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Camelia

Lark: I’m dying.

Ilaugh out loud in my empty kitchen, the sound bouncing off all that glass and steel.

Cammie: Eat a cracker. We’ll miss you tonight.

Lark: Drink an extra glass for me.

Like she even needs to ask.

I set the bottle on my kitchen counter, a solid mid-range Pinot that I grabbed specifically for tonight because Lucy and I made a pact to drink responsibly, which in our minds means not the good stuff, but not the gas station stuff either.

My apartment is quiet except for the city. Twenty floors up, you get only the good noise. The river catches the last of the evening light through my floor-to-ceiling windows, going gold and pink, and I take exactly two seconds to appreciate it before I look at the bottle again.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say to no one. Drinking alone isn’t really alone when you know your friend is coming. Eventually.

Lark bailed. Not in a she has better things to do way. More like in a she's been turning a charming shade of green since approximately ten a.m. way, which honestly explains why she kept going quiet in the middle of the Saint Coffee campaign meeting.

I covered for her. Obviously. Because I am an excellent best friend. Also because she signs my paychecks. But mostly it’s because I’m really good at my job.

I pour my first glass. It’s a generous one, because I've earned it. Then I survey my living room with the particular satisfaction I get when I remember that I decorated it myself with my own money, and I would not change a single thing.

There’s color everywhere. Orange couch, yellow rug, teal pillows, blue dining table, and my pride and joy—twelve vintage pinup girls in matching frames that are decidedly not matching colors. Hot pink. Lime green. Cobalt blue. And my omega’s favorite, cherry red.

My mother said it was a lot the first time she visited. I would say my mother’s a lot, so we’re even.

A knock sounds at my door. "It's open!" I call.

Lucy lets herself in, already smiling. She's in a soft oversized cream sweatshirt, jeans cuffed at the ankle, and little white sneakers. Her hair is doing that thing lately where the curl is starting to come in. It’s dark and close-cropped and genuinely adorable, though I know better than to say adorable to her face because she is twenty-four and does not want to be adorable.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she huffs, dropping her bag on a chair. “Daniel has it in his head that security needs to be increased in this building. I’ve been dealing with my overzealous cousin for the last hour.”

I roll my eyes as expected. Daniel is one of Lucy’s dads. He owns a security company and is extremely serious about keeping his omega daughter safe. He’s already changed her apartment’s locks and cameras three times, and she hasn’t even lived here a year.

“Is this the cousin that is part-owner of the company?”

She practically growls. “Yes, and he is as bad as Daniel. I swear, if he weren’t family, I would have shoved him out the door.”

I take a sip of my wine. “You and I have different philosophies on the appropriate treatment of overbearing family members.”

She shrugs, like she’s used to dealing with people who hover a little too much. "Is Lark running late, too?" she asks, glancing back toward the still-open door.

I make a face.

Lucy reads it immediately. Her face falls slightly. "Did she ditch us for her alphas?”

"Unfortunately, we can’t blame your brother, Graham, or Saint for this. She’s been green around the gills since this morning." I hand her a glass and nudge the door shut behind her with my foot. "She bailed about an hour ago. I'm choosing to believe she feels terrible about it."

"She probably does," Lucy says, because Lucy is sweet like that. She takes a sip of the wine and her eyebrows lift. "Oh, even I can tell this is good."

"Right?" I gesture for her to follow me to the living room.

We settle onto the orange couch, Lucy tucking her knees up, cradling her glass. She looks around the living room the way she always does, taking in all the colors and the things that shouldn't go together but somehow do. She smiles when her eyes catch on the butterfly print I just bought.

When her eyes finally stop their tour of the room, I ask the thing that’s been on my mind. "Any word from your oncologist?"

Lucy looks at her wine. "I saw him last week. My scans are clear. As for the other thing, he's not concerned. Says scent loss after chemo isn't uncommon for omegas. It usually comes back." She takes a careful sip. "But after six months, I'm starting to think it might be permanent."