Jessica looks at me with slightly wild eyes. "I don't want to be an omega. I like being a beta. Betas are stable and consistent and don't lose their minds once every few months."
"You're not going to lose your mind," I say, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "You're going to be fine. We'll figure this out together."
"Promise?" Jessica asks, and she sounds so vulnerable that my chest hurts.
"Promise," I say. "We'll get you to a doctor, figure out what's happening, and go from there. And if you do transition to omega, you'll have support. You'll have me. You'll have my pack if you need them. You're not doing this alone."
Jessica eats another donut and nods. "Okay. Okay, I can handle this."
"You can handle anything," I say firmly. "You're the most competent person I know. You're going to take being an omega and turn it into another thing you're unreasonably good at."
That makes her laugh, which was the goal.
We sit on the porch eating donuts and talking about her symptoms and making plans to see a specialist. The wood of the deck is warm under my bare feet. The sun is bright overhead. Jessica's hands shake slightly when she reaches for another donut but her expression is determined.
By the time she leaves, she's calmer. Still freaked out, but calmer.
Later that afternoon, I'm in the living room with my feet up again because they've somehow gotten even more swollen, when my phone rings. Unknown number from Montana.
I almost don't answer. But something makes me pick up.
"Sharon?" The voice is familiar in a way that makes my stomach clench. "It's Ben."
I sit up straighter, which is difficult when you're this pregnant. My back protests the movement. "Ben."
"I wanted to call," he says, and his voice sounds different. Steadier. Less desperate. "I wanted you to know that I'm stillclean. It's been eight months since Montana. Since you and Pine visited."
Eight months. Since that family day at the rehab facility. Since we drove four hours to see him and he apologized with clear eyes and genuine remorse. That's real time. Real progress.
"How are you doing?" I ask, because I need to hear it in his voice.
"Good," Ben says, and I can hear the truth in it. "Really good. I finished the program. Moved into a sober living house for a while. Got a job as a janitor at an elementary school. Been working the steps with my sponsor. Going to meetings. Doing the work."
The exhaustion in his voice is the kind that comes from actually putting in effort. From showing up every day and choosing to be better.
"I'm proud of you," I say, and I mean it. "That's real progress, Ben."
"I wanted to thank you," he says quietly. "For coming to Montana. For showing up when you didn't have to. It meant everything. It made me realize people were actually rooting for me. That I had something worth staying clean for."
My throat tightens. "We're glad you're doing better."
"I'm calling to apologize again," Ben says. "I know I said it before but I want to say it now that I'm further along in recovery. I'm sorry for everything. For how I treated you when we were together. For the wedding mess. For trying to use you. For all of it. You didn't deserve any of that."
I take a breath. The baby kicks under my ribs like she's reminding me that life moves forward. "No, I didn't."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he says quickly. "I know I don't deserve it. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. And that I'm trying to be better every day."
"I appreciate that," I say. "Really."
"Take care of yourself, Sharon," Ben says. "You deserve all the good things."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I sit there holding the phone, processing the conversation. Ben sounded genuine. He sounded like someone who's actually doing the work of getting better. The trip to Montana in the spring feels like it happened years ago instead of months. Seeing him in that facility with clear eyes. Hearing him apologize to Pine. Watching him take responsibility.
It doesn't erase what he did, but it's something.
Pine walks in from the extension where he was helping Grandpa with something and immediately reads my expression. "Who was that?"
