“You need to get your shit together,” I muttered under my breath. “It happened, and now you need to move the fuck on. You can’t control what other people do. You can only control how you react to them.” I definitely sounded like Gary right now, but I decided that this was going to be my mantra for the day. If I just kept repeating it, then everything would be okay...right?
Pushing away from the sink I scrubbed my hands over my face, and mentally psyched myself up. “Okay.Okay. Let’s do this.”
I was glad that none of the other people in the house were around to watch me act like a crazy person in the kitchen. Aria had left for the Prosecutor’s office this morning, planting a lingering kiss on my forehead before she left the nest, and Matteo had followed soon after getting an SOS phone call from the hospital.
I hadn’t seen Cobb or Theo at all today, and I was kind of glad for that. They definitely didn’t need a front-row seat to yet another Tibby Sinclar signature mental breakdown.
I just needed to throw myself into the day and keep myself busy, and maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to put all of my bullshit aside for at least a little while. That's what I always did when things were stressing me out, push those things down until they were more manageable. It had done the trick for me for years, so there was no reason it wouldn’t continue to work for me today.
And, by golly, it did work!
...for all of fifteen minutes.
I was halfway through measuring out the yeast to add to my bowl of the dry mixture, when my elbow knocked into the metal bowl sending it careening to the floor with a loud clatter. The dry mixture spread across the floor and all over my feet. It was a mess, a huge fucking mess. The anger that I had been unable to reach yesterday when the news initially broke, finally oozed to the surface.
The anger and frustration bubbled in my chest until I finally, without thinking, swept the entire bag of flour onto the floor to join the mixture. It was satisfying, for the briefest of seconds, but as I continued to stare down at the mess that I had made...shame filled my gut, and I put my face into my hands, taking a shuddering breath as my heightened emotions mixed inside of me and curdled like spoiled milk.
“Fuck!” My shout echoed throughout the empty living area, and I dropped to my knees, not caring that I was getting flour all over my black leggings. Using my hands, I began to scoop the flour back into the bowl and into the bag. I couldn’t believe that I’d let my anger get the better of me like that. If Gary could see me now he would point at the cheesy Bruce Lee quote poster that he kept tacked to his office wall: “A quick temper will make a fool of you soon enough,” it had said.
I was definitely feeling pretty stupid right about now.
I wasn’t normally an angry person. In fact, I prided myself on the fact that I had taken everything about my life in relative stride over the past ten years. I’d developed a thick skin and a snarky attitude, and I had almost been able to convince myself that I was happy, healthy, and whole.
But happy, healthy, and whole people didn’t chuck entire bags of flour on the floor because they were angry. Happy, healthy, and whole people didn’t crumble at the first sign of stormy waters. Happy, healthy, and whole people would take all of this in and figure out how to fix things instead of wallowing like I was.
I was starting to think that I had only ever felt strong and confident because I had been safe behind the walls of the Omega Academy. That thought was maybe the most depressing one of all, because I couldn’t imagine being stuck at the academy for the rest of my life, having my heats serviced by random alphas until I was old and gray.
That seemed like the only viable option, though, because how could I ask any pack to deal with all of the baggage that I brought along with me? I genuinely loved being around Pack Simmons—and yes, I am including Cobb in that grouping—but watching how their lives have been turned upside down for me...? That was the shittiest part of this entire situation.
They had gone out of their way to bring me into their home and protect me. Not only that, they showed an interest in me even if all I brought with me was a shit ton of emotional baggage and the potential of harm. I couldn't even do anything to repay them except to share myself—or at least try to.
And you’re sitting on your ass in the kitchen feeling sorry for yourself.I mentally chastised myself, sniffing away the tears that had been welling up in the corner of my eyes. I was so wrapped up in my own misery that I didn’t notice the hands that had begun to help me clean up the mess in front of me.
Warm brown hands that had neatly trimmed nails and cuticles and a little crescent-shaped scar on the side of the thumb on the left hand. Familiar hands.
“You don’t have to help me, Cobb.” I used the back of my hand to wipe underneath my nose, and looked up at him, “I made the mess, so I need to clean it up.”
I don’t know what I expected to see in Cobb’s expression when I finally forced myself to meet his eyes. Anger at the mess I made? Sympathy for the poor omega who couldn’t keep her shit together for longer than a twelve-hour stretch?
What I saw, however, when I finally garnered enough courage to look into his eyes, nearly blew me away. Cobb’s eyes, the color dark, french roast coffee, were full of so much compassion that I had to choke back a fresh onslaught of tears.
Cobb placed a flour-covered hand on my cheek. “Do you want to know what I do when things get too hard and I can’t seem to function anymore?”
I nodded, pressing my face more firmly into his palm and chasing his faint eucalyptus scent with my nose. Cobb pulled away, and I made a noise of protest as I lost contact with him. A flour-covered hand moved into my field of vision. “Come on.”
“But what about the mess?” I asked as I slid my hand into his and let him haul me up onto my feet.
Cobb pulled out his phone and was scrolling, looking for something in one of his playlists. “The mess will still be there in twenty minutes, Tibby.”
The Bluetooth speaker on the wall chirped, “Bluetooth connected.”
Cobb slid his phone into the back pocket of his jeans as the first guitar notes of Edwin McCain’sI’ll Bebegan to play from the speaker.
“Care to dance?” He asked, stepping away from me and once again holding out his hand to me.
I slid my hand in his, unsure of how he thought that dancing would help me work through all of my mental issues. “You do know this song came out in the nineties, right?”
Cobb grinned, “Yeah, what about it?”
