She tries to smile again but her chin wobbles. She hides it behind her hand as she steps back, keeping her eyes on the floor and closing the door.
It’s not like I don’t know Simona’s situation but she’s always so serene in her acceptance it makes us all forget. Although, her gentle avoidance is actually her standard defence mechanism.
While the oven preheats, I have a super quick shower myself, reluctantly washing away King’s scent on my skin but tonight needs to be about Sim, and not me.
Changing into a pair of jeans and a singlet top, I mash together some corn chips, sprinkle handfuls of cheese over them and jam the tray in the oven. Next is our set up. We have a ritual that Raney started but all our squishy seats have to face outside, the lights have to be off and fluffy blankets are mandatory.
I’m wrestling the top off the wine when a knock at the door has me stashing the bottle and doing a quick check of our living room for contraband.
Grabbing the dressing gown we use for the regular Unity room checks, I shimmy my jeans off and am tying the belt when I open the door.
“Good evening, Tristan,” Omega Mother Beatrice says quietly, her eyes lower politely like we’ve been shown.
Honestly how this woman knows I’m not returning the preferred greeting gets me, but she waits patiently until I stop staring at the flowers in her hand and I look down to the prescribed place before she looks up and talks.
“I must start by expressing my disappointment at both you and Omega Simona for not following our rules. At Unity, Omega Tristan, we pride ourselves on providing a safe place forunbonded Omegas to court packs, but you both have neglected to advise the front office you are in the process of courting.”
“We are? I mean, what?” I splutter, trying to properly articulate words into sentences. If I had my way, I’d be telling her to shove her archaic rules up her butt but I’m still processing she thinks not only me, but Sim is courting.
Taking a steady breath, because it is expected, I start again. “Sorry, Omega Mother Beatrice, the beautiful flowers in your arms distracted me. I have to admit on top of being overwhelmed I really am surprised about having to advise the front office.”
“Perhaps this is a good reminder that instead of your time at Unity gossiping with your girlfriends it would pay for you to occasionally listen to what we discuss in class.”
And it’s not like I can argue against her comment, but now I’m keen on finding out who the flowers are from and opening the small gift bag that has my name on it along with an envelope.
“Apologies, Omega Mother,” I answer, going all out on being as simpish and agreeable as possible. It’s positively nauseating, I seriously feel sick at how unnatural it is.
“Both of you will need to come to the office to complete the required paperwork.”
“Of course.
“The front desk is not a flower or gift couriering service.”
“Oh gosh, I completely understand. Thank you for bringing them. Simona and I were just about to settle down for the night with a cup of hot cocoa while we share our favourite positive affirmations.”
She hums, her nose raising judgmentally high. “Perhaps you are listening in class. I will not record an infraction for either of you.”
“Thank you. We both appreciate your understanding,” I manage without upchucking in my mouth. And I kind of surprisemyself, pulling off this submissive bullshit because in the next moment, before she says another word, Omega Mother Beatrice hands the haul over.
“Goodnight, Omega Tristan.”
“Goodnight, Mother. Thank you again and see you in needlework next week.”
Another hum and she walks off, as polite as she can. But in each step, you can see how pissed she is. As I watch, I realise how much I’d fucking hate to live life with all those bottled-up emotions and having such bad fashion sense.
“Is it safe?” Simona whispers from inside the kitchen.
I shut the door. “Sim, you sure as hell have some explaining to do. Look at these flowers… they’re incredible. They must have cost more than…”
“I know, Tristan.” She groans, turning her back on me and her floral arrangement to open the wine and take a guzzle straight from the bottle.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure Sim’s sadness is because of the douche Alpha or Alphas who sent her the flowers. I stash them in the cupboard and hang up the dressing gown before shutting the door.
“Get a glass,” I mumble, walking around the island bench to switch off the oven and pull out the blackened nachos. “Jesus.”
“Honestly it’s lucky you’ve got some money in the bank because I’m pretty sure you’re going to need a live-in chef or something.” She laughs as she comes over and stabs a finger at the charred remains of our comfort food.
“Imagine if I could cook, all those poor restaurants and cafes would be out of business.”
