Chapter 1 - Bridget
The first day of my “big girl job” had arrived, and a truckload of first day jitters had arrived alongside it. My therapist’s frequent refrain of “Is it fear, or just anticipation?” was looping through my mind as I dressed in my specially purchased outfit. The hardwood floor in my room was cold, so I pulled on woolen tights first. I was always cold, but my usual old lady cardigans or ratty sweatshirts wouldn’t make quite the first impression I wanted.
I imagined what a mother would say in that moment. “Oh, Bridget, you’ll be great! You’re smart and capable. Everybody wants you to succeed!”
This imaginary mother sounded a lot like Katharine Hepburn’s mother inThe Little Women. She was an excellent counterpoint to the other, less helpful running commentary I usually had in my head.
I was wearing my best approximation of professional clothing: a dark gray skirt suit and a light blue button-up that almost fit. No one would even see it once I put on my lab coat, but I was still trying to look the part.
Looking down, my outfit, which gaped awkwardly where my boobs should’ve been, gave the overwhelming impression of a girl playing dress up.
One of the first things I did when I moved into the Omega Center was to take down the full-length mirror in my room andhide it in the closet. It was still wedged there after four years. Unfortunately, the bathroom mirror was less easily dealt with.
I edged into the bathroom and steeled myself for a peek. I’d gotten adept at doing my hair and makeup without looking in a mirror, but I needed to be sure I would make a good impression.
The girl in the mirror looked small and scared. I watched her adjust the blue button-up and smooth down her skirt, adjust her black tights, and pat down the top of her ponytail. It helped if I thought of my reflection as a different person. If I thought of it asme, it morphed as if I were looking in a funhouse mirror, showing a bloated, distorted version I logically knew wasn’t real, but caused real distress.
“You look fine,” I murmured, then turned away.
I checked the time on my phone, and my stomach jolted again. The train would leave in twenty minutes, and the walk to the station took ten. I slung my bag over my shoulder, grabbed my jacket, and crept to the dining room. I made myself a cup of tea as quietly as possible.
I would have to sneak out to avoid Steffi and an enthusiastic, long-winded goodbye. Steffi was the Director of the Omega Center. She meant well, but sometimes her interest tipped into overbearing territory.
I’d already sat through an hour-long effusion of just how proud she was of me for getting out of my comfort zone.
But the back door wasn’t alarmed, so I crept into the back garden.
The courtyard, usually my favorite place in the Center, was full of dead and dormant plants. It never showed itself well in the wintertime, especially on such a dreary January day. The air outside was punishingly cold, and I shrugged into my jacket with a shiver, then took a fortifying sip of tea.
A path led around the side of the main building, an old Victorian home that the National Omega Network had converted into a place for Omegas “without traditional support networks to grow, thrive, and prepare for their next chapter.” At least that’s what the website said. Reading between the lines, it was a place for damaged Omegas with nowhere else to go to find a compatible pack as quickly as possible so they could stop living off government funding.
The path was slippery from the overnight frost that turned the coating of dead leaves into pulpy sludge. With the house on my left and the hedge-covered fence that surrounded the property on my right, I paused and gathered myself in the early-morning stillness. I breathed in deeply, smelling the bracing coldness in the air. An occasional car passed outside the fence, and a lone bird called from the bare branches above. I wiggled my toes in my ankle boots and rolled my neck. It would be easier to turn around, go back into the warmth of the Omega Center, and watch old movies under my duvet. But I kept walking.
My new job was deep downtown, in a glass and concrete building full of healthcare providers. The Davis Orthopedic Clinic occupied the top floors with a state-of-the-art facility that included a full research suite.
I wandered into the lobby and spotted Dr. Nielsen. Her signature silver bob and thick black glasses would have been recognizable enough, but her orange and pink floral shirt removed any doubt. She’d always dressed loudly, and I admired her for it. As a woman in STEM, even an Alpha, there was pressure for her to be “serious,” but she never toned it down.
“Bridget,” she called in her deep voice, striding over to me. She grabbed my shoulders and shook me gently. Her scent— roses in full bloom with an undercurrent of black pepper — tickled my nose. “Aren’t you just about to die from excitement?”
“Good morning, Dr. Nielsen,” I said with a small smile.
“Enough of that; you’re going to call me Lisbeth. I’m not your professor anymore,” she chided.
Yeah, now you’re my boss, I thought. “Of course. Lisbeth.”
“The others should be here soon,” she said, glancing toward the door behind me. “Yes, here’s Nathan now.”
My heart sank. Of course it was Nathan Manalo, the post-doc who had made my life miserable for six months in Dr. Nielsen’s lab. We’d worked together on the HLA compatibility study, into whether Omega stem cells were suitable for treatment in other designations, but only in the loosest terms. He’d made it very clear he had better things to do than talk to a lowly grad student research assistant, beyond critiquing my assays or reports.
He had his usual severe expression, his hair styled neatly above intense brown almond-shaped eyes. I’d learned he was Filipino after hate-Googling him, and he spoke with the faintest trace of an accent in his crisp, precise voice. When we locked eyes, his frown became even more pronounced. He was tall and surprisingly solid-looking for a guy with a Ph.D. in biomedical sciences. When did he have time to workout when he was busy crushing grad-student dreams?
Hold on. No, Nathan Manalo’s workout regimen wasnoneof my business.
“Good morning, Dr. Nielsen.” His voice was cool and meticulous, as usual. I couldn’t catch his scent, so he had to be wearing descenters as he always did in the university lab. I’d shellacked myself in them, too, in a pointless exercise more from habit than necessity. I hadn’t perfumed, ever, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
“Always so serious,” Lisbeth said, shaking his hand with a look of mock-disappointment. “You’re supposed to be excited.”
“I am,” he said, deadpan. I pressed my lips together.
