She snorts. “And how’s that working out for you? Are you happy?”
Am I happy? The answer should be simple, but my throat closes around it.
“I thought so,” Charlie says, not unkindly. “Look, I’m not saying burn your life down tomorrow. Just… start small. Sayno to something. Wear the wrong thing. Twerk in public—on purpose this time.”
I laugh. “Is that your life philosophy? Do the opposite of what’s expected?”
“Mostly. It pisses people off sometimes, but I sleep well at night.” She grins again. “And I eat what I want. And I say what I think. And I never, ever pretend to be something I’m not.”
“My mom says an omega should be demure.”
“Fuck demure!” she shouts. “I dare you to be the opposite of demure. Try it. It’s liberating.”
There’s something undeniably attractive about her confidence. Not in a romantic sense, but in the way you’re drawn to people who seem to have figured out a secret you’re still struggling with.
It’s refreshing.
“Anyway,” she says, “Oxford is inside. He’s been giving Everett the cold shoulder all morning. I think he may prefer your company.”
“Really?” I feel absurdly pleased by this.
We head toward the barn together, and I find myself walking a little taller.
Charlie has this energy that makes me want to match—like if she can face the world with her pajama pants tucked into snow boots and not give a damn, maybe I can be a little less demure and a little more… Melody.
8
Oxford
Last night’s “hot mess” approaches the barn, though the fermented grape scent has diminished considerably.
Beside her walks Charlie, the one who speaks with admirable directness and hasn’t combed her hair in a week.
An interesting pair: one repressed, one expressive.
If Dr. Hersey were here, she’d consider them an excellent case study in contrasting coping mechanisms.
I stand perfectly still, observing them through the barn door, maintaining my professional demeanor while secretly pleased that Melody has returned.
Not that I’d ever admit such a thing aloud… if I spoke in the human language, which I obviously don’t.
“There he is,” Charlie announces, pointing at me. “Oxford the Magnificent.”
I appreciate the title.
Melody’s scent has stabilized since last night. The vanilla notes are more pronounced, less muddled by alcohol and emotional dysregulation. However, there’s still a hint of clove, indicating some baseline anxiety, but she generally appears to have regained her composure.
“Hello, Oxford,” she says, her voice soft.
I hold her gaze as I assess her condition.
Slight puffiness around the ocular region suggests inadequate hydration. Tension in the temporalis muscle indicates a lingering headache—classic post-intoxication symptomatology.
“We’re going for a walk,” she tells me.
I stare, processing this.
I have been walking Granny May on her daily walk for three years; logically, the older woman needs exercise. I’m confused about why I also need to walk Melody.
