Page 32 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

My childhood bedroom door stood ajar. I pushed it open, stepping into the space that had been my sanctuary for so damn long. The realtor had left my furniture—the white four-poster bed, the matching dresser, the desk where I'd done homework until I’d gone to live at the San Francisco Ballet dorms full time.

“It’s always good to have a child’s room set up, especially to target young couples.”

The items that screamed ‘Nelly Shaw’ were gone though. MyCenter Stage Slickmovie poster, my collection of music boxes, the mirror where I'd practiced positions every morning while holding onto a handmade, freestanding barre Grandpa crafted.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. I’d taken over my grandparents’ room a long time ago. I’d also gotten a new mattress and sheets. For…obvious reasons. I still slept withGrandmother’s quilt at the foot of the bed every night though, folding it out of sight during the day to appease the realtor.

God, I was suddenly exhausted.

I retreated to the master. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I placed the glass of water down on the nightstand. I fished it out. Two texts from my flawless realtor.

Jan Messer: Nelly, I still think the Stevensons are a sure thing, but I’ve scheduled another showing tomorrow at 2 PM. These buyers are a fantastic back-up. Half the cash on hand, pre-approved for the rest. Their agent already sent over that letter.

Jan Messer: Let me know if 2 doesn’t work. I’ll try to rearrange.

I had an interview in Tacoma tomorrow at 4 PM anyways. I’d just leave a bit early, gave me time to grab a coffee and read over my prep notes. Though I’d decided not to hope anymore, this opportunity had rekindled the feeling. The director of the small modern dance school seemed impressed by my resume, and already aware I was a single Omega. He didn’t seem to know who I was, so that was good too.

Me: 2 is fine. I’ll be out of town anyway.

It felt like she started typing before I’d even sent the message. She must have still had our convo open.

Jan Messer: Fantastic! I’ve got a great feeling about tomorrow. I bet we get two offers!

Jan Messer: Though, I told you we should paint the kitchen. The Stevensons’ agent said they almost walked out when they saw it, but the rest of the house won them over.

Me: Great.

I sent a cheerful emoticon next, because my one-word response felt hollow.

Painting the kitchen was another thing I’d refused to change. That sunny yellow would stay until I sold the place. I couldn’t part with it any more than I could part with the birds or the quilt.

Collapsing onto the bed, I buried my face in one of the pillows and screamed.

I screamed as loudly as I could.

I screamed until my throat hurt.

Eventually, when I felt emptied of frustration and pain, I fell asleep.

8

WADE NELSON

Ten months ago... Pinedale, Wyoming

I’d read the same paragraph a dozen times and still couldn’t remember what the damn thing said.

I couldn't sleep yet again, been weeks since I properly rested.

Hell, not weeks. A year?

My body, my brain, my everything just felt out of sorts.

And now, all I could focus on was the possibility Eros might find ‘the’ Omega for us.

I watched the oil lamp’s flame as it danced within the confines of the charred glass globe.

Smoke marks had already created new streaking patterns, though I’d cleaned it thoroughly before using the lamp tonight. Light stretched across the scratched dining table and my open book. The amber glow somehow transformed and softened the edges of our cramped kitchen. Shadows even seemed kinder. I liked it. The big kitchen light was too harsh to put on so late at night. Dimness fit the mood.