13. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Ursula
A fter my date with Mavren—and my third soul-bearing confession of the morning—I am exhausted and outright famished.
He took it unexpectedly well. In fact, his own sister had been in a similar situation to mine—so he had zero judgements to pass.
I had been so in my head that I was surprised when I emerged into the kitchen—our catered lunch fare of sandwiches, salads, and two hot plates balancing simmering soup pots atop their burners—and none of my fellow contestants yet free from their dates, only several camera crews positioned to catch every second of potential drama after today’s scent card conversations.
Warily, I sidle up to the huge white stone island, serving myself a cup of cheddar broccoli soup, half a turkey sandwich, and a wad of actually decent looking salad dressed with a balsamic vinaigrette.
In the back of my mind, I realize that this is the first meal that I’ve walked into alone since I got cornered by Brittney without the relative safety of onlooking cameras.
Numbly, I allow myself the thought, I wonder how many of the guys I’m courting are going to exchange scent cards with her. Before I push it away, unwilling to walk further down that road.
I’m talking myself down, scolding myself not to tongue the metaphorical canker sore at the very idea that I might get beat out in romantic competition by that witch. I’m minding my own business and grabbing a tall bottle of ginger lime seltzer when that sickly sweet bubblegum scent burns at my nose hairs, a lithe, tanned arm unexpectedly linking through my own.
“Oh-em-geee Ursula, I have been looking all over for you!” Brittney squeals, her friendliness as fake as her bottled blonde hair.
My blood runs cold, and I do my best not to just freeze and play dead at the shock of her voice, her touch.
“You…have?” I do my best to smile, my voice quavering ever so slightly.
“Of course I have, bestie .” She grits through a plastic smile of bared sparkling white teeth. “You should come over and sit with me and the girls.” She bats her lash extensions at me, an unspoken threat in her perfectly contoured and cut-creased face.
“Oh, okay.” I give a quick glance around the room, looking for Roxy with no luck. “Um, where are we sitting?” I ask nervously, just as I spot the mean girls seated at the low table at the far end of the lounge, just outside the kitchen and dining area.
Great. If I do follow them, there’s a good chance that Roxy will wait up for me in the kitchen and might not even notice I need to escape from bitch mountain. I ditch my food and seltzer and grudgingly go with the flow.
“So, Ursula–” Brittney crows as soon as we’re through the double doors and nestled into the couch with her fellow haters-in-waiting. “Who are you exchanging scent cards with?” She puts her hands on her chin, Jesse, Suzi, and Kara, watching eagerly, like vultures circling a carcass.
I don’t know what I hate more—that she’s approached this with such a disingenuous veneer of friendly decency, or that she’s done it directly in front of the cameras and I’m due for a villain edit if I don’t play nice and answer her with matching saccharine sweetness.
“Oh, I um—hadn’t actually decided on all of them yet.” I do my best to evade sweetly, still chained to Brittney by our linked arms.
My haphazard dodge works, if only just for a moment.
The highlighter dusted space beneath Brittney’s right eye, twitches nearly imperceptibly before she corrects her course, continuing her pursuit,
“Oh, totally fair hun, I just mean—who do you already know for sure you’re gonna swap with?” She squeezes my arm with hers until the sensation skirts the edge of pain.
Frantically, I hazard a glance over my shoulder—hoping that Roxy, the cavalry, is already on her way.
No such luck. I’m going to have to fend off the wolves myself for a while longer.
“Um, well—definitely Mavren,” I begin, a little satisfied grin beginning to crawl across Brittney’s face now that she’s once again in the practice of getting exactly what she wants.
“Ooh, okay—Mr. Top Chef , who else?” Brittney prompts.
Suzi and the others back her up with a chorus of leering ‘yeah who else’ and ‘Who? Who?’ like some kind of daft parliament of owls.
They funnel me onto the couch, one of the mobile camera teams setting down before us so close that I could kick the principal photographer.
“Er, well, there’s Ronan.” I wriggle uncomfortably between Brittney and Kara, hating myself for naming names—but unable to stop myself all the same.
“Eugh,” Kara groans—the other three girls making sour, scrunched faces.
I’m about to ask what’s wrong when Brittney volunteers, “Oh my god, that man is such damaged goods! He started trauma dumping like two seconds into our first date.” She gives a little shudder before looking at me.” But, I guess if the two of you are the types who are always looking for a ‘ fixer-upper ’ it would be a good fit,” she offers innocently, her tone patronizing but still aspartame-sweet.
I know that I shouldn’t care about what someone like Brittney thinks about me. That this kind of behavior from another adult woman just screams that she’s actually the one who’s insecure and a mess—not me.
Knowing that and feeling it are two very different things, however. My thinky brain may understand that Brittney is embarrassing herself on camera—being so outright nasty to me when I’ve done nothing to her. My lizard brain though? I’m in full on fight or flight—and in the claws of a predator like Brittney? I’m not trying to go head to head, I’m looking to make a break for it.
I sink into the couch, as if I can simply slip into the crevasse of cushions between Kara and Brittney and disappear from this nightmare scenario.
“Ok–but like, who else ?” Kara pinches my arm less than playfully, and I actually yelp in surprise at the pain—drawing a chorus of cruel giggles from the rest of them.
I can feel my bottom lip wobbling, the salt of tears burning at the corners of my eyes—but I will not allow them to see me cry. I will not be undone by them in front of the cameras. I refuse.
“What about you, huh?” I laugh, so breathless that the sound comes out almost like a sob—my attempts at sounding casual and friendly all but dashed by the fragile, sorrowful sound. “Here I am—giving away all my secrets before I’m ready… I don’t know if I should say the rest.”
The smile stays on Brittney’s face, but the heat from her sparkling gaze is pure hatred. Her bimbos in waiting all exchange curious glances with one another before turning their faces to their leader—awaiting Brittney’s final word.
“But I asked you first, hon .” She grits through her toothy smile—an edge of warning in her tone as she tosses her blonde hair over one shoulder.
“Yeah, we’ll tell ours after—for sure!” Jesse pipes in, quick to back Brittney up.
“Totally!” Suzi echoes, the flicker of hope that I might be able to escape from this trap without giving up my entire dating pool dying in my chest.
I narrowly avoid looking directly down the barrel of the camera lens in some kind of fourth-wall-breaking call for help, and do my best to keep my poise as I jump through Brittney’s flaming hoops of bullshit.
“Ash and Teddy,” I blurt the next two, hoping that I can just sprint through these answers and slither out of here.
I’m wondering how my strategy is going to fare until I see Brittney’s manic grin falter at the sound of Ash and Teddy’s names.
Shit. She’s going after both of them, isn’t she? We’re going down—mayday! Mayday!
“Wow, Ash and Teddy?” She purses her lips in a nasty little smile, as if she’s holding back laughing out loud. “I…didn’t really think you would be each other’s type.” She sneers with poisoned sweetness, her eyes traveling up and down my body meaningfully as she speaks.
I have to roll my lips over my teeth to keep my mouth from trembling, my lashes fanning up and down too fast, trying desperately to keep tears from spilling down my face.
“A-and, Lysander, that’s it. Lysander makes five total,” I blurt, barreling onward in an attempt to keep Brittney and her committee of vultures off balance.
This draws a loud bout of laughter from all four other women on the couch. I blink, not quite yet understanding what this new cruelty is playing at.
“Oh my god ! Of course, if literally anyone is going to talk to the fucking Rain Man and decide to go on a second date with him—it’s going to be our little Ursula .”
Rage lights within me at her words, burning away my tears, my terror with anger–pure and searing.
“What the fuck did you just call Lysander?” I snap back, surprised with the venomous heat in my words.
All four women shrivel at the sudden appearance of my spine.
“I-I-I,” Brittney stammers, thrown off balance by my righteous anger.
“ Rain Man ,” I supply, wrenching my arm from her hands and shoving off of the couch—spinning around to face her and Suzi, Kara, and Jesse—the same women who had been preying upon me only seconds earlier now cowering under my severe gaze.
“Had to stop yourself from using another r-word, didn’t you?” I hiss just below my breath. I’m not wearing a lavalier mic, so this particular twist of the knife is meant for Brittney and her minions alone—the camera crew scrambling to get a shot of me facing the girls on the couch.
Brittney’s lips set in a grim line, and I can tell that she and I fully understand one another now.
I’m about to swoop in for the proverbial kill —when a warm hand claps over my shoulder.
Roxy. Finally, the cavalry has arrived.
“God, I can’t be five minutes late, can I?” Roxy laughs dryly, draping her arm across my shoulder.
“ Britters ,” she chirps with fake sweetness, flipping Brittney the bird.
“C’mon Ur-zilla,” Roxy pats the top of my head with pride before swinging me around, guiding me toward the lunch spread laid out for us. “Adrenaline is a hell of an appetizer, but let those mean girls have it—there’s two bacon avocado club sandos over there that have our names on them.” She snorts dismissively, keeping us steadfastly on course for the catering.
“ Girl ,” Roxy breathes low, squeezing me against her side as we reach the edge of the kitchen island, Brittney and her ghoulish girls still sitting on the couch—vibrating with poison whispers. “Where did that bit of bite come from!?” She shakes me slightly, her look approving, if not a little incredulous.
“Did you hear what she called Lysander?” I hiss, still disbelieving of how outright shitty she was comfortable being about him while knowing she was being filmed.
“I did not. I came in with Kimmy—and you were already standing up and giving Ms. Bitch the business,” Roxy giggles, unable to hide her satisfaction.
“She called him the fucking Rain Man ,” I seethe, my vision nearly going red once more.
“What. The. Fuuuuck ?” Roxy marvels at the degree of Brittney’s shittiness before letting me free so that we can both serve ourselves some much needed lunch.
“I know, right?” I grab a plate and one of those bacon avocado club sandwiches with a little too much intensity, reeling my welling anger in as I grab myself a cluster of grapes and a seltzer. “It’s one thing to talk shit about me, but to start talking shit about my—” I stop myself, realizing that I’m about to complete the thought as my pack .
There isn’t any time to think about that little slip though, because Roxy is already on me for my self deprecation.
“Ur-Zilla Goldblum-Laskaris!” she all but shouts at me. “Don’t you dare keep devaluing yourself like that! I have been so proud of you for standing up for yourself for the last few minutes—and now you’re telling me you’re only going to bat with Bitch Barbie because of one of these guys? Don’t make me kick your ass!” She drops her plate on the counter and pulls me into a headlock, tossing my hair into a curly mess before releasing me—not unlike the noogies my brother frequently bestowed upon me in our youth.
I have to set my own plate down to set my glasses back straight on my face, pushing my hair out of my eyes so that I can see again.
“Yes Ma'am!” I make my pledge, just relieved to be back in the relative safety of Roxy’s tutelage.
I slip into the ‘bubble’ for my date with Lysander, my cluster of green grapes from lunch still clutched in my hand, wrapped in a paper towel.
“Hello, Ursula,” he greets me and some of the tension I’ve been carrying since my encounter with Brittney before lunch, unwinds from my shoulders.
“Hey Lysander, howareya ?” I call back, settling into my sofa with a blanket and my little snack.
“Do you want the real answer or the sugar coat version?” he asks with zero pretension, all authenticity.
“Almost always, I’ll opt for the ‘real’ answer—unless I don’t have enough spoons for it.” I confirm with a tired laugh.
“I’m sorry, spoons ?” Lysander draws up short.
“Oh, jeez, sorry. Spoons like—as in ‘Spoon Theory?’” I try again, not looking to over-explain if I don’t have to.
“Not ringing any bells. What is ‘Spoon Theory?’” Lysander puzzles.
“There was a chronically ill blogger, Christine something-or-other; she came up with this metaphor to explain her experience with chronic illness to a friend. It can be physical or mental illness, but the spoons are kind of used for a measure of mental energy someone has for daily tasks and life events.” I do my best to explain off the cuff.
“Oh, okay… That makes slightly more sense. I just don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before—or seen or heard the terms used,” Lysander approaches cautiously.
“Yeah, no—I keep forgetting that not everyone knows what it means. I say things like ‘Oh, going to a big party is too many spoons’—but hanging out at a close friend’s house, especially my bestie’s place? That might not cost any spoons—in fact if it’s Dee, I’d say I might even get some spoons from hanging out with her.” I bite my tongue, realizing that I blurted out Daphne’s nickname. Thankfully I didn’t drop that beautifully alliterative Daphne Dale —giving myself away completely.
“Oh! Okay, that actually does clarify quite a bit. Thank you,” Lysander confirms thoughtfully.
“I’m sorry—we totally derailed your response,” I jump back in, quick to get back to our date. “I’m happy to hear however much or little about your day you feel comfortable sharing.”
There’s a moment of pensive silence before Lysander starts up again.
“I am remarkably nervous about the prospect of asking for your scent card,” he answers, a flatness to his tone despite the fact that he says he's anxious.
“Why so scared?” I chuckle gently, worrying at the paper towel bundle of grapes in my lap. “There’s no need to be nervous. I was planning on asking you today…after we had a few important conversations, that is,” I mumble, a little bashfully.
“Important conversations?” Lysander parrots back, no sign of his apprehension to be found.
“Tell me why you were so worried about asking me first—then we can get to that,” I deflect, squirming in my seat.
“Fair,” he sighs before continuing on, “While it would be…technically against the rules of the competition, suffice to say that I’m worried that you might not like what you get on my scent card.” Lysander answers tightly.
“Oh, I see.” I don’t really know exactly what he’s getting at with that comment—my mind begins to spin. Could they have hidden another omega or sigma amongst the men!? What a twist that would be for this season. Hardly a dealbreaker for me, but I know many of the women I’m competing with would not abide another omega or sigma in their pack.
“Alright, your turn.” As if he’s just slapped the timer during a chess match after declaring ‘Knight B to D2’ or something.
Already somewhat back on the defensive, I gather my wits about me and prepare to make yet another soul-bearing confession.
“Well, as you know—exchanging scent cards is only one of the upcoming bridges we have to cross if we’re going to continue exploring our connection through this…” I stop myself from calling Build-A-Pack-Blind a dating show or a reality program—even though that’s exactly what it is. The producers insist that we refer to the entire process as either the ‘experience’, ‘experiment’, or (most cringey of all) ‘adventure’.
From the others I would expect some sort of noise of ascent or affirmation—but with Lysander, I’m somehow not surprised by the stony silence that meets my flimsy preamble.
“For example, tonight I’m planning on exchanging scent cards with at least four, possibly five, of you,” I continue, my voice still firm and calm, even though my adrenal system feels as though it’s dropped from the first major hill of a roller coaster route.
I allow that morsel of information to sit out in the open for a moment before I press on.
“All the men who elect to continue dating me after we exchange scent cards will then be allowed to start to mingle together until the reveal.” I level with him before allowing another pause, one Lysander gracefully steps into this time.
“Yes, and if any of us are also still courting another of the ladies—we can interact with men from that potential pack as well—as long as the packs stay otherwise siloed,” he confirms, sounding almost bored.
The cognitive dissonance of his supposed nerves and apparent lack of them trips me up a moment, but I find my footing—cautiously moving forward.
“Well, about that,” I take a deep breath, doing my best not to crush the grapes still clutched in my worrying grip. “I have been doing my best to be transparent with all of my potential matches about my stance on interpack relationships.”
Again, I wait for him to take up the silent slack—but he does not, opting to allow me to finish the thought before volunteering any reaction.
“My personal stance is an open one.” I clear my throat, flush heating my cheeks though I’m doing my best to sound analytical—academic even. “I welcome and encourage any exploration between my fellow pack members, but do not have any expectations or requirements of your…” I rack my brain for the right word and decide on a selection with a distinct air of chilly remove—as not to seem the slavering horndog, “Congress,” I conclude, pleased with myself.
Queen to Rook 5 . I think, smugly–slapping my own mental time clock and passing the conversational baton back to Lysander.
“Oh…I see. That’s good to know,” he answers, a small crack in his voice the only tell that he might not be handling as placid as he seems.
Really? That’s it? That’s all I get for dangling the idea of schtupping one of his fellow pack members before he and I end up getting to see one another face to face, in front of him? ‘ Good to know ?’”
I have to admit, I’m a little underwhelmed by his tacit response. Then again, it’s a lot to process, and he did say that he was dealing with nerves earlier—even if it hasn’t seemed to be impacting him that much from where I stand.
“Then there’s the matter of the vacation—and the trial heat…” I trail off.
This time, I allow the silence to fall like a thin blanket of snow, waiting for him to inform me how this discussion is going to progress.
There is a shockingly long period of quiet before Lysander finally asks:
“Was I…supposed to say something there? I feel like I missed something and I don’t want to fuck this up,” he speaks so softly that I can barely hear him from the other side of the wall.
I feel a small pang of shame for my slightly manipulative silence.
“I mean, I don’t know if you were supposed to say something—but I guess I figured you might volunteer at least some indication of how you felt about the prospect of being physically intimate—especially in the context of a heat.” I am quick to add, “Not that I’m angling for your designation or anything, that’s not what I’m trying to get at—not at all.”
“Oh—you mean, like—am I looking forward to it?” his voice cracks again, and I can tell he’s trying to cover his embarrassment as he clears his throat before he speaks again, “Because, if that’s what you mean—then yes obviously I…I mean I look forward to—it’s not the only thing I’m looking forward to; but I most certainly—” he fumbles over his words, and any doubts I had fizzle into nothing.
“Well, that’s a relief,” I cut in, saving him from himself. I can tell from the heavy sigh that escapes him that he is mightily relieved for my rescue. Of course, this is likely to be temporary—as I am about to yeet him from the frying pan into the flames.
“I know that it’s not exactly ideal , but it will be the first heat I will be experiencing as an omega. I’m not a virgin, but I’ve never allowed my heat cycle to pass unsuppressed. With my prospective pack—will be the first time.”
“Oh…” Lysander’s voice is still small and unsure.
I’m on the cusp of making an excuse for myself when I hear the words, soft and almost frightened from his side of the wall.
“I am a virgin.”
“He what!? ” Roxy crows incredulously at me as soon as I close the door to her bathroom behind her.
“He’s a virgin Rox,” I shake my own head with lingering disbelief—sucking desperately on my vape pen—an unseen clog keeping me from the sweet, sweet tranquil relief of 92% THC indica.
Roxy clucks her tongue at me, batting the vape pen away from my face and motioning to the small plastic canister filled with joints peeking out of her ditty bag.
“Like, not ‘he’s never been in a rut—but like—he’s never…y’know.” She waggles her eyebrows, rolling one of her bath towels into a lumpy log and jamming it at the base of the door, blocking the crack with the tube of white cotton.
“So, it’s not like he’s ‘never been kissed’ or that whole thing… But yeah he is certainly less experienced than I anticipated.” I hop up onto the bathroom counter, taking a seat next to the sink while Roxy flips on the fan vent and lights up a joint.
“So like—he’s done everything but the actual fuckin’?” Roxy asks indelicately, blowing smoke out of her nostrils casually.
“I wouldn’t put it that way, per se .” I blush furiously, happy to take receipt of the joint along with a deep inhale—full lungs of smoke excusing me from elaborating further.
“ Whaaat !?” Roxy pinches the joint from my fingers and goggles at me, wide eyed with incredulity.
“Look, just because we’re not in front of the cameras doesn’t mean that I’m going to give away all of his personal information, okay?” I bristle.
Roxy flashes me a wicked grin.
“There she is. That’s my girl!” She scuffs a punch off of my shoulder before passing the joint back to me. “You stand up for your man—I should learn to mind my own fucking business, anyway.” Roxy winks at me.
“Stop being so damn proud of me whenever I give the slightest indication of not being a doormat,” I laugh, the sweet acrid smoke escaping my lips as I croak at her through the hit.
Roxy laughs, then I laugh, and soon Roxy is off; mouth moving a mile a minute talking about how she’s pretty sure that Anton is telling both her and Brittney the same smooth guy bullshit—but really, he’s just a player. I contemplate chiming in about the strange scheduling issue with him showing up on my list for this afternoon—but quickly get lost in thinking about the end of my conversation with Lysander.
While I didn’t want to cough up the details for Roxy—it turns out that Lysander really does not have much in the way of experience beyond french kissing and over the bra groping. When I asked him if he’d ever gotten head before—I was worried that he had swallowed his own tongue—the chain of loud and violent coughs that had erupted from his side of the wall had left me genuinely concerned—even after his gasping assurances that he had simply swallowed water down the wrong pipe.
I had thought about making another ‘swallowing’ joke—but hadn’t wanted to come off as crass or overeager. I would be lying though, if I said that I hadn’t found myself thinking about it—being Lysander’s first…
“Hello, earth to Ursula!” Roxy reaches out and gently raps her knuckles on the top of my skull as if she’s knocking on the front door.
“Yes? What? Sorry!” I fumble, scrambling to scrub my brain for even the smallest scrap of what Roxy had been saying for the last…I don’t even know how long.
“Phee-ew! Girl, you are not subtle at all,” she laughs, fanning her hand in front of her face as if to move along my vapor trail.