Chapter 3
JAMIE
I nap off the rest of my come-down. If I can be loud and get my heat over with, it clears after a couple hours. Mom’s home now—I see her car in the driveway—so I need to get started on dinner.
As I push out of my room, the smell of butter and garlic hits me, and I wince. So much for trying to get some chores done today—I didn’t even manage to make dinner.
Apology is written on my face as I step around into the kitchen and sink defeated into the chair.
Mom knows why I was napping. We give each other space when it comes to heats. Think about the facts, nothing more. Hers are much milder now, thanks to age and her prior mating bond.
My body cries out for some alpha, any alpha. But hers is a thousand miles away, cut off by a web of decoys that rivals the witness protection program.
“Bon appétit,” Mom says, plopping down a plate of steaming chicken and heavily buttered mashed potatoes in front of me.
Mom is on the short side of average—like me. Most omegas are, but I’ve seen posts by a few tall ones on the message boards. We both have the pointed ears and canines that mark all alphas and omegas. There’s a reason that omegas tend towards wearing our hair down and shy, closed-mouth smiles.
Unusual hair and eye colors are the other key markers, but now that colored hair is on-trend and fashion contacts are easily available, few betas clock us that way anymore.
Mom’s hair is honey-colored and streaked with pink, with matching pink eyes. Strawberry shortcake, Chuck used to call her. I don’t think of him as ‘Dad’ anymore.
She bleached her hair and wore blue contacts for a while as we moved around, but since we’ve settled in Pleasantwood she doesn’t have to hide those traits anymore. She jokes that she’s just happy to skip the salon bill, but I know it means a lot to her that she gets to be herself.
I don’t have to rack up a salon bill either, but it’s because my hair and eyes are beta-passing enough.
I keep my coppery red-orange hair around shoulder length, and my eyes are green—brighter than occur in the beta gene pool, but still green.
As long as I keep my hair over my ears and don’t smile or talk too much, most betas assume I’m one of them.
Though I do have to awkwardly laugh off any questions about my assumedly Irish heritage. St Patrick’s is a weird time for me.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I say to Mom. “But you should have ordered takeout. I’m not sure you should be standing so much to cook.”
“It’s been a year, hun,” Mom says, settling down across from me with her own plate. “The doctor cleared me, remember? You were there. Grilling him.”
“There were a few complaints about him online,” I warn. “Someone’s pin slipped.”
“The man pieced my foot back together from a thousand pieces. You saw the X-ray. Dust. I think if a pin slips now and again, we can cut him some slack.”
“I know, Mom, that’s—I should have been here. If I’d come back after graduation, I could have shoveled for you, and there wouldn’t have been any ice, and—”
Mom gently lays her hand across the back of mine. “It’s not your fault, Jamie.”
I sigh. Glance up at her. Back at the potatoes. Take a big bite. Say through it, “I’m sorry. Thank you for dinner. I’m glad you’re feeling better, really.”
“I’m feeling a lot better. Good as new, basically. Well, good as can be expected for fifty-one, anyway.”
The number still surprises me. She was only twenty when she had me. Mom is one of those wise, worldly people who always seems both so much older and younger than her actual age. When she was my age, she had a ten-year-old. I haven’t even committed to getting a cat.
So it kind of feels… right, moving back home. Taking care of her. Makes it like there’s a reason I felt so… unmoored. If the universe was keeping me available so that I could be here for Mom when she needs it, that’s fine by me.
“There’s just one thing bothering me,” Mom continues, a little bit pointed, a little bit teasing.
My chest tenses. “What?” Whatever it is, anything, I’ll fix it.
“Watching you waste away at that job, fussing over me when I should be fussing over you.”
“Mom… I’m fine, really. I’m happy to.”
“I know,” she says, eyes narrowing a little. “That’s what worries me. I was listening to this podcast about families with a history of abuse. About how the kids take on others’ burdens, especially their parents. And I know that happened with us, and—”
“It’s fine, really,” I say, chest tightening more.
“It is fine,” Mom says, her agreement throwing me off a little.
“I’ve made peace with it. I’m a big girl, big enough to handle that our situation had consequences.
You and I were in it together. I know it was never fair to lean on you like I did, but now I know firsthand just how strong you are, Jamie.
What you did for me mattered. What you’re doing for me matters.
It has been… truly a delight to spend this time with you.
To get to know the man—person you’ve become. ”
The correction is subtle, but it means a lot. I’m tearing up. Ugh, I hate moments like this. I want to run and hide.
“T-thanks,” I manage, staring at my potatoes.
“So I’m going to burden you one more time and ask for one more very important thing from you.”
“Whatever you need,” I say, hoping for an out, hoping this request will delay the conversation about my future.
“Get a job in your field,” she says quietly, earnestly. “Move to the city. Build a life for yourself. Learn more about who you are, what you like. Call me and tell me about your shitty neighbors. Literally nothing would make me happier in the entire world.”
Shit. She’s fighting fire with fire, martyrdom with martyrdom. I can’t compete with this. This is the Mom trump card. The ultimate I birthed you and my happiness depends on you switcheroo.
Whoever says omegas lack the cunning of alphas doesn’t know my fucking mother.
“I like it here,” I murmur. “There are no… demanding personalities.”
“No unbound alphas.”
“Yeah…”
“Jamie… your father didn’t do what he did because he was an alpha. He did it because he was a very damaged person. And he made excuses because he was an asshole. But it doesn’t have to be that way anymore. I was listening to this other podcast—”
“Please no more childhood trauma content,” I groan.
“A science podcast,” Mom cuts in, with a little edge of smugness in her voice.
“Oh?” I blink.
“That company in the city, Artemis Pharmaceuticals? Apparently, they recently released another round of data from a long-term study. The results are good. Really good. Minimal side effects. You could enjoy the city, for real. Breathe the air. Walk the streets. All that.”
I chew my lip. “This is rich coming from me, but… isn’t it a bit… unnatural? I just worry…” I can’t quite place it. But it’s a complete sentence anyway. ‘I just worry’ is practically my middle name.
Mom snorts, and it startles me a little. “If I can take birth control for twenty years, I think you can at least try a heat suppressant.”
I huff a laugh, realizing how stupid I’m being. “Touché.”
“And…” Mom says, teasing, taking a giant bite of chicken so that I’ll have to wait for her to chew.
I don’t let my impatience show.
“They’re hiring.”
“They are?” I breathe. Mom knows I’ve been following Artemis for ages, knows they were top of my dream job list, knows that I’d just been invited for in-person interviews a year ago when I cancelled everything to come take care of her. “It can’t be for my field, though, I’m sure—”
But Mom slides her phone across the table to me, job posting already pulled up, scrolled to the part of the page that details my exact qualifications.
I chew my lip again. Bad habit. “But the gap on my resume will look bad…”
“Just explain in your cover letter.”
I look up at her, eyes narrowing. “Since when do you know about cover letters?” Mom’s always worked in hospitality.
She’d just been promoted to senior manager of the one hotel in town when she broke her foot and had to go on leave.
But then I put two and two together and roll my eyes playfully. “No, wait, don’t tell me…”
“Podcast,” Mom croons with delight.
“I created a monster,” I sigh, propping my head up on my arm.
“So…” Mom wiggles her eyebrows. “How about after dinner we put on some Home Wreck Fixer, you work on updating your resume, and I’ll start looking at apartments for you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be looking for my own apartment? Self-discovery and all that?”
“You’re not ready for that,” Mom says seriously, sagely. “You’ll pick something too cheap, too utilitarian. With far too long a commute.”
I hesitate. Do the math. City apartments require a lot of money upfront—first month, last month, security deposit. Not to mention furniture. It’s all my college friends have been able to talk about lately when we catch up over video games.
I didn’t plan on moving too far, so most of the money from my modest QA salary is spoken for. Nearly half goes into maxing out my 401k. I didn’t expect to need it so soon.
But then a wave of relief washes over me. It’ll take me time to save up. I can adjust the 401k, maybe reduce my tax withholding. So, still a few more months without any big changes. That’s better. Gives me time to psych myself up.
“It’s gonna take me a while to save up,” I say, trying not to let my voice show how relieved I am.
“I know,” Mom quips. “That’s why I’m giving you a loan.”
“A what?” I say, panic rising again.
“You’ll pay me back in no time flat with your fancy big-city salary,” she teases.
“I’m not sure that’s…”
Her voice softens. “Jamie, I’ve watched that page for a while. And you’re right. They don’t post jobs like that very often. So I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t do everything in my power to give you this shot.”
Something pangs in my heart. A bit of empathy, I think.
How hard was it for her to let me take care of her?
For Mom, who hadn’t missed a daily jog since I’d started my PhD, to not be able to walk?
Of course she’s not trying to get rid of me, as that anxious little voice says.
She must feel guilty. How many times has she berated herself internally for not watching her step better?
As many times as I’ve berated myself for not being there to shovel, I’m sure.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I still don’t feel like I deserve it, still worry I’ll disappoint her, but I’m confident that this is what she wants. I’m confident that I can give it a try. And that she’ll be waiting with open arms if it all goes to shit.
“Ooh!” she squeals, wiggling in her seat. “I’m so excited! I love house hunting.”
Mom really does. No matter how grim the reason for moving was, she always lit up with the thrill of hunting down the perfect place for us, haggling with the landlord, playing on sympathy, getting us a good deal. It made our life seem a little more adventurous, a little less scary.
And that excitement is infectious. I consider as I chew another bite of chicken and potatoes, then let my voice go a little coy as I ask, “How much harder will it be to find somewhere that allows a cat?”
Mom’s eyes shine as if I just handed her the moon. “Nigh impossible,” she says reverently. “But I am a fucking miracle worker.”