Chapter 50
chapter
fifty
It’s Wednesday.
Thank God .
I don’t think I could survive another hour without seeing Bridget. Especially today.
Clouds meander across the sky above me. The kind that are just thick enough to block out the sun, but not dramatic enough to signal a storm.
Fitting.
I shift on the blanket I laid out in Bridget’s backyard, calling her name when I hear her cooing to Munchies. Her footsteps clack toward the back porch, and her red head pokes out of the French doors.
“Salty? Are you outside ? In the daylight ?”
My mouth kicks up despite the bittersweet slicking my insides. “Just get over here, Bubbles. I have snacks.”
It’s really more like a picnic. But we’re not going to dwell on how pitifully romantic I’ve become.
Because then I would have to tell you just how glowy Bridget’s skin looks in today’s blue blouse. And how the navy eyeshadow she chose somehow turns her eyes lighter and her freckles darker. And the way both of those little details make my chest—and my sweatpants—tighter.
Hell .
I’ve hardly even touched this woman.
And she owns me.
Especially when she bounces over and plops onto the blanket without skipping a beat. She stretches out beside mine, highlighting how much taller I am. When I lift my head and find her feet level with my calves, I chortle.
Bridget sighs dramatically. “Always so damn salty. What are we going to do with you?”
Good fucking question.
I ignore the cosmic irony of her joke and reach behind me for the plate of food I assembled. Bridget chooses a strawberry and chews it thoughtfully, watching the clouds drift over us.
They don’t seem to bother her, which is annoying. Here I was, wallowing in the overcast weather like it’s some tailor-made omen of impending doom. But this little omega smiles, points to a particular patch of white fluff, and chirps, “Look, a duck!”
Which would be annoying .
Except she’s so damn cute .
I snatch the hand gesturing at the lackluster sky and bring it to my lips, deciding the whole hands-to-ourselves thing will end now. When I brush a kiss over her knuckles, bright, sugared perfume seeps into the air.
Mm. Good fucking ? —
“Your heat is coming soon,” I rumble, nipping at her thumb. “I can tell.”
Bridget frowns at the sky. A sharper edge lines her essence. “I think it’s going to be early.” Her shoulder bumps mine. “Too many alphaholes hanging around.”
My grin is short-lived. It fades into a solemn expression as I turn to face her. “Do you still want us to leave before your heat?” I ask quietly.
She blows out a slow exhale, gazing pensively overhead. “It’s not as simple as what I want .”
But it literally is. At this point, I can’t imagine her going through that alone—mostly because the thought makes me feral .
Pretty sure the four of us would go out of our minds. Worrying about her. Hating whatever volunteer alphas tend to our omega with every fiber of our beings.
Dante would probably end up living in his car, parked across the street. Adrian may not even be able to walk out the front door.
And if they’re traveling for road games…
Fuck .
Am I going to be able to stay away?
“Adrian’s made it clear you’re all willing to—what is called— pinch hit ?” She wags her eyebrows at her own joke, but I sense the way her bright sweetness dulls to a subtle citrus tease. “I don’t think I can do it, though.”
Trying to understand other people’s emotions is new for me. But for her?
I picture Bridget going to a clinic, knowing exactly what to expect. “Because it would be different?” I guess.
She snorts quietly. “No. I’m pretty sure I’d love the differences.”
The urge to leave her to her secrets is strong. I’ve never been one to delve into anybody’s innermost thoughts. But if she’d left me alone in mine, would I have gotten up the courage to call the doctors today? Would I be going in to determine the fate of my career this week?
It’s odd to realize we have this habit in common—hiding our soft parts. She does it with bubbles; I do it with salt. But we’re the same.
Which means she needs me the way I needed her.
I push an exhale out of my nose and hold her hand in both of mine, turning to face her again. “Bridget,” I murmur, frowning when her mouth wobbles and her scent keeps dissipating. “If there’s ever anything you want to tell me, I promise I won’t say a word back.”
She bites the corner of her lip, considering.
Her eyes fall closed a second later, her expression one of total devastation.
“If you stay,” she starts, slow and scratchy, “I’ll never want you to leave.
I’ll want to bond . And one day, you might meet someone you’re all scent-sensitive to. A true mate .”
I hear the pain layered into that one word. The longing and sorrow. I fight to keep my mouth closed, honoring my promise to let her get it all out.
Pain glows in her soft blue eyes when they flutter open and fly to mine. “I won’t have mates.”
Something buried in the deepest part of me squirms. Nausea and a breathless sort of denial rush into my diaphragm.
But what can I say? We’d know by now if we were her mates.
Her scent is just strong enough for me to sense its blade. Feel the way it carves canyons in my lungs. Strong enough, sure… but if it were right, it wouldn’t hurt .
It’s fucking infuriating. How can she be so utterly, epically perfect —even with this one lingering, stinging streak of pain ?
She rewards my tense silence with an answer.
“When my perfume came in, my parents knew something was… off . They took me to see every omega doctor and specialist they could find, but no one could figure out why my scent just got worse . It started off as some super-sharp version of lemon cream, but then it just got so acidic …”
She doesn’t need to tell me. I’m tasting it right now. The electric edge of bitterness that pricks my tongue on each inhale. When Bridget sees my nostrils flare, she swallows hard. A heartbreakingly humorless smile curves her mouth.
“It’s actually gotten a lot better,” she mumbles. “It was really bad in high school. And college. But either way, it will never be right , like omega perfume is supposed to be. And alphas won’t ever feel that scent-sensitive pull for it.”
She sighs, shaking her head. Her smile grows into a genuine, achingly wistful thing. “You guys, though? There’s no way you don’t have a mate out there. And once you find them, I know you’ll be everything they ever dreamed of.”
Fuck. My heart . Agony cuts a jagged path through the stuttering organ. Then cleaves it into fourths.
Because this look on her face… Bridget wanted mates. And picturing her, younger and less confident, sitting in some damn doctor’s office. Being told she would never have the security and love she needs.
Fuck .
There’s more than that, though. Painted into every pained crease marring her pretty face.
She wants to be our mate.
She wishes we would be everything she’s ever dreamed of.
But here she is, smiling for me. Earnestly hoping there’s someone out there to make us complete. Someone she thinks would be better for us than her.
How could that be true?
Who could be better than Bridget?
I growl, unable to hold my silence when a fat tear rolls down her cheek. She lifts her free fingers to my mouth, gently pressing them to my lips before I can say anything.
The look on her face—I can’t breathe . “Shh,” she tells me gently. “You promised.”
She’s right.
Always right. But this time? I hate it.
All of this is so fucking unfair to her. And she isn’t even angry about it.
She shifts to her side, finally looking back up at the sky. “Did I ever tell you why I’m friends with Betty?”
Her mind works in the funniest ways, but I’ve learned to go with it. She’s brilliant—and I’m just lucky to be along for the ride.
When she shoots me a meaningful look, silently releasing me from my pledge not to answer her, I rasp, “No.”
She bites her lower lip again, considering how much to share. I dare to scoot close enough to rest my forehead against hers, dropping my voice into a whisper. “Tell me, baby.”
Her scent swells, just from that one simple endearment. The cracks in my lungs start to tear. Bridget quietly sighs at the sky.
“Because I understand her,” she murmurs, scanning the clouds. “Being old and bitter and mean; that’s just her armor. And I get that. Having defense mechanisms so no one ever looks too closely at why you’re alone… I’ve lived that way for a long time. I think you have, too.”
Goddamn it.
Goddamn it.
My chest shudders, a purr ripping from my very soul. She smiles at it, the expression as soft as her fingers, grazing a tender path over my temple, combing my hair back. Her brows pinch as she changes the subject again. “Your scent is different today. Deeper, like the ocean after a storm.”
That’s a nice way to describe the overwhelming tide of anxiety I’ve been treading all afternoon.
I let my eyelids fall shut and focus on the places where we touch—our foreheads, our fingertips, our shoulders—hoping I can keep from panicking when I admit, “I called the doctor and made an appointment. To go see about playing. They’re going to run tests. ”
Her perfume dulls, the sweetness and acidity fading to the subtlest of scents. “Why now?”
So smart , I realize again. Always cutting to the chase .
I think I might… love that about her.
I open my eyes to stare into hers. “Because going to your school last week made me realize how much I miss baseball. Even the piddly bullshit like high school teams. I can’t explain it—but the game makes sense to me in a way nothing else does.
Even that crappy field felt like coming home.
And the more I thought about it… I’m not ready to be done. ”
Bridget absorbs every word, slowly nodding. “Then you’re not done.”
Our fingers entwine as she squeezes my hand. “I’m proud of you, by the way,” she whispers. “For calling and making an appointment.”
God .
Maybe there are a lot of things I love about her.
I smirk to clear the tightness in my throat, hoping a half-smile will hide the fear clawing at my chest. “Yeah, well. I felt pretty good about it until I came out here and saw this bullshit.”
I throw my free hand toward the overcast sky. Bridget darts a quick glance upward and breaks into a true grin. “Oh, come on. They’re just clouds, Salty.”
I continue complaining in an effort to entertain her more than anything else. “Mm hmm. Clouds. Gray. The endless gloom of a meaningless existence. No big deal.”
She laughs, a musical sound that warms my jittery insides. “I have an idea.”
But she doesn’t elaborate. She waits, gazing at the swirling slate sky like she has nowhere else to be.
I eventually nudge her shoulder with mine. “Well?”
“Patience,” she giggles. “Just keep your eyes up above for a while, okay?”
I follow her instruction, relaxing on the blanket. My mind drifts, and the clouds do the same, swirling, spilling errant beams of gold while I consider all the secrets our omega shared.
Minutes pass by, but neither of us speaks. A warbling birdsong and the hiss of nearby sprinklers blur into the breeze. Leaves whistle, and the sun gradually starts to sink.
“Keep watching,” she whispers, so I do.
And then I see it.
Nothing has changed. The sky is still overcast, with thin patches of blue between gauzy gray. Until the sun starts to set.
First, the gold glow lining the gossamer edges of the cirrus strands gets stronger. Then, a tinge of orange creeps into the mix.
More moments pass. Now there’s pink layered between the frothier puffs. And all the big, gloomy masses I thought represented eminent doom?
They’re lavender .
Before our eyes, a muddle of melancholy becomes… beautiful .
I see her point before she explains—if we had a clear blue day, these colors would be a thin band on a distant horizon. Instead, they reflect across the whole sky, filling big swaths with bright bursts of color, shifting and tumbling into new vistas.
Because of the clouds.
Bridget nestles closer to my side. “I’ve always thought it was sort of amazing,” she murmurs, “how the ugliest skies make the best sunsets.”