Page 3 of This Fate That Guides Us
I’m pulled back to the here and now as we turn into the parking lot of our favorite local diner. The thought of greasy burgers and a chocolate milkshake has my feet moving quickly across the pavement.
The Powells laugh as I wait for them by the door. They’re used to my food obsessions. My birth family never allowed me to choose what I wanted to eat. There were times I would go without any food as punishment for whatever slight my birth father had imagined that day.
After I escaped and settled into my new life as an omega, I took great joy in trying all kinds of new foods and eating as much as I wanted, as often as I wanted. They fully support my appetite and encourage me to be as food-venturous as I want. Whenever Bea and I go home for the summer, they always plan a short road trip for the pack with plenty of new restaurants to try along the way.
I hold the door open until Bea’s alpha father, Phoenix, takes it from my hands and ushers me inside. I can’t hide my smile as we sit around a large table. They are my family now. A fact I am eternally grateful for.
“Have you girls started packing for the move next weekend?” Shelby asks after we place our order.
Bea and I are renting a shared apartment in the city of Starburgh, a short drive outside of New York, where she will be working for the Soulbound Echo Studios record label.
I’m kind of terrified to be going to a new city and leaving the academy. When I was brought into the DAU’s designation protection program four years ago, it was the first time I’d ever moved. The first eighteen years of my life were spent in Witlan, New Hampshire where my birth family lives.
Moving to a farmhouse in upstate New York with the Powells was shocking to my already overwhelmed nervous system. Breakdowns, panic attacks, and nightmares became my newreality. My anxiety was at an all-time high until Bea and I moved into our dorms at Dillon Falls two months later. Only after I built a steady schedule and a safe space of my own creation did I manage to decompress.
Moving is one big, messy adventure. Or so I keep telling myself.
“We have all week to pack, Mom,” Bea replies with a roll of her eyes. She hates packing. Probably because she has so much stuff shoved into her bedroom back at the dorm. She’s going to have a meltdown when she realizes we have to also unpack all of it at the new apartment.
“Don’t wait till the last minute, bumblebee,” Forrest tells her. “You don’t want to have to pull an all-nighter right before you move.”
Bea waves him off but promises to put in more effort to start clearing out her belongings. I know I’ll wind up being roped into helping her later this week. She knows I love her too much to complain. I laugh as her parents tease her about her grudge against organizing, enjoying the peace I feel surrounded by my chosen family.
Lying on my bed later that night, after returning from the concert Bea’s dads surprised us with, I’m restless. My anxiety spiked from all of the changes headed my way.
-I’m losing the stability of my school schedule.
-We’re moving into a new apartment in a new city.
-Bea will be starting a new full-time job.
I think the latter is what bothers me the most because it means she won’t be at home as often. While loneliness is a familiar companion, a friend I grew well acquainted with after my big sister got married and moved away, I’ve grown used to having my extrovert bestie constantly at my side.
When I was first placed with the Powells, their vibrant chaos was overwhelming. Now, several years later, I’ve grown tolove the life and joy my chosen family brings. There is always someone around to talk to. Someone who genuinely cares about your feelings and well-being.
Realistically, I know none of the changes in my life will take our closeness away from me. Even if they aren’t in the same house, or even the same city, I know all of the Powells are only a phone call away. I will still be able to rely on them for support.
My heart doesn’t seem to understand the memo my brain is sending though. Thoughts of the future leave me feeling untethered. Adrift in a sea of anxiety and inadequacy. Never feeling worthy of the love they claim to hold for me while also fearing they too will leave me behind.
Sighing, I try to force these derailing thoughts to the back of my mind. The omega representative who was my mentor at the academy warned me these types of mental spirals were a probability.
Unbonded omegas–especially those with a history of abuse, loss, or abandonment–need a pack to stabilize their mental health. The older you get the more your instincts compound the lingering effects of your trauma.
My mentor recommended I join the pack matching program to start building connections that can prevent me from spiraling, but the pack route wasn’t an option. Partially from the threat my past poses; partially because of the Fated connection I formed with a pack on my last birthday. If I were to ever feel safe enough to be courted, I would seek them out. My Fate matched mates.
As a child, I’d heard of Fated mates in whispered stories, but I never believed they were real. It wasn’t until my first year at Dillon Falls when one of the older omegas had her Fated connection present in the cafeteria that I realized those stories weren’t fairytales as I was led to believe.
At the age of twenty-one, everyone has a chance to experience the phenomena of a Fated connection, though noteveryone is guaranteed to have Fate matched mates in the world. The connection comes in many forms. Some are very noticeable from the minute the connection appears, like meaningful tattoo-like marks or telepathic connections. Others take longer to appear, like shared emotions or dreams.
Even after witnessing omegas be blessed with Fated connections, I hadn’t ever thought I would have Fate matched mates of my own. Imagine my surprise when I turned twenty-one and used a pen to write on my arm, only to have someone respond to the message.
One Year Ago
Learning about the ins and outs of working in cinematography isn’t an invigorating topic for today’s advanced photography lecture. I’m bored out of my mind. My thoughts refuse to focus on a career I have no plans to take part in. Concert photography or photojournalism are the only routes for me.
As my thoughts wander, inspiration strikes for a tagline for one of the pictures I’d taken at a pro-pack protest last weekend. Quietly digging through my bag, I frown when I realize my notebooks aren’t inside. Apparently, I hadn’t returned them the night before. Oh well, the human body makes the perfect canvas in a time of creative need.
Grabbing the black gel pen sticking out of the front pocket, I scrawl the words onto my skin, sighing in relief when the weight of their presence leaves me feeling lighter.
