his eye. “I’d like nothing more than to try again. Can I hug you?”
The words aren’t even out when I pull him into me, desperate for his skin against mine. When he rests his face in the crook of my shoulder and sighs, my alpha feels content for the first time in my life. There’s a shaking then, a vibration that feels foreign as my chest revs into a purr. I could cry as it stirs into a steady rhythm. Here I was, worried that I’d never get to have this, when the opportunity for it was sitting right in front of my face. Kit burrows himself into me further, finding himself at home in my arms.
“Don’t give up on me, yet,” I say quietly into his curls.
“I never have,” he whispers back, and my heart melds backtogether with the words. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and now I need to do whatever I can to show my omega that I mean it.
TWENTY-FOUR
There are a lot of things I can ignore. Thatcher’s occasional body odor after practice. Sam’s workaholic tendencies. My parents forgetting about our weekly phone call because one or both of them are in surgery unexpectedly.
But when I walk into the kitchen on Friday morning and see Opal taking a foreign capsule with her coffee, it hits me somewhere in the gut. Blockers are little white pills, and they almost always look the same unless someone buys the expensive kind, but these weren’t that. These were large, full of little blue beads. And when she saw me a second after swallowing it, her eyes turned into saucers before she leveled her face and overcompensated with cheery morning talk.
If I’ve learned anything about Opal over the past few weeks, it’s that she has two very different diversion tactics. She either goes quiet or she talks up a storm. The latter is exactly what she does now as she explains how excited she is for the day, how her class is having a party, and how she bought all of these decorations for it. I let her continue, and listen intently while she goes on and on about how the different kids wereexcited for the party and how they couldn’t wait to have cake and watch the movie the teacher picked. She is so focused on her excitement that I think she forgets the reason she started ranting to begin with, which almost made me forget it, too.
But the image of that pill finding its way into her mouth is stuck in my brain. I can’t decipher from memory what it is. I thought I knew what every pill looked like, but this one is leaving me stumped. The fact that it’s bothering me so much is another sign that something isn’t right, and somehow I know that if I asked her, she wouldn’t tell me the truth.
Opal is such a ball of light, but she isn’t immune to darkness. There are hidden crevices holding secrets buried beneath the radiance. There’s a mysteriousness lurking within her that calls to me, reaches out its hand, and beckons me forward. At first sight, she seems like an open book, but I know that there’s a side of her that she doesn’t let anyone else see.
And I think Thatcher got a glimpse of it.
I can’t help the dopey smile that takes over when the grouchy alpha comes to mind. He’s not cross without reason. I can see that now. Everything is starting to make sense to me, and the picture of how this pack was meant to be is slowly coming into focus. I have to keep my senses clear to push the pieces in the right direction. Thatcher needs time to realize, and Sam needs to let go of the idea of creating the perfect pack. Because I think we might have our missing piece right underneath our noses, they’re just too caught up in their own nonsense to recognize it.
I feel it so instinctually. My soul recognizes Opal’s in every possible way. Now, I just need to be there for her until she realizes it, too.
