Page 2 of Knot All is Forgiven

How can he call me chubby? I've been working so hard to keep my weight down. Everything gets measured and thrown onto the food scale. Mom has been insistent on it for the past year.

Maybe I have a genetic malfunction. If I could save enough money for a consultation at the Design Clinic, where you can pick out specific genes and design your child, even going as far as planning out their designation, perhaps I could get some answers.

Untying the stained black apron from today's shift and tossing it on my desk, I daydream about being with the guys in the city. In my check presenter, which I use to hold my notepad to scribble orders, I pull out the tips from the day and count them, meticulously writing down the dollar amount on the notebook beside the little painted treasure chest I keep my money in.

At this rate, I'll be able to join the guys in six months – a year, tops.

I sneak a glance at the clock. I've got twenty minutes until our weekly video call.

Every Thursday night at nine, the guys will pile up on their ratty couch in their shitty apartment and video call me. It feels like old times, the four of us just laughing and talking about our lives. I can't wait until I get to be there in person.

We carefully avoid the topic of my presentation, choosing instead to talk about our lives and experiences. I don't feel the need to constantly remind them that I'm their scent match.

They'll figure it out eventually.

After a quick shower to get the smell of fried food off me, I throw my hair up in a messy bun and snuggle into a fuzzy gray lounge set. I prop myself against the scuffed white woodenheadboard from my childhood bedroom. I save more money living at home, and my parents aren't keen to see me go, so it works out well.

Still, I hate that I feel like I'm exactly where I was a year ago, and they're moving on, living big lives in university.

The minutes tick by, and my phone hasn't rang. The guys are never late. Never. They always call me, from Rafe's phone, at nine p.m. Every time.

By nine twenty-three, I'm distraught, lost in worry that something terrible has happened to them. I call Rafe, but the call goes to voicemail.

Cyrus' phone also goes to voicemail.

It's Simon who answers. He looks different than he did when we were kids. His glasses have been replaced with contacts, and he has a short stubble on his face. His eyes look red, and his lips are a little swollen. "What's wrong? Is everything okay?" I blurt out in greeting.

"It's fine, peaches," he says softly.

"Where are Rafe and Cyrus?" I ask, squinting to see his background. "I've been so worried."

"We're here, Jordy," Rafe says, moving into the view of the camera. Cyrus also slides into the frame, and I sigh in relief. "Sorry, we're late. We've… well, some stuff happened."

"What's going on?" I can see the fear in my eyes in that tiny rectangle in the corner of my screen, and no matter how much I try to reign in my emotions, I can't. Something is seriously wrong, and they're keeping it from me.

Simon looks at his packmates indiscernibly, then back at the camera. "Well, okay. So…" he stutters, stumbling over words like he cannot force them out.

"We met someone," Cyrus says brusquely. "An Omega."

My stomach fills with lead, and the phone falls out of my hand, crashing onto my faded pink comforter. I give myself to thecount of five before I pick it back up. Before I even get the chance to ask clarifying questions, Cyrus continues.

"She's our scent match, Jordan. I'm sorry. I know you were holding out hope, but we've found our Omega."

No.

No.

No.

This isn't true. I don't believe it.

How can they find their Omega when their Omega is me?

But why would they lie to me? They wouldn't hurt me on purpose.

But I know I'm meant to be with them! I know I'm an Omega!

But if they have their Omega, maybe I was wrong.

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