Chapter 7 #2
I meet with Jayda again on Wednesday, but this one’s only a half-day session, leaving my afternoon free for the omega support group call.
I follow instructions on the wiki to book a ‘hybrid meeting room.’ All I have to do is add the room to the calendar invite, and the TV on the wall automatically pulls up my call, previewing the video feed from the camera pointed at me. I push a button to join.
This is some high-tech shit. When I finished my PhD program, my university department could hardly figure out conference calls.
A dozen other camera feeds have already joined. I spot one other meeting room—from the Dublin office—but the rest are all folks working from home with their own individual cameras.
Two realizations hit me at once. First, I’d never even considered remote work—didn’t know it was an option. Well, it’s not an option if I want to be in the lab. And I really want to be in the lab.
Second, the group is entirely femme. I don’t want to presume they all identify as women, but… definitely femme. I hold out hope as a few more faces trickle in.
Then the meeting kicks off, and it’s official.
I’m the only conspicuously assigned-male-at-birth person in the group.
I immediately feel awkward, like I’m intruding. Jayda meant well, but since she’s not an omega, she maybe didn’t know that omega spaces tend to be largely female or femme spaces.
“Hey girlies,” chimes a woman, who I’m inferring is the group leader. “And folks,” she quickly adds.
I give a shy wave. Oh, fuck, this was a mistake.
“I see we have some new faces here,” the woman says. “Maybe let’s do intros?” Nods reply across the two dozen camera squares.
I want to hide under the table. But I also don’t want to bring any attention to my discomfort. Don’t want to center my male experience in a group for femmes. So, I’ll just have to suck it up and not be too awkward.
“I’ll kick us off,” the group leader says, introducing herself as “Jenny in accounting.” She lives near a major city a few states over.
I’m happy to forget myself as each person introduces themselves.
They’re in data, ops, software engineering, finance.
All jobs that are super remote-friendly.
The only other scientist is the person from the Dublin office.
With how they each describe where they’re located, it sounds like a lot of them are in omega havens like Pleasantwood.
My mind kind of wanders. Mom could do a job like this, she’d be really good at it.
She loves managing the hotel, but the job requires being on your feet all day.
She hasn’t wanted to admit it, but she can’t do that forever.
She runs their books, hires people, manages the whole operation—I think she could do great in accounting, recruiting, or ops.
“Oh, Jamie, is your audio working?”
I jump as I hear my name for the second time. Shit.
“S-sorry, technical difficulties.”
“Oh, you’re still on mute,” Jenny says helpfully.
I’m blushing. I manage to unmute myself and stumble through an introduction.
“Oh, I know you!” Jenny almost squeals. “You’re the omega who’s going to be doing fireside chats with Morgan, right? That’s so cool!”
“I-I’m just really grateful for the opportunity,” I say. “I can only give my perspective, but… I hope it can help people.”
“You’re a brave omega,” another woman chimes in. “We’re like, fundamentally bad at outreach.”
“We’re not all introverts,” another says, with the familiar teasing of a luncheon group.
I wonder how long they’ve been meeting together like this. I get a sort of primal longing feeling—an echo of the come-down.
They’re a pack, I realize. They have each other’s backs.
“Speaking of outreach,” Jenny says, “how’s the fundraiser planning coming along?”
They settle into an easy conversation. I’m sort of able to follow along, but there’s still a lot of lingo that’s new to me. At one point, Jenny complains about friction with another department, somebody trying to take credit for her ideas.
“Men, right?” someone chimes in.
The group laughs, and I know they’re not laughing at me, and I’m glad they’re not holding back on my account, but I also know that I don’t belong here.
I’m not… a man, per se. But I still have male privilege, even if I’m an omega. Intersectionality, and all.
There’s also an LGBTQIA+ support group, but I’m not sure I’ll fit in there either.
I have a… complicated relationship with queer community.
Folks are welcoming, for sure, but there are still a lot of…
assumptions. People kind of want me to be in their group.
I get it. I really do. Back at the university, I attended queer events for a while and started to make some friends.
But then a trans femme started making comments that I was an egg, that I should embrace my true self.
I know she meant well. I don’t want to hold it against her.
But painted nails and long hair aren’t… stepping stones to me. They’re just me.
I’m bisexual, so I had more than one gay man inform me that I’m gay, I’m just not fully out of the closet yet. I went to one gay event, got groped twice, had a panic attack, and went home. I get it—it’s gay culture. There’s a lot of unspoken rules. But it reminds me too much of being around alphas.
I’ve got on well with a few shyer gay men, but… who’s going to make the first move at that point?
I guess I could name it and claim it. ‘Come out’ as gender nonconforming, as nonbinary.
But I’m not sure what that nets me. Finding other assigned-male-at-birth enbies is almost as hard as finding other male omegas.
They’re out there, but they tend to do what I do: camouflage.
Not make a fuss. Let other people keep the spotlight. People who need it more.
Except I am about to be in the spotlight. Sort of. As Jayda and I are going through the questions, I’m putting two and two together on why Morgan picked me.
Having me up there as a male omega kind of… highlights her female-alpha-ness. And I’m comfortable with that, with being on a stage if it makes the spotlight shine brighter on someone else, on someone who deserves it.
The meeting wraps, and I thank everyone for their warm welcome.
Then, I decline the next meetup invite, and when the pop-up confirms what I’d like to cancel, I select “This and all future events.”
#
On Thursday, I have one last all-day session with Jayda to polish my performance. I’m starting to appreciate just how much preparation goes into sounding off-the-cuff.
We don’t have a script for me, perse. I’ve just answered each of these questions dozens of times by now.
Each answer is a little different. I don’t pick quite the same words twice, but I know what I’m trying to get across and how long I should be talking for.
I’m learning how to pause instead of saying um.
I slip up again and apologize to Jayda.
“We’re not aiming for zero ums here,” she assures. “Just as few as possible. You’re an omega, so people will find a little nervousness charming.”
That comment relieves me more than it should.
I think I’m supposed to be upset about stereotypes, but aren’t stereotypes kind of the point of this campaign?
Jayda has confirmed that part of my purpose here is to be a foil to Morgan’s alpha-ness.
So, I believe Jayda: as long as it’s not distracting, it’s okay to be a little nervous. Preferred, even.
A pressure lifts from my shoulders: pressure to be something I’m not. To be perfect and poised. It’s okay to be a little rough around the edges.
I’m thanking Jayda, asking her which phrasing is more clear, when a husky, feminine voice rings behind me and straightens my spine.
“How’s it coming?”
It’s casual, calm, but alpha-ness pulses in every syllable. Morgan.
“Brilliantly,” Jayda says with a genuine smile and another callback to the company motto. I’m not sure how everyone can do that so unironically, but she really means it.
“Glad to hear it,” Morgan says.
I haven’t turned around. I force myself to now, keeping my eyes low, centering on her shoes.
Wow, they’re great shoes. Deep-crimson patent leather oxfords with a kitten heel. Fuck, even her shoes are hot. And I’m not even a foot guy. I don’t dare raise my eyes, don’t know what I’ll do if I meet her gaze.
Her scent finds my nose again: leather, whiskey, cedar. The cedar is especially bright today. Woodsy, warm and strong.
Part of my brain squirms, begs, aches to be closer to her. But it’s… distant. Like a memory, not an active feeling. My body remains calm, except for the tension in my spine. I don’t erupt into heat.
I dare raise my eyes.
Her expression is relaxed, but still observing. Like a lounging tiger.
She takes a few confident steps over, extending a hand. I jump to my feet.
“Morgan Hunter,” she says, gripping my hand. Hers is strong and calloused and dry and warm. I think mine is super sweaty. I hope she doesn’t notice. “But you can call me Mor. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Jamie Brennan,” I stammer out, so quiet it’s almost inaudible.
Morgan releases my hand and quirks an eyebrow at Jayda. “You sure he’s stage ready?”
My lungs drop into my gut. Oh fuck, how am I supposed to remember anything when I’m sitting next to her? This is a terrible idea.
She reads the terror on my face, then lets out a rich laugh. “I’m kidding! Jayda is the best there is. You’ll be ready.” She claps a hand on my shoulder so hard I almost fall over. “See you tomorrow.”
Then she’s gone.
I’m shaking.
Jayda sits back down, and I follow suit.
“Don’t worry,” Jayda says. “Morgan can be… overwhelming, at first. Her sense of humor is a bit… aggressive. But she’s patient.
You’ll see. I think you’ve got all your questions down pat, so actually, let’s brainstorm some calming activities you can do when you’re nervous, both on and off the stage. ”
I nod weakly. I’m going to need it.