"Not to an omega. Just to each other as alphas."
"Right. Of course." Because why would they want an omega when they have each other?
I crawl under the dresser to retrieve my lipstick, bumping my head on the way back up because apparently coordination has left the building along with my dignity. Perfect. Now I look like a woman who's been in a fight with her furniture and lost decisively.
"Sav? Are you still breathing over there?"
"I'm here." I stare at my suitcase, calculating whether I can fit enough professional composure inside to survive three months in Pine Hollow without having a complete emotional breakdown in public. "This changes things."
"I need you."
"I need my sanity more than I need money." (This is a lie. I need money desperately. But my pride is apparently still functioning.)
“You need to face whatever unfinished business you left behind in Pine Hollow, and to stop your best friend from going insane. I did a shitty thing, but with the best intentions. I know you’re not happy. And I want more than anything for you to be happy. I love you…”
I look at my reflection one final time. Hair finally curled, makeup applied with the precision of a professional, suppressants working overtime to keep my scent neutral. I look like someone who has her life together. I look like a successful wedding planner who definitely doesn't survive on ramen noodles and stubborn optimism.
Too bad looks are more deceiving than a politician during election season.
"I don't have unfinished business. I have regrets that should stay buried like old pets in the backyard."
"Xavier volunteering to pick you up from the bus station doesn't sound like someone who considers your relationship buried and forgotten."
My phone buzzes with another text. I glance at the screen like it might bite me.
Xavier: I should probably mention that Logan, Griffin and I live together. In case that affects your decision about the ride.
My laugh sounds sharp and brittle in the quiet apartment, like glass breaking in slow motion. "He tells me now. After I've already agreed to let him pick me up."
"What happened?"
"Xavier casually mentions that Logan and Griff live with him. Right when I'm about to say yes to the ride." I grab my phone and type with the fury of a woman whose day keeps getting worse. "This is like a romantic comedy directed by someone who actively hates happy endings."
"At least he gave you a heads up,” Emma says.
“Yeah, but you should have done that.”
“I hate having these types of conversations. Fine," I say, closing my suitcase with enough force to probably damage the zipper. It protests but holds, which is more than I can say for my emotional state. "I'll plan your wedding. I'll work with your fiancé's pack of devastatingly handsome groomsmen. I'll pretend that seeing them again doesn't make me want to reorganize their entire lives and then flee to another state with better coffee shops."
"That's all I'm asking for."
"But Emma? If this goes badly, if I embarrass myself or ruin your perfect wedding or have some kind of public emotional breakdown in front of half of Pine Hollow, I'm blaming you entirely."
"That's completely fair."
I drag my suitcase to the front door, then remember I forgot my laptop charger. Back to the bedroom. Then I remember my portfolio of wedding photos that I'll need to show other potential clients who might want to hire someone whose life isn't falling apart. Back to the living room. Then I remember my good camera, the expensive one I bought when business was still promising instead of a cautionary tale.
This pattern continues for twenty minutes. Suitcase to the door, remember something essential, back through the apartment like I'm following a treasure map drawn by someone with short-term memory loss. My organizational skills, usually my greatest professional asset, seem to have abandoned me entirely. I'm like a headless chicken with a business degree and anxiety issues.
Finally, suitcase by the door, laptop bag over my shoulder, portfolio in hand, I'm as ready as someone can be to return to the scene of multiple romantic crimes. My apartment looks sad and empty, like a life on pause. Bills stacked on the kitchen counter like a paper monument to financial stress. Dishes inthe sink forming their own ecosystem. The broken coffee maker presiding over everything like a symbol of recent failures.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Me to Xavier: The ride would be great. Thank you for offering.
Xavier: Looking forward to seeing you again.
I stare at the message until the words start doing a little dance across my phone screen. Looking forward to seeing you again. Polite professional courtesy or something more meaningful? With Xavier, it's impossible to tell. The man could make a grocery list sound like a medical journal entry.
