Just like Mom clings to Dad's clothes, I clung to the idea that someone wanting me back meant I was worth something. Not because I loved him. Because letting go the first time had felt like admitting he was right about me all along.
The love Mom shared with Dad was good and real and everything a marriage should be. But even that kind of love becomes a cage when you can't let it go.
Callum was never that kind of love. He was just me being too scared to believe I deserved better.
I shift my legs over the side of the mattress and immediately notice something wrong.
My skin feels too tight.
Like I grew three sizes overnight and my body hasn't caught up yet. Every nerve ending is firing at maximum volume. The sheets feel like sandpaper. The sunlight feels like it's burning through my retinas. Even the air feels heavy, pressing against me from all sides.
The omega symptoms Sharon warned me about.
They're worse. So much worse than yesterday.
I make my way to the bathroom on legs that don't feel entirely mine. The hallway is a gauntlet of smells. The musty old books in the spare room. The lemon cleaner Mom probably used on the floors before she left. Something floral from the garden outside drifting through a crack in the window.
It's too much. All of it. Every inhale brings a flood of information I don't know how to process.
By the time I reach the bathroom, I'm sweating.
I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection. Same hazel eyes, though the circles underneath them are darker than usual. Same round face, though my cheeks are blotchy from crying. Same body that Callum called "soft" when he was being nice and "too much" when he wasn't.
But my eyes look... brighter? More alert? Like someone turned up the contrast on my entire face.
And my scent.
I lift my arm and sniff, then immediately wish I hadn't. It hits me like a truck. Louder. Like someone took my normal scent and ran it through a speaker system.
Is this what other people smell when they're near me? Is this what alphas smell?
The thought makes my stomach flip.
I splash cold water on my face and try to get a grip. I need to call Mom. Ask about doctors. Figure out what the hell I'm doing.
My phone is on the nightstand where I left it. Still turned off from yesterday. I should probably turn it on. Check my messages. Face the consequences of what I did.
Or I could not do that and instead hide in Mom's house for the rest of my life.
Option B is looking pretty appealing right now.
I turn on the phone and brace myself.
Fifty-seven missed calls from Callum. One hundred and twelve text messages. Twenty-three voicemails.
I don't read any of them. I just scroll past, heart pounding, until I find Mom's number.
She picks up on the third ring. "Jessica!" Her voice is bright but worried. "Sweetheart, how are you? I've been checking my phone constantly. Are you okay? Did you eat? Did you sleep? Did you see the money I sent you?"
"I'm okay. Thanks for sorting out the car. Mom, I have a problem."
Mom knew I had no money, and sent me some. I want to cry. "I need help."
"What's wrong?" Her voice shifts, goes serious.
"Everything. My body. The omega thing. It's getting worse and I don't know who to call or what to do and—"
"Slow down. Breathe." I hear rustling on the other end. The sound of her moving somewhere quieter. "I'm here. Tell me what you need."
