“I looked at it,” I admit. “But I’m not sure there’s anything that would work for me. Marketing materials aside, it’s probably all just the usual. Packs seeking an omega.”
Jessica’s lips curve into a smile that can only be described as Machiavellian. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her tablet. “That’s where you’re wrong. Luckily for you, I’ve doneextensiveresearch.”
“Of course you have.” I take another bite, larger this time.
Jessica turns the tablet around and slides it across the table. “Look.”
I peer at the screen, expecting to see the same polished landing page I’d clicked on after our last conversation. Instead, I’m looking at a profile. A group of three betas, all men, with warm smiles and matching sweaters. A little creepy, but… wholesome. And I can respect the sweater game.
“Beta triad looking for a fourth,” Jessica explains, swiping to the next profile before I can process the first. “This one’s interesting. He’s an alpha who lost his scent match and isn’t looking for another, just someone compatible with his lifestyle.”
She swipes again. “Here’s a mixed beta-alpha pair seeking a third who specifically states omega or beta, doesn’t matter.”
Another swipe. “Single beta looking for one-on-one relationship, no pack aspirations.”
Swipe. “Alpha-omega couple looking for a beta housemate with friendship potential, no romantic expectations.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth as Jessica keeps scrolling through profile after profile, each one defying my expectations. People seeking connections beyond the traditional alpha-omega pairing, beyond scent matching, beyond everything I’d come to believe was the only option.
“How many of these did you find?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.
“Dozens.” Jessica’s expression softens. “Lex, not everyone is looking for the same thing.”
I set my fork down, suddenly less interested in the pie. “You really did your research, didn’t you?”
“Actually...” Jessica draws out the word, and I immediately sense danger. “I may have taken a few additional steps.”
“What doesthatmean?”
She taps the screen a few more times, then hands me the tablet again. I blink in shock as I stare at a profile I definitely didn’t create, but that’s undeniably my face looking back at me from the screen. A picture Jessica took of me at our table in the audience of a theater play last year.
I have to admit, it’s a good one. My hair is actually down and styled into sleek, reddish-brown waves rather than piled up in its usual messy bun, and I look downright glamorous in a floor-length purple gown that brings out my brown eyes and hugs my curves gracefully. The only problem is, I look like that only two percent of the time. And that’s generous.
“You made me a profile?” The words come out higher than I intend.
“I took the liberty, yes.”
“That is definitely a liberty.” I scan the page, torn between horror and curiosity. The rest of the photos aren’t bad either, mostly shots Jessica has taken over the years at family gatherings. She’s chosen ones where I’m laughing or mid-conversation, looking more alive than I feel most days. “What does it say about me?”
“Just the basics. Small business owner, creative, values independence but seeks meaningful connection. Looking for a relationship with room to grow, open to various configurations.”
“Various configurations?” I narrow my eyes. “Did you just call me a relationship slut?”
Jessica chokes on her water. “I did not! I just kept your options open. The whole point of the app is that it’s not just about scent matching.”
I continue scrolling through my profile, conflicted. On one hand, I’m annoyed at Jessica’s overstepping. On the other, I’m relieved to not have to go through the awkward process of writing about myself. She’s managed to make me sound both reasonable and slightly interesting, which is a feat considering I spent last Saturday night sipping wine and fondling yarn samples.
“So, have you arranged a date for me too?” I ask dryly, handing the tablet back.
Jessica’s lips quirk up. “No, I figured you needed to pull your weightsomehow.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“What are sisters for?” She grins, reclaiming her fork to steal another bite of pie. “Besides, you have to actually talk to people yourself. I just cleared the path.”
I stare at the pie between us, no longer sure if I’m hungry or nauseous. The idea of putting myself out there again, of being vulnerable enough to hope, feels like willingly stepping into traffic after being hit by four consecutive trucks.
Trucks that send you unsolicited announcements about their mating ceremonies.
