Page 90 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Lucy is talking, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she gestures with her fork.

“—and honestly the whole thing was embarrassing because he literally just stood there, didn’t say a word, and everyone was watching, and I’m like, are you going to order or⁠—”

“Speaking of being seen in public,” Celine cuts in, twirling a cherry tomato on her fork, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Who was that silver fox I saw you with on Saturday? That restaurant on Linden?”

Lucy’s cheeks flush pink. She picks up her water glass too quickly, takes a sip, sets it down. “What? Oh—that was just a friend.”

“A friend.” Celine’s eyebrows climb. “A friend who had his hand on the small of your back as you walked in?”

“He was being polite!” Lucy laughs, high and bright, swatting Celine’s arm. “Honestly, you see one dinner and suddenly it’s a whole thing. He’s a family friend. My parents know him. It’s completely innocent.”

“Mmhmm.” Celine pops the tomato in her mouth, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it go. “If you say so.”

I turn to Phoebe. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

She looks up from her plate, and her fork slows. “No,” she says, and picks at the edge of her napkin, folding it into a neat crease. “No time, really.”

“No time.” I smile. “That’s what I say too. It’s usually not true when I say it.”

It’s a small thing to offer. A crack in the door, wide enough that people step through without noticing they’ve been invited. Give a little, get a little back. It works on almost everyone.

Phoebe laughs, and doesn’t step through it. “It’s true for me,” she says, and goes back to her salad.

I let the silence sit for a moment. Most people can’t stand a gap in a conversation, and they’ll fill it with whatever comes to mind, which is usually where the useful thing is hiding.

Phoebe fills it by reaching for the pepper.

“What do you do with yourself, then?” I ask. “Outside of here.”

“Oh, nothing exciting.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “I’m very boring.”

“Nobody’s boring.”

“I really am.” She says it without a scrap of self-pity. “I watch a lot of TV. I go to bed early.”

“Family nearby?”

“Not really.” She tilts her head at me. “What about you? Lucy said you moved here for the job.”

And there it is. She’s handed the question back to me, and the strange part is that I don’t think she meant to do it.

“Something like that, yeah,” I say, and I’m still deciding how to steer it back when Lucy leans across the table.

“Oh my God, Phoebe, have you started My Love from the Star yet? You said you were going to.”

Phoebe’s face brightens instantly. “I did! I’m on episode seven and I’m obsessed. The alien is so⁠—”

And that’s that. Phoebe is talking about K-dramas and Lucy is squealing about her favorite episode and Celine is rolling her eyes, and I go back to my salad.

Halfway through lunch, Phoebe’s phone buzzes on the table. She glances at the screen, and her whole body changes. Just for a second. Her mouth tightens before she flips the phone face-down and picks up her fork like nothing happened.

After that, she checks it constantly. Every few minutes, her hand slides under the table and the screen lights up in her lap before she locks it again, and each time her smile takes a second longer to come back.

“Everything alright?” I keep my voice casual. “You seem distracted.”

She looks up from her phone, and she smiles. “Oh, I’m fine! Just waiting on a delivery notification. You know how it is.” She touches my arm. “Have you tried the new salad dressing? It’s so good.”

She’s deflecting, but I let her.