Chapter 16
Imogen
"Was it a Hallmark movie? Those make me cry, too, it’s nothing to be ashamed of."
Ophelia rubs my back while I hyperventilate in her embrace, drenching her shoulders in tears.
She called me an hour ago, and I didn’t answer the phone. I allowed myself one day of wallowing before making some hard decisions and that included making my parents see reason. Sell some cars, downgrade their house. They didn’t need all that space, all of those things, a full staff.
The plan came together while I sat in the truck beside Cass, a vastly different experience from a few nights previous, while he drove me to the apartment on C-Street. Apparently, my stiff spine and chin held high wasn’t enough to deter the guys from following me out the door. Despite everything, they wanted to make sure I got home okay. Fortunately, Cass didn’t make me feel stupid when I realized I was shoeless, and he insisted on driving me.
I held firm that he would not be carrying me inside the apartment, which I’m proud of because I’d been tempted. I could tell my walking away was hard for them, even if it may have seemed when our argument began that they were the ones pushing me away.
No, I had some decisions to make, and I had to make them alone.
The first thing I did was call Roxy, thanking her for the opportunity, but I couldn’t dance at the club anymore. I think she assumed, correctly, it had something to do with Dante, since she knew I shared my heat with them. I couldn't be around them so casually without giving in and abandoning my family for my own happiness. It was too selfish.
I didn’t want to stop dancing, and I think she could hear it in my voice when she told me to call her anytime if I wanted to pick up a shift, even if it was last minute. I appreciated that more than she could possibly know.
After that, I curled up into a ball and cried. And when crying became visceral, an ache deep in my bones, the pain growing stronger by the hour, I had to really think.
I needed to tell the guys about our scent-match, no matter what. It wasn’t fair to them, and it wasn’t fair to me. I couldn’t imagine going through a heat without them, but worse, I couldn’t imagine going through life without them. If they rejected me, I’d deal with it. But until that happened, I had to hold out hope.
But I couldn't do any of that with my family in trouble. So, while I brainstormed ways to gain a large sum of money fast, including confronting my family and, worst-case scenario, forcing them to sell their things, I had to pretend to go along with the engagement.
I felt sticky and sick to my stomach when Jonathan texted me and asked me to be available for dinner on Friday. It was a perfectly friendly message, non-threatening, nothing particularly egregious about his words, and yet, my skin crawled as I typed back, "I’ll be there."
Perfect Imogen might have responded more enthusiastically and said something demure like, I’d be just delighted, but I didn't have the energy.
I pull away from Ophelia and slump on the couch's soft cushions, tucking my feet under my legs, pressing play on the movie. Not a Hallmark movie, but I could play a nasty horror movie and still cry with the same emotional gusto as a sappy romantic, where the lovers can never quite work things out.
I sniff, and Ophelia plops down next to me, shoving a tissue in my face.
"Thanks," I laugh, though it's hollow. "I'm fine. I swear."
"Clearly. I wanted to talk to you about something. You weren't answering your phone…"
"Oh, yeah, that. I told myself I got one day to suffer, then I'd get right on figuring my life out."
"How's that going so far?"
I laugh again. "Well, the first part of my mission is going superbly. I'm doing a great job of suffering."
She smiles but doesn't laugh, leaning back on the couch opposite me. "Is it your parents?"
I've always enjoyed that about Ophelia, her straightforwardness. My mother commented that I'd been less subtle of late—what she really meant was less practiced at subterfuge—but I appreciate candor, and Ophelia has it in spades. She's not quite as blunt as her mate, Enzo, but I think he's rubbing off on her.
"No, everything's fine. Truly. I'll figure it out," I lie, offering a small smile. It probably looks ridiculous through all the tears and rubbed-red skin.
She hums. "Dude. Are we friends?"
I lean back, "Of course we are. You've done so much for me. You're a wonderful friend!"
She waves her hand, "No, I haven't. You won't let me do anything. So… tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."
I shake my head, "No, it's not… It's complicated. It's my mess. I'll figure it out." Then I sniff into the tissue, and with tears streaming down my face, I'm sure I'm very convincing when I hiccup, "Everything's fine."
Ophelia never does what I expect, which would be a big hug or further assurances. Instead, she laughs, and it's so unexpected, I laugh, throwing a clean tissue at her. "I can't believe you're laughing at my pain!" I cry, but the hint of my real smile hidden beneath the wet cheeks is real.
"Sorry, it was just the least convincing lie you've ever told. You're usually so good at that."
My smile drops, and I sigh. "Ophelia—"
"No. If we're friends, you'll let me help. And if you won't let me help, at least unload your burden. That's what friends are for. If you really don't want to tell me what's wrong, I get it, and I won't bug you about it again. But it kind of seems like you might need someone to talk to. When you didn't answer your phone, I tried calling the club… Roxy told me you quit."
My wet, soggy lashes lower, and I wipe away the heavy tears that mostly stopped. I do want to tell her what's wrong. God, I need to tell someone. But it's not so easy. She's so close with Red and his pack. And she has a huge grudge against people like my parents.
That either means she's in the best position to give me advice, or the worst.
I take in her earnest smile, pleading eyes. I haven't had a genuine friend in years, not since I left the Academy in California. And the friends I did have… I'm not sure we would have stood the test of time. Not because they weren't good people, the omegas I grew up with. But because they had their own struggles, too. There were two classes within the system. Those who were fully on board with whatever propaganda the OFA preached, and those who wanted more independence but felt like we didn't have the resources to push back.
Ophelia pushed back. Ophelia's brave. Maybe she can teach me how to be brave, too.
"Okay… hypothetically speaking…" I hedge, and her eyes light up, leaning closer to me on the couch. I adjust, snagging the closest blanket and wrapping it around me. God, this is so hard. "What if I told you I wanted to be with Dante Pack?"
The brightness in her smile dims, but only a little. A thoughtful expression takes over, and she tilts her head. "Okay… hypothetically, if you wanted to be with Dante, if you were into Dante Pack, do you think they're into you too?"
She's doing a good job at not judging, but there's a tendril there, the same doubt I'd heard in Roxy's voice. Dante must have done a good job convincing everyone they wouldn't touch an omega with a ten-foot pole over the years. Good thing I cured them of that; now they think they can just go out and start courting an omega because, for some reason, Iggy now thinks he's safe to be with. Oh no.
My stomach churns. Is that what happens now? If I don't figure this out soon enough, they'll start courting someone else?
"Imogen!" Ophelia shouts, but it's somewhere in the background. I feel sick. My heart races, and I scramble off the couch, made all the more difficult by the blanket I've wrapped myself in, my legs tangle as I struggle, finally freeing myself and running to the bathroom, making it just in time to heave into the bowl.
I'm not surprised when Ophelia follows me in. Rubbing my back, she whispers encouraging words. When I think I'm done being sick, I lean against the wall. Ophelia hands me a cap full of mouthwash, and I take it, spitting it into the sink, then sit back on the floor next to her.
"Hypothetically, what if they were my scent-matches?"
She gasps, her back hitting the bathroom cabinet. "I think you should tell me everything."
I nod. "I've been wearing scent-blockers for the club. And they're very good, as you know. So when I spent my heat this past weekend with them, they had no idea I was their scent-match. I'm pretty sure I yelled things like, bite me, you're my mate, etc., but they probably just thought it was omega-delirium."
Stunned, Ophelia keeps opening and closing her mouth. Eventually, she says, "This is huge. Like, massive. They spent your heat with you? And they didn't even know you're their mate? Imogen, that's huge!"
I shake my head no, crawling up from the bathroom floor and heading back into the kitchen. I keep running from the conversation, but like a good friend, Ophelia follows behind, never letting me be alone with my misery.
"It's huge and also… they don't know who I am to them."
"Why don't you tell them?"
I pull leftover pasta takeout from the fridge, something I never used to eat but has become a staple since I've been staying in South Loop. I'm still feeling depleted from the heat, so I take a few bites. "For starters, they found out I'm engaged to Stevens."
"Oh shit," Ophelia cringes. "Shit! That was me!"
"What was you?"
"I told them! Oh shit. And I take it by the cry-fest when I got here, they didn't take that well? Oh shit, oh shit."
"Why… why would you tell them that?"
"I didn't know they were your scent-matches! But also, I dunno, Red just called me being all vague and weird, asking questions about you. I figured it was because you were their new employee. Though it does explain why he pretty much hung up on me after I mentioned you were engaged. Dude, I'm so sorry. I swear I had no clue. And you've been in the Daily Rag, pictured with Stevens… I didn't think it was a secret. I mean, god forbid Red pick up a local newspaper."
"It's really more of a magazine," I add, dejectedly.
"That's true. Do you ever think the Daily Rag is like, on someone's payroll? Enzo and Sully keep telling me to stop reading it, that I should follow The Cove Herald, apparently it's much more reputable. But I just like all the glossy pictures."
Her winding soliloquy comes to an abrupt halt when she takes in my deadpan expression.
"Sorry. They're just super biased, you know?"
"The Daily Rag?"
"Yeah."
"Well, they did publish all that stuff about you last year before your pack publicly claimed you."
"Excuse you! I publicly claimed them."
I can't help but smile. She's right. She claimed her pack when she was ready, not the other way around. Not catering to their agenda. But my situation is different. When she's back on track, she adds, "So, are you going to claim them? Tell them, or let your blockers wear off?"
"I had to let them wear off, anyway. I have a date with Stevens on Friday. They requested I return to my natural scent by then." I don't have the guts to look at her face, that I would agree to a request like that. Throwing the containers of leftovers into the trash, I slump back down on the couch. Again, Ophelia follows.
"Can I give you some advice?"
"Please."
"I think it's important that you do what you need to do at the pace you want to do it. If you're not ready for Dante, then that's all you need as an excuse. You don't even need an excuse. A scent-match is an undeniable bond, but it doesn't control your life. It's meant to enhance it. You help each other, it's symbiotic."
"I sense a but coming."
"Coming from someone who denied their scent-match for a long time, I think it's important you're at least honest with them. I spent almost a year feeling kind of hollow and in pain. I wasn't ready to bond with them, and we wouldn't have been perfect for each other if they were the kind of guys who wouldn't give me the space to be ready. Sure, Sully manipulated me into moving into their house, but that was literally after my neighbor shot a gun off into the wall," she points to the kitchen. "That wall, actually. I appreciate he was scared for me. And he didn't force me to move; it was my choice. My point is, even though we didn't get together for a while, all of us being on the same page made life a lot easier."
"So you think I should tell Dante we're scent-matched." I was already planning on it, but I'd intended to wait until I could clear up the mess with Stevens and my parents.
"Yeah. But also… Stevens?"
"That's more complicated. I'm not going to marry them. I can't, even if I had wanted to before this whole mess. But I can't cancel the engagement yet. It's a long story, but I just need a couple of weeks, then I'll tell Dante."
She doesn't look convinced. And she tells me as much. We argue back and forth for another five minutes before I finally relent and agree I'll cancel my engagement on Friday with Stevens and will tell Dante that night.
I'm not, and I won't. She doesn't know about the bill collectors and my dad's broken arm. I will tell them, both packs, my truth, but on my own timeline, which, if you think about it, was her suggestion in the first place. Thinking she won, Ophelia sighs, leaning back on the couch where we started, a giant smile on her face.
"I'm so happy for you, Im. My brothers… they're good dudes."
They really are. Needing a change of subject, I nudge her with my foot. "So, what did you need to talk to me about? Isn't that why you were looking for me?"
"Oh! Yes. I forgot. Umm, I have a huge favor to ask of you. But you can't tell anyone. My mates cannot know, and Dante can't know either; they'll all freak out."
"Okay… Ophelia, you can ask me anything. What do you need?" I sit up straighter.
"I need you to go to prison with me."
Hm. Not what I was expecting.