Page 22 of Begrudgingly Yours
I nod, but stop when my vision starts to blur again. Perhaps it’s from the drunkenness, or maybe it’s from the tears I can feel slowly falling down my cheek, but I can’t tell because the lull of the car pulls me into a much-needed slumber.
My father deserved so much better in his marriage, from his alpha. And no matter what my omega wants, I refuse to let anyone have that same power over me.
TWELVE
Playing: Lonely Eyes by Lauv
Jett (10:12 am): Hey, are we still meeting up this morning?
I stareat my own text, unanswered and waiting in our text chain. The empty space leaves me anxious, especially since I’m standing in her yard waiting for a confirmation that I’m positive won’t come through.
We planned to meet at 11 o’clock and I should have taken her silence as a cancellation, because I feel like an idiot standing here right now with two paper bags filled with sandwiches (I didn’t know which one she’d like). This house is in a really nice neighborhood and I have the inkling that one of her neighbors might call the cops on me for loitering. It doesn’t help that my clothes are a bit torn like always (who can afford new clothes when textbooks are so expensive?) and that my expression probably reflects how ashamed I feel about beingstuck out here. I’m sure I look suspicious as hell. I should have told my cab driver to turn around and take me right back to campus.
After a few more moments of standing there awkwardly staring at my phone, I pull the car service back up on my phone. I’m praying that the same driver doesn’t get the request (that would be embarrassing) when the front door of Rory’s house opens.
“Uh… hello?” I look up to see an unruly array of red hair. She’s looking at me, mistrust in her eyes. “What are you doing in our yard?”
It takes me a few seconds to speak. “I… I’m sorry. Is Rory here?”
“Who’s asking?” she replies quickly.
“I’m her scene partner. We had plans to rehearse.”
That must have given her enough context to know I’m not a complete stranger because she nods. “Hold on.”
She walks back inside, and I’m once again left out on the pathway alone. I’m fiddling with my room key on my belt loop, anxious energy zooming through me, when the door opens again. This time, it’s my scent match. She doesn’t say anything, just leaves the door open and walks away.
I tilt my head to the side and squint. Well, that’s one way to invite someone in.
I close their front door behind me and follow Rory’s cranberry scent until we come into what I presume is their living room. Instead of honing in on the shit-load of Halloween decorations, my eyes go right to the wall full of critically acclaimed movie posters. Each one is framed and taken care of, not a single speck of dust in sight.
“Sorry about the space. I don’t like having alphas in my room so we’ll have to rehearse here.”
I nod, understanding. “You like The Irishman?” I ask as Ipoint to the poster with De Niro. Pointless violence and morally corrupt business doesn’t really seem like her thing.
She looks up from her spot on the couch. “It makes me feel sick, which I appreciate. That Jimmy Hoffa scene… it takes some hidden talent to make the watcher feel like they just witnessed a real crime. It’s almost magic.” Our eyes meet, and I finally see how tired she looks. There’s dark circles under her eyes, her hair is tied up in a messy bun that I don’t think is intentional, and she’s still wearing her pajamas. They’re a black silk that compliments her dark hair really well.
She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
I officially went off my blockers yesterday, but there’s no way to tell when my scent will come back. The internet says it varies and depends on how long you were taking them, which is literally years for me. Being in her presence with that kind of uncertainty leaves me feeling uneasy.
She yawns, and her scent is muted like her body is so tired that it can’t properly emit its pheromones. “Sorry I didn’t answer your text. Opaljustwoke me up and I’m a bit hungover.”
“Oh.” I don’t know why I’m surprised. We’re in college. It’s literally the best time to drink and have those kinds of experiences.
“You know, the smell of those sandwiches would probably make me vomit right now so don’t stand too close,” she says jokingly as she points at the paper bags in my hand. I almost forgot I even had them, so she must recognize the restaurant logo on the side. Her joke falls flat as I stay silent without meaning to. “Damn, Jett, give mesomething. You can’t even joke about hangovers with me?”
I crack a relenting smile. “It’s not that… I’m not judging, I swear. I just don’t drink so I can’t relate.”
“Really?” she asks curiously and I just nod in return. “But… what if you have to play ‘drunk guy number three’ in some big movie and it ends up being your big break but it doesn’t take you anywhere because you have no idea what being drunk is supposed to look like?”
I crack a laugh. “Come on, why can’t I be ‘drunk guy number one’?”
“Please,” Rory scoffs playfully.
“Fine, fine. I’ll give it to you,” I reply before giving her an honest shrug. “I know what being drunk looks like. I’m very acquainted with it. I don’t need to feel it myself to portray it accurately. And if anyone were to pressure me to method act with alcohol, I would know that role isn’t for me anyway. It’s a hard limit of mine.”
She looks more surprised than she did a second ago, like the words I’m speaking aren’t reflective of the person she thought I was—which is probably a competitive, get-an-edge-on-anyone actor. I’ve never been that guy, but I don’t blame her for thinking so. The person I am around her, the role I play, is definitely competitive.
