Then she pulls out her phone.
And I have to physically stop myself from recoiling.
"What the fuck is that?"
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, my voice dripping with the kind of disgust usually reserved for finding mold in the refrigerator or stepping in something unidentifiable on a New York sidewalk.
Mabeline looks up at me, her expression shifting from neutral to annoyed in the span of a heartbeat.
"It is a phone."
"That is not a phone." I gesture at the ancient device in her hand like it personally offends me. Which it does. "That is a relic. That thing belongs in a museum. Is that an iPhone 8? No, wait. It looks older than an 8. Is that a 6? Did they even make phones that old?"
"It is a 6S, actually." Her voice is clipped, defensive. "And it works just fine."
"Works just fine?" I stare at her like she has grown a second head. "Can that thing even run apps? Does it have storage? How do you take pictures with that, a disposable camera from 2005?"
"I do not take pictures."
"Everyone takes pictures."
"Not everyone." She is glaring at me now, those hazel eyes flashing with defiance. "All that matters is it works for essential calling. I do not need the latest anything."
I huff, shaking my head in disbelief. "That is the saddest thing I have ever heard."
Cal, the traitor, chooses this moment to lean over her shoulder, peering at the phone with exaggerated horror.
"Sorry, MaeMae," he says, and I notice the nickname. Notice how easily it rolls off his tongue. Notice how she does not flinch away from him despite how close he is standing. "But that shit is prehistoric. Like, when the dinosaurs were made prehistoric. I swear we are on iPhone 19 going on 20. That thing is from the Stone Age."
"Dinosaurs were not made," Mabeline mutters. "They evolved. And then they died. Much like my patience for this conversation."
Okay. That was almost funny. I am not going to acknowledge that it was almost funny.
She cringes slightly, looking down at the cracked screen of her ancient device.
"But... it works?" Her voice is smaller now, uncertain. Like she is second-guessing a decision she has made a hundred times before.
Cal does not say anything. The fucking bastard just stands there with his eyebrows raised, letting the silence speak for itself.
Etienne, who has been quiet this whole time, clears his throat.
"Even if it works," he says, his voice gentle in a way that makes me want to punch something, "would it not be better to have something more functional? That phone looks like it has been through a war."
"It has been through several," she admits. "Beatrice the Second is a survivor."
"You named your phone Beatrice?" Cal asks, delighted.
"I name everything. We have discussed this."
"I must have missed that conversation."
"It was riveting. You would have loved it."
I watch their exchange with growing irritation. The easy banter. The way Cal is smiling at her like she is the most interesting person he has ever met. The way Etienne is hovering nearby, ready to jump in if she needs support.
When did my packmates become her personal fan club?
"Can that thing even hold twenty contacts?" I cut in, because apparently I cannot help myself. "Does it have enough memory for basic human interaction?"
