Chapter 4
JESSICA
Iwake up to silence.
Not just silence. Emptiness.
The lavender fabric softener Mom uses on her sheets.
The cedar from the closet where my old clothes still hang.
The dust motes floating in the sunlight streaming through the curtains.
The faint trace of Dad's cologne that still clings to the quilt at the foot of my bed, even though he's been gone for four years.
But no sounds of life. No footsteps downstairs. No coffee brewing. No Mom humming while she putters around the kitchen.
Right.
She's in Mexico. Living my honeymoon. And I'm here. Alone.
The realization settles over me slowly, and I'm surprised to find it doesn't feel scary. Just... quiet.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. My head pounds. My mouth tastes like I licked a dirty carpet. My eyes are swollen and crusty from crying myself to sleep, and when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room, I let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
I look like a raccoon who lost a fight with a wedding dress.
Speaking of which.
The dress is on the floor where I left it, a puddle of ruined tulle and torn lace spreading across the hardwood like a fabric crime scene.
I must have stripped out of it last night, though I don't remember much after collapsing on the porch swing.
Just tears. And exhaustion. And somehow ending up in my old bed wearing one of Dad's t-shirts and a pair of Mom's sweatpants.
Then I realize something strange, which didn't dawn on me before. Why does Mom have all of Dad's clothes? Like, not a few things, like his favorite shirt or his jacket for comfort. But everything. All of it, still here, four years later.
And I remember her telling me she gave it all to charity. She lied.
Mom can't let go.
Maybe that's why when Callum showed up at my Pine Hollow apartment two years ago, I said yes immediately.
He'd dumped me four years before that. Said I was too loud, too big, not the type of beta he wanted in his life. I'd finally moved on. Had a cute little apartment, a job I liked, a life that felt like mine.
Then he appeared at my door claiming he'd made a terrible mistake, begging for another chance.
And I gave it to him.
Just like Mom clings to Dad's clothes, I clung to the idea that someone wanting me back meant I was worth something. Not because I loved him. Because letting go the first time had felt like admitting he was right about me all along.
The love Mom shared with Dad was good and real and everything a marriage should be. But even that kind of love becomes a cage when you can't let it go.
Callum was never that kind of love. He was just me being too scared to believe I deserved better.
I shift my legs over the side of the mattress and immediately notice something wrong.
My skin feels too tight.
Like I grew three sizes overnight and my body hasn't caught up yet. Every nerve ending is firing at maximum volume. The sheets feel like sandpaper. The sunlight feels like it's burning through my retinas. Even the air feels heavy, pressing against me from all sides.
The omega symptoms Sharon warned me about.
They're worse. So much worse than yesterday.
I make my way to the bathroom on legs that don't feel entirely mine. The hallway is a gauntlet of smells. The musty old books in the spare room. The lemon cleaner Mom probably used on the floors before she left. Something floral from the garden outside drifting through a crack in the window.
It's too much. All of it. Every inhale brings a flood of information I don't know how to process.
By the time I reach the bathroom, I'm sweating.
I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection. Same hazel eyes, though the circles underneath them are darker than usual. Same round face, though my cheeks are blotchy from crying. Same body that Callum called "soft" when he was being nice and "too much" when he wasn't.
But my eyes look... brighter? More alert? Like someone turned up the contrast on my entire face.
And my scent.
I lift my arm and sniff, then immediately wish I hadn't. It hits me like a truck. Louder. Like someone took my normal scent and ran it through a speaker system.
Is this what other people smell when they're near me? Is this what alphas smell?
The thought makes my stomach flip.
I splash cold water on my face and try to get a grip. I need to call Mom. Ask about doctors. Figure out what the hell I'm doing.
My phone is on the nightstand where I left it. Still turned off from yesterday. I should probably turn it on. Check my messages. Face the consequences of what I did.
Or I could not do that and instead hide in Mom's house for the rest of my life.
Option B is looking pretty appealing right now.
I turn on the phone and brace myself.
Fifty-seven missed calls from Callum. One hundred and twelve text messages. Twenty-three voicemails.
I don't read any of them. I just scroll past, heart pounding, until I find Mom's number.
She picks up on the third ring. "Jessica!" Her voice is bright but worried. "Sweetheart, how are you? I've been checking my phone constantly. Are you okay? Did you eat? Did you sleep? Did you see the money I sent you?"
"I'm okay. Thanks for sorting out the car. Mom, I have a problem."
Mom knew I had no money, and sent me some. I want to cry. "I need help."
"What's wrong?" Her voice shifts, goes serious.
"Everything. My body. The omega thing. It's getting worse and I don't know who to call or what to do and—"
"Slow down. Breathe." I hear rustling on the other end. The sound of her moving somewhere quieter. "I'm here. Tell me what you need."
"I need a doctor. Someone who specializes in omega health. Do you know anyone?"
A pause. "There's Dr. Morrison, but he retired last month. He transferred all his omega patients to the new doctor in town."
My stomach clenches. "Let me guess. Dr. Pedro Negrorios."
"Yes." Her voice is careful. "I know it's complicated. But sweetheart, he's good. Really good. And he's professional. Whatever history you have with him, he won't let it affect your care."
"You don't understand what happened before I left."
"Then tell me," Mom says gently.
I open my mouth. Close it. The words are stuck somewhere in my chest, tangled up with six years of guilt and longing and regret.
"I kissed one of them," I finally say. "The night before I left. Carlos. We were on the porch and Callum was inside passed out drunk and Carlos looked at me and I just... I couldn't help it. I kissed him. And he kissed me back. And then I panicked and ran and I've been running ever since."
Mom doesn't say anything. Just waits.
"Callum never knew. The Negrorios Pack never told him. But every time I saw them after that, it was like this wall went up. Pedro especially. He could barely look at me. And I don't know if it was because he was angry or disappointed or..." I swallow hard.
"Maybe it's time to find out," Mom says.
"What if I don't like the answer?"
"Then at least you'll know." Mom's voice is gentle but firm. "Life is too short for what-ifs, sweetheart. Your father taught me that. Better to face the hard things head-on than spend the rest of your life wondering."
I close my eyes. She's right. I hate that she's right.
"Can you make me an appointment?"
"I already did. Before I left." I can hear the smile in her voice. "I had a feeling you might need one. It's at two o'clock today."
Of course she did.
"Did you tell them who the patient was?"
"I told the receptionist it was Dorothy Delacroix's daughter. That should give them plenty of time to prepare," Mom says.
Prepare. Right. Because the Largo Waters gossip network has definitely already informed everyone that the runaway bride is back in town. Pedro probably knows exactly who's coming to see him this afternoon.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Okay. I'll go."
"Good. Call me after, okay? I want to know what he says."
"I will."
"And Jessica? Eat something. You need your strength."
"I will."
"I love you, sweetheart."
"I love you too, Mom. Have fun in Mexico. You deserve it."
"I'd rather be there with you."
"I know. But I'm okay. Really. I can handle this."
I'm lying. We both know I'm lying. But she lets me have it anyway.
"Call me later."
"I will."
We hang up, and I'm alone again.
Two o'clock.
I look at the clock on the nightstand. It's just past ten. Four hours until I have to face Pedro.
The ache in my belly pulses. A reminder that my body doesn't care about my emotional crises. It has its own agenda now.
I stand up and head downstairs on shaky legs. The kitchen is painfully empty. No smell of coffee. No breakfast waiting. Just me and the silence and Mom's perfectly clean counters.
I should eat something. Mom said to eat. But the thought of food makes my stomach turn.
Instead, I pour myself a glass of water and lean against the counter, trying to breathe through the waves of sensation washing over me.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mom.
Mom: There's bread in the breadbox and peanut butter in the cupboard. At least make yourself toast. And there's juice in the fridge.
I smile despite myself. Even from Mexico, she's taking care of me.
I manage to make toast. Burn it slightly. Eat it anyway with peanut butter that tastes more intense than it should. Wash it down with orange juice that makes my mouth tingle.
My phone buzzes again.
Mom: Jessica! I forgot to tell you - Ricardo has a yacht. Well, his nephew Alejandro has a yacht. He's very interested in meeting you.
Me: Mom, I literally just ran from my wedding.
Mom: Which means you're single! Perfect timing! Alejandro is very handsome. Aunt Linda met him. She gave him 8 out of 10. She only takes off points because he's too young. He's 32. That's prime.
Me: Please stop trying to set me up with yacht dentists.
Mom: Doctor dentist. There's a difference. He has a yacht.
I turn off my phone. My mother is rating Mexican dentists on a scale of 1-10 while I'm having an omega crisis.
I need a shower.
I head back upstairs and turn on the water as hot as it will go. Strip off Dad's t-shirt and the borrowed sweatpants and catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Same body. Same curves that Callum called too much but that Sergio used to look at like I was a feast and he was starving.
Same soft stomach that Pedro had pressed his palm against once when he was checking for appendicitis symptoms, his touch clinical but his scent giving him away.
Same thick thighs that had been wrapped around Nacho's waist when he'd given me a piggyback ride to the car because I'd twisted my ankle.
Same full breasts that Carlos had very carefully not looked at even though I'd caught him glancing more than once.
But different somehow. Like I'm finally seeing clearly for the first time.
I step under the water and let it wash away the last remnants of yesterday. The dried tears. The exhaustion. The woman who almost married a man who didn't deserve her.
When I get out, I wrap myself in a towel and stand in front of my old closet.
Mom was right. There are clothes here, but most of them don't fit anymore. I feel like having a party when I find a pair of jeans that still button. A soft gray sweater that hangs loose and comfortable. My old Converse that are scuffed but familiar.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks tired. Scared. Vulnerable.
But she also looks like someone who's done running.
I can do this.
Even if it terrifies me.
The only person who can help me is the one man I've been trying to forget for six years.
Well. One of four men.
God help me.