Chapter 3
3
LILY
“ I f I throw myself out of this moving vehicle as a reason not to attend the gathering, would that be considered dramatic or resourceful?” I ask from the backseat, watching snowflakes dance in the headlights of Hannah’s Honda. She catches my eye in the rearview mirror, her dark chocolate hair perfectly coiled in its French twist, one manicured eyebrow arching as she unconsciously taps her fingers against the steering wheel in time to the classical music drifting from the speakers.
“Dramatic,” she says from behind the wheel.
“Resourceful,” Dad votes from the passenger front seat, his weathered hands brushing down the length of the knitted vest he wears over a cream button-up shirt. Silver hair glints from the passing streetlights, and laugh lines deepen around the edges of his mouth. “And if you do it, I’m right behind you. Though, I recommend we claim food poisoning first. More dignified.”
“You haven’t eaten anything yet,” Hannah points out, rolling her eyes. Out of the three of us, she loves these family parties the most. No idea why, in all honesty.
Dad holds up his full travel mug. “This gas station coffee begs to differ. I can feel the salmonella forming already.”
“That’s just your annual case of Family Gathering Fever,” Hannah says, twisting her head to face him. “Symptoms include sudden onset excuses, mysterious ailments, and an overwhelming urge to flee north.”
I giggle from the backseat.
“The urge to flee is completely normal.” He adjusts his vest for the hundredth time. “Martha’s meatloaf tried to kill me last year.”
“We’re going,” Hannah says firmly, but I catch her fighting a smile in the rearview mirror. “They’re family.”
“They’re Mom’s family,” I counter as more snow dusts the evergreens as we climb higher into the mountains. “Who, might I add, only remember we exist once a year when Great-Aunt Martha needs to prove what a generous and caring matriarch she is.”
The car falls quiet except for Hannah’s classical festive music on the radio. Through the windshield, I stare at the lights of Whispering Grove fading behind us as we climb toward the wealthy northern enclave where Mom’s family lives. Where they’ve always lived, looking down both figuratively and literally on our little town.
“When we lost your mother, or when your grandma went into a nursing home,” Dad says softly. “Did any of them offer to help? To watch you girls while I worked doubles?”
“Martha sent a casserole,” Hannah offers weakly.
“That wasn’t a casserole. That was a weapon of mass destruction.” I remember the gray, gelatinous mass. “Pretty sure it violated the Geneva Convention.”
“I’m not saying they’re perfect.” Hannah’s knuckles whiten slightly on the steering wheel. “But they’re all we have left of Mom’s side. And maybe if we made more effort…”
“We’re not the ones who should be making the effort,” I say, more sharply than intended. “Where were they when Mom was building the bakery up after taking it over from Grandma because she needed round the clock care?”
“Your mother,” Dad says carefully. “She loved these gatherings despite everything. She’d light up just walking through Martha’s door, no matter what awaited inside. So, Hannah, you’re right. We need to attend.”
She grins at me through the rearview mirror. I huff.
I think back to Mom dancing in the kitchen while mixing cookie dough. Mom laughing as she taught us to braid bread dough. Mom squeezing Dad’s hand when Martha made comments about his simple career choices.
Mom choosing joy, even when it was hard.
“Ten minutes,” Dad announces, checking his watch. “That’s my limit. Then I’m faking a stroke.”
“Twenty minutes,” Hannah counters. “At least stay through appetizers.”
“Fifteen,” I offer. “And we create a signal. If anyone mentions our sad, single Omega statuses, we implement emergency evacuation procedures.”
Hannah ignores me.
Dad frowns as Great-Aunt Martha’s Victorian monstrosity comes into view. “Sweet mercy, did she add more lights?”
The house resembles something from a Hallmark movie that took a wrong turn and ended up in Vegas. Every inch is covered in twinkling lights, giant candy canes, and what appears to be a small army of animatronic reindeer. The effect is less festive and more Christmas having a nervous breakdown.
“I count three new inflatable snowmen,” I report. “And... is that a life-size Santa sleigh on the roof?”
“With real bells.” Hannah parks behind a line of much fancier cars than our practical Honda.
“Fifteen minutes is too long,” Dad mutters. “I’m downgrading to seven.”
“Dad,” Hannah protests.
“Five. Final offer.”
She shakes her head at us.
I check my phone one last time before we head inside. Still no response from James. It’s been days of silence and pretending it doesn’t matter while knowing it matters far too much. My stomach twists with that now-familiar mix of worry and hurt. We’d been talking every day, building something that felt real despite the distance, and then... nothing. The rational part of my brain says there could be a hundred innocent explanations, but the rest of me keeps circling back to darker possibilities. Or worse—that I’d imagined the connection between us, read too much into every late-night conversation and shared secrets.
The walk to the front door feels like a march to execution. Hannah leads the way while Dad and I drag our feet, sharing conspiratorial looks.
“Remember,” I whisper. “If cousin Rebecca starts on about her Alpha husband’s latest promotion?—”
“Sudden migraine,” Dad nods. “If Patricia mentions her Omega support group?—”
“Spontaneous combustion.”
“If Martha asks about grandchildren?—”
“We run like hell.”
Hannah throws us a look over her shoulder. “I can hear you both.”
“We know,” we say together, grinning.
The door opens before we reach it, spilling warm light and the smell of cinnamon onto the snow-dusted porch. Great-Aunt Martha fills the doorway like a Christmas-themed battleship, all red velvet and perfectly coiffed white hair.
“Hannah, darling!” She air-kisses both Hannah’s cheeks. “You look lovely. Theodore, you’re actually wearing a vest, how... comfortable. And Lily...” Her smile tightens slightly, then she turns to me. “Still working at the little bakery?”
“Still co-owning the successful business Mom built, yes.” I paste on my best customer service smile. “How’s your hip replacement? Still setting off metal detectors?”
Dad snorts. Hannah elbows me. Martha’s smile turns decidedly frosty.
“Do come in.” She steps aside. “Everyone’s in the parlor. Rebecca was just telling us about Charles’s new position on the hospital board...”
I catch Dad’s eye.
The house might as well be Santa’s workshop. Every surface holds some festive tchotchke. Every doorway sports mistletoe. Every window frames an electric candle. The overall effect is less winter wonderland and more Christmas having a manic episode.
But Mom used to love this. The thought hits me sideways, making my chest tight. She’d walk through these rooms, touching everything, exclaiming over new additions, genuinely delighting in the excess of it all.
Dad’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. He knows. He always knows.
The parlor buzzes with expensive perfume and even more expensive gossip. Cousin Rebecca holds court by the fireplace, her Alpha husband Charles looking appropriately adoring as she details his latest achievement. Despite myself, I feel a pang seeing them together—the easy way he anticipates her needs, how his scent wraps protectively around her.
“Lily!” Patricia swoops in before I can find a defensive position. “Darling, you look... healthy. Still haven’t found your Alpha match? You know, there are organizations that help Omegas who struggle?—”
“Actually,” my mouth says before my brain can stop it, “I have someone. He’s traveling for work right now. James. He’s a chef.”
Dad’s coffee mug pauses halfway to his mouth. Hannah’s eyes widen slightly.
“Oh?” Patricia’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rise. “How... nice. And what restaurant does he work at?”
“It’s... complicated. He’s starting at a new place. Very exclusive stuff, and I can’t spoil the name until it opens up.”
Oh God, I’m making it worse, but there’s a part of me delighted to see them stare at me with something other than pity for a change. Well, except for Hannah, who’s frowning in my direction.
Rebecca joins us, wine glass dangling from manicured fingers. “How ambitious. Though I suppose a big step up the bakery’s... scale.”
The way she says it makes our thriving business sound like a lemonade stand. Before I can respond, a burst of laughter draws my attention to the window seat, where cousin Michael sits with his new Omega mate. They’re lost in their own world, his fingers trailing absently through her hair while she leans into his touch. The contentment in their closeness makes something in my chest ache. What I wouldn’t give to have someone stare at me like that.
“Excuse me.” Dad stands suddenly. “Lily, would you help me find Martha’s library? I need to check something about... books.”
“Yes!” I practically leap up. “Books. Very important. Sorry, ladies. Family emergency. Book emergency. Emergency books.”
We escape down the hallway, dodging the worst of the mingling, when Cousin Roger thrusts a plate of grey meatloaf and a fork into my hands, shoving a steaming cup of coffee at Dad with a harried, “You both need something!” Dad clutches the coffee like a lifeline as he leads the way to the one room that’s always been a sanctuary in this house.
The heavy oak door closes behind us, sealing us into the familiar comfort of leather-bound books and mahogany shelves that stretch to the coffered ceiling. A fire crackles in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across the worn rug where we spent countless rainy afternoons as kids. The room still smells of lemon polish and old paper, exactly as it did when Grandma would read to us here, though Martha hasn’t touched a single volume in the decade since she inherited the house. But she must use it more often, seeing the fireplace is now blazing.
“That went well,” Dad says as we settle by the fireplace on a leather couch. “Four minutes in and you’ve invented a boyfriend.”
“To be fair, he’s real. Sort of. Was real? Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.”
He grins and studies me. “Everything okay?”
I poke at the meatloaf. “Is this thing moving?”
“Don’t change the subject. And don’t look too closely at the meatloaf. Looking only makes it stronger.”
“I just...” I struggle to find the words. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. If I’m broken somehow. Every other Omega I know has had at least one heat by now and found their mate. I think even Hannah has met someone, even if she won’t tell me about him yet, and she already had her first heat when she was twenty-one. Me? I still haven’t figured out what they want.”
“Hey.” He sets aside his cup on the nearby coffee table, turning to face me fully. “You’re not broken. You’re like your mom—you do things in your own time, your own way. She didn’t have her first heat until she met me, you know.”
That surprises me. “Really?”
“Really. Doctor said some Omegas need the right connection first. The right timing.” He smiles softly. “She used to say her heart had to be ready before her body could follow.”
“I miss her,” I whisper.
“Me too, kiddo.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “But she’d be so proud of you. Both of you. Running that bakery, building something real.”
“Even if I’m a sad, single Omega?”
“Hey.” His voice turns serious. “You don’t need an Alpha to be complete. Your mom would be the first to tell you that. She chose me because she wanted to, not because she needed to. There’s a difference.”
“Is that why you never...” I trail off, not sure how to ask.
“Never remarried?” He smiles sadly. “Hard to settle for less than perfect once you’ve had it. Besides, I had my hands full with two stubborn daughters.”
“We weren’t that bad.”
“You once tried to mail Hannah to Canada.”
“She deserved it! She told Bobby Miller I liked him!”
“You were thirteen at the time.”
The library door opens, and Hannah slips in, carrying three plates of something that looks significantly more edible than the meatloaf.
“Thought I’d find you here.” She settles on the couch near me. “Brought reinforcements. Dumplings made with Mom’s recipe.”
“You’re forgiven for dragging us here,” Dad announces, grabbing his plate, already wolfing one down.
“Mostly forgiven,” I amend, setting down my meatloaf and taking a plate of dumplings. “Seventy-five percent.”
“I’ll take it.” She leans against my side. “Remember how Mom used to sneak us in here during these parties?”
“She’d tell stories about the books coming alive at night,” I say softly.
“And dance with Dad between the shelves,” Hannah adds.
Dad’s arm tightens around my shoulders. For a moment, I swear I can smell Mom’s perfume—vanilla and cinnamon and home.
The library feels warmer with us three together. Less like hiding and more like choosing our own joy, just like Mom used to.
“Five more minutes?” Hannah asks softly.
“Ten,” Dad and I say together.
“So, Lily,” Hannah says, settling into a worn armchair now. “Who’s James then?”
I concentrate very hard on my dumpling. “Ah, no one. Had to say something to get them off my back.”
“Yeah, right.” Hannah’s eyes narrow. “Sounded pretty real to me. The way you gave details about him...”
I shrug, meeting her gaze. “How about you enlighten us on who your secret lover boy is? You think I haven’t noticed you sneaking off at night for a couple of days here and there, your hushed phone calls...”
The color drains from Hannah’s face. Her fingers twist in her lap. “I wish that was a boy,” she says quietly. “Trust me, it’s not.”
Dad reaches over and squeezes her hand, no questions asked. That’s the thing about Dad—he knows when to push and when to just be there.
“You know,” Dad says softly, his voice carrying that same gentle tone he used when we were kids and the world seemed too big, too scary. “Your mother always said the hardest battles we face aren’t the ones thrown at us but the ones we carry inside.” He looks between us, his eyes full of quiet understanding. “Whatever it is, whenever you’re ready… we’re here.”
Hannah smiles and, in turn, has me grinning.
We sit in comfortable silence, sharing dumplings and the quiet understanding that sometimes family isn’t about blood or tradition or fancy parties. Sometimes, it’s about hiding in libraries, plotting escapes, and knowing exactly who will help you hide a body—metaphorical or otherwise.
The bells on the rooftop Santa sleigh start to chime, making us all jump. Through the library window, more snow falls, turning the world soft and quiet. My phone stays silent in my pocket. No messages from James even though it’s Christmas Eve, but somehow it matters a little less now.
Mom always said the best things take time. Maybe she was right about that, too.
“Ready to face the wolves again?” Hannah asks.
“Yeah,” I say, standing up, joined by Dad.
Together, we head back into the Christmas Eve chaos, a united front against whatever the evening might bring. And if I find myself staring at Michael and his new Omega’s easy affection or the way Charles anticipates Rebecca’s needs... well, maybe wanting something doesn’t mean you’re broken for not having it yet.
Maybe it just means your heart knows what it’s waiting for.