After decades of staying mostly in beta circles and following the motto ‘safety first,’ I venture totally, utterly, and completely out of my comfort zone. My hands sweat as I find a parking spot for my zipzap and start down the side street.
I look like I fit in this neighborhood, despite wearing jeans and a casual long-sleeve shirt under a tan trench coat, having worked from home all day. I elected not to dress up since Nathan specifically suggested we have a ‘casual’ meal at his place this morning, amid a flurry of texts asking endless questions about what I liked to eat.
Nevertheless, I’m out of place here.
There are definitely betas among the people walking to and fro along the quiet side street, but this isn’t a majority-beta neighborhood. These townhouses may resemble the rows of similar brick-faced dwellings elsewhere, but each is just a bit larger. The arrangement of windows is subtly different, too, in a way that suggests at least half, if not, all include an omega suite complete with nest. The prevalence of blackout curtains is another clue.
But the biggest indicator? The underlying notes of alpha and omega musk that infuse every breath, practically coating the back of my throat. Other scent notes come and go as I walk from the cross-street tram line along sidewalks, most notably a hint of rotting vegetation from fallen oak and maple leaves; still, enough alphas and omegas pass along this street regularly that hints of musk clings to the stone walkways, clapboard fences dividing narrow lots, and even bushes and well-grown trees.
Young children play in a few lots, their high, shrill voices speaking in several languages in addition to English: French, Spanish, Tamil, and another, which I can’t place. Their chatter echoes against the walls as they toss balls and chase each other in big looping circles under a sky increasingly streaked in reds and pinks as the sun heads toward the horizon. Parents watch from windows or sit on doorsteps or, in a very few instances, perch on thin porches jutting out from the brick facades.
Some parents nod and wave at me—those children who notice certainly do—but with a distinct edge of wariness. I’m a strange alpha on their territory and, therefore, need to be watched until proven under control.
The variety of houses and their differing conditions—most well-kept, but a few in need of repair—speak to a neighborhood at least somewhat diverse in terms of wealth. Likewise, the children’s words suggest diversity of cultures, as do the varied food smells drifting on the wind, distinct from the ever-present musk: freshly cooked tortillas, barbecue smoke, garlic, and a nice, hot curry.
Despite the other examples of variety, at a guess, nearly every house on this block holds a pack, large or small. The betas around probably belong to packs, though there may be one or two beta-style families tucked in among the rest.
So different from the solidly beta neighborhood of duplexes I’ve lived in for decades.
What am I doing here?
I don’t belong and yet I do. Daily baseline dose of suppressors notwithstanding, I’m adding to the layer of musk as I pass on my way, counting up the door numbers toward Nathan’s.
The suppressors are keeping my alpha settled without my having to resort to the added dose bottle in my coat pocket. A very good thing, since threads and hints of unbound omegas drift among the layered musk. We pass at least two unmated omegas, one young enough to be my child but the other closer to my age. Fortunately, my alpha shows no inclination to turn and follow them.
I’m not so sure how he and I will deal with Nathan without Johanna around. Alpha relations run a wide gamut, and I’m as inexperienced in that as I am in exploring pack life.
But I agreed to this condensed round of ... is this speed dating if we’re all aiming for the same pack in the end?
I could still pull out and retreat like a snail to my safe, comfortable shell of a house, though I don’t want to.
This feels like getting a chance at a do-over of sorts, at the life Johanna and I could have had if I’d gotten on suppressors earlier. Then again, maybe not. In any case, there’s no use dwelling on what-ifs. Better to deal with the present reality: which is Nathan dressed similarly to me—including jeans—opening his door.
We exchange pleasantries as I mount the steps, and he ushers me into his home. The front door opens directly into a large, open room with an overstuffed, sectional facing a sizable wall-mounted screen. At the far end sits an open bar separating the living area from a bright, yellow kitchen, from which wafts the scents of roasting garlic and tomatoes.
These mingle with Nathan’s just-snuffed candle scent and a sweet nutty aroma whose source I don’t have to wonder at as myankles are attacked by two friendly cats. A big short-hair tabby twines around one leg while a small black cat with a long, sleek coat stands on its hind legs, uttering meows, and paws at my knee.
I’m an alpha on another alpha’s territory—but the cats make it clear this is their home and regardless of any tension between Nathan and I,theywelcome me. Well, either that, or they just want me to pet them or feed them.
My home has been petless since my twins grew up and moved out, my son taking his dog with him. However, a cat rules the roost next door where my twins’ mother lives with her husband and younger children. Since we co-parent, a feline-dominated house feels a little like home.
Of course, these cats are far friendlier.
“Meet Fluffy and Fluffier.” Nathan must be used to seeing expressions of surprise and doubt as reactions to hearing the names, for he immediately continues with a wry grin, “Both female. My youngest was a teenager when we adopted them. He thought the names were funny, and somehow, they stuck. They don’t exactly answer when called, anyway.”
I pick up the longhair, presumably Fluffier. She’s smaller than I thought—only six pounds max—mostly hair and bones, with a slightly frail quality hinting at age. She purrs, and my alpha purrs back as Nathan leads us through the living room to the kitchen. The other cat meows and stalks ahead, going straight to a set of food bowls, each with a layer of dry food, and giving Nathan an imperious look.
Despite the warm, garlicky aroma lingering in the air and making my stomach rumble, the kitchen is spotless. All surfaces gleam with no hint of dust anywhere but also few signs that a human actually lives here, other than a few photo magnets on the fridge door. Cans of cat food sit on the counter, but there’s nofruit or the kinds of veggies kept at room temperature, no bottles of oil or vinegar near the stove.
No coffeemaker or toaster, either.
Surrounded by four mismatched chairs, the round table in the center of the room has been set for two. The plates are basic white porcelain, the utensils simple stainless steel. Neither shows much personality—not what I’d expect of a well-established lawyer with grown children.
On second glance, the living room also feels unfinished. There’s nowhere to sit other than the sectional, though faint depressions in the carpet suggesting other furniture once occupied the room for long enough to wear the fibers down. Dark patches on the half-bare walls indicate more art than remains once decorated the room.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“Since my youngest was little—something like twenty, twenty-two years?” He’s looking around the kitchen, blushing, as though seeing it for the first time. “I don’t really spend much time here. I’m usually in the office, and when I come home, I go straight to my study upstairs, formerly our elder daughter’s room, or my bedroom, which used to be our son’s.” He pauses before adding, “I can’t bear the emptiness of the room I shared with them.”
