"There's a bench over there," Marie notes, nodding toward a shaded spot under a tree. "Less commotion."
"That's fine."
I paste on what I hope is an easy smile. "You guys stay together. I'll be right there. Penguins aren't going to watch themselves."
"Vee," Eli starts, and there's a warning in his tone.
I don't want a scene.
The kids at the end of the table are already looking at us.
"I'm okay. Really. This just looks chaotic."
Marie's scent tightens, a little triumphant twist she probably doesn't even notice.
"We can move my bag," she offers, voice too sweet.
I imagine sitting there, squeezed between her and a stranger's sticky child, pretending I don't feel like I've been measurably excluded.
"It's okay."
Before anyone can argue, I pivot away, tray balanced carefully.
The bench Jasper pointed out is half in the shade. I sit in the dappled part, facing the penguin exhibit down the path.
From here, I can see my pack at the table.
They look like a postcard.
Ragon listening to Marie talk with that intent tilt to his head. Drake stealing fries, making her laugh. Eli, profilestoic, saying something to Jasper, who has finally settled at the far edge, half-facing me.
I eat my burger in small, mechanical bites.
It tastes like cardboard.
I'm not mad at anyone in particular.
I'm mad at the geometry of it.
One omega gets the center.
The other adjusts.
The penguins save me.
After I give up on eating, I dump my trash and wander down the path, pulled by the sound of water and kids shrieking about tuxedo birds.
The enclosure is big—rocky outcrop, a glass viewing window that looks into the water where slick black-and-white bodies torpedo past.
Penguins are ridiculous.
They walk like drunk toddlers and swim like tiny gods.
I watch one waddle to the edge, hesitate, then belly flop into the pool with such commitment that I snort.
Another tries to steal a fish and gets shouldered into the water for his trouble.
"Rude," I tell them through the glass. "That was uncalled for."
