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Chapter eighteen

Mitch

The first day we don’t see Roan, I chalk it up to her being busy.

The Arts Centre is a big project. The second day, I can’t stop staring out the window at that building, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of her so I can run over.

Clay ruins a patch of blueberry muffins on the third day.

I catch him crushing one of the burnt pastries in his hand as he throws them away, angry tears in his eyes.

I drive the truck down to Connie’s to see if she’s around, but Roan isn’t there.

As if this past week hasn’t been stressful enough with Roan ghosting us, this month's town hall meeting is in absolute shambles over nothing. It smells like burnt toast, and I’m not sure if I’m having a stroke from how fucking stupid some of these people are or if Clay really, really is that close to burning the whole damn town hall to the ground.

And it's raining tonight, so everyone's dripping wet.

Mayor Louise sits at the front of the hall behind a rickety old folding table.

On either side of her are Lerena, who’s taking furious notes, and Barnaby, who looks ready to die from boredom.

We have these same conversations every month.

It’s always the same. Here’s what tourist-driving festival we’re having this month, there’s what programs the schools are putting on, here’s another load of crap for us all to throw our time and money behind while we try to get the state tourism board to notice us.

Oh, and it smells like shit coffee in here.

This is truly the worst of all town hall meetings in history.

I huff, tired and annoyed and just damn pouty, when Louise mentions wanting to do something classier this winter to appeal to the ski bunnies.

Apparently Andri’s annual kegger does not count as classy in the eyes of the general population, but I always have a great time there.

“Oh, why don't we schedule something with the Arts Centre?” Lerena smiles jovially, like a lightbulb truly has just popped up between her small Faun antlers. “Is Roan here?”

There's a rumbling through the crowd as people turn in their seats to look for her. There are a few pointed stares directly at us, but Clay and I are looking around just as much as them. She's not in the crowd that I can see or smell.

“She's not here,” Clay states clearly.

Barnaby's brow furrows in confusion, and his eyes flick to someone in the front row. Maisie will absolutely be hunting us down after this meeting if she doesn't already know what's going on.

“Are we surprised?” Ted asks. “Her ladyship couldn't lower herself to see us.”

“Excuse you?” I shout, half out of my seat before Clay is pulling me down. “Don't talk about her like that.”

He gives me a look that says we don't need to raise our voices. Shit. Fucking damnit. I squeeze his hand in apology, even if I want to get in a fucking shouting match with Ted.

We can defend our Omega without losing our cool.

“Well, shouldn't she be here? Aren't we paying her?” he demands, continuing on this interjection.

“She's probably at the Centre,” Gnurl Lumzag points out. “She hasn’t been at the motel much, too determined to get that place cleared out.”

“Yeah, I dropped off a load of stuff for her last week,” Rick confirms. “It's really coming together.”

“Ted, to answer your question, she is receiving a small stipend through the city's budget,” Louise confirms. “But it's nothing serious, barely above minimum wage.”

“Hold the fucking phone,” Clay stands up, suddenly baring his teeth. “You can't expect her to live off that. None of us can!”

There is a short round of applause for that comment, and it brings a bit of warmth to my heart knowing what kind of community we want here.

“Clay, I understand your concern, and she was fully aware of our budget constraints, even offering to take the role as a volunteer.” Louise folds her hands over her notebook. “She truly just wanted to be a part of bringing back the arts here.”

“Then where the hell is she?” Ted stands up, towering over a good portion of the crowd.

I don't know.

That's all I can think about. I don't know where our mate is, because every attempt we've made to contact her this week has failed.

The lights have been on at the Arts Centre, but Connie says she hasn't been around the motel.

My fingers slip into my hoodie pockets, feeling her handkerchief I've taken to carrying around, as worry gnaws at my gut.

Why isn't she speaking to us?

Everything seemed fine when we parted ways, when I drove her back to Connie's, when I reminded her to drink more than just tea all day. Was it me? Did I come on too strong?

“Attendance at these meetings isn't required,” Louise reminds the crowd. “Now, we've got a lot of other business to handle tonight, so let's get to it.”

And the meeting goes on. Clay sits back down, an unnatural scowl marring his face. He's been carrying so much weight this week. If it weren't for his firm grip on my hand, I'm not sure I'd be coping at all. We've weathered dark times before, but I don't know how much more we can be battered.

“Before we close out tonight's meeting, is there any final new business we'd like to bring up?”

There's a beat of silence, the rustling of people gathering their coats and umbrellas together, when there's a crash in the hall outside. Clay immediately scoots his chair in the way of mine. It's adorably protective, but I'm nosey. I want to see what's going on.

Roan bursts through the door, covered in white paint and looking like a drowned rat in a bicycle helmet.

“Is the meeting over?” she gasps, trembling fingers reaching around for her backpack.

“Not officially, Lady— I mean, Roan.” Louise sits up a bit straighter when she sees my mate.

“I—” she clears her throat, trying to catch her breath while maintaining eye contact with no one as she steps forward towards the table. “I would like to propose a-a monthly class to begin at the Cove Arts Centre in two weeks’ time.”

No one speaks. We all just stare at her. I want to go to her, talk to her so we can understand. Clay holds a firm hand on my neck to keep me seated.

“The first floor of the gallery has been completely refurbished. While the ground and second floors are still in progress, I understand people are eager to see the work I've been doing,” she explains.

“What sort of class?” Barnaby asks.

My jaw literally drops. This man hasn't spoken a word in these meetings in over a decade. Last time I can recall was in regards to bird migration and some sort of boob.

“I— I've got a list of potential options. Some are more ambitious than others, and I can happily email the full list to any committee member that needs to review it, um, but I believe starting with a simple charcoal life drawing class would have the most appeal.”

“Oh, sounds fun,” I hear Gwen from the game shop murmur.

“Girls’ night,” a purple-haired human whispers between her and the other human sitting next to her.

“This all sounds fine,” Louise says. “But not like something we need to discuss here.”

“I need to request a small budget for supplies,” Roan insists, before the mayor can close the meeting. “And enough to pay the model fairly. I've got a proposal.”

Roan shuffles forward and hands over a few soggy sheets of paper. Louise takes them, looks at them for two seconds, and shoves them back at Roan. They whisper something to each other, and damn, do I wish I had better hearing.

Our Omega sheepishly takes the papers back and hands the mayor a different set.

“200 for the model for three hours, 100 for paper, charcoal, and clipboards, and then a final fifty dollars for refreshments,” Louise lists out.

“Yes, ma’am,” Roan says, her voice trembling slightly.

“That's a total of $350.” Lerena calculates the basic math.

The mayor looks out over the crowd like she's waiting for someone to speak. I'm waiting for Ted to be an ass, but he isn't. We all just sit in our seats like bumps on a log.

“I move to approve a budget of $350 to fund a monthly life drawing class at the art centre,” Clay states firmly, like he's daring someone to disagree with him.

“I second it,” Gwen says, raising her hand.

“Unless there are any arguments, I see no reason to hold off on voting on this motion.” Louise pauses, but nowhere nearly long enough for Ted to speak. “All those in favour, say aye.”

I would guess about eighty five percent of the room responds.

“Nay?”

There are three or four people who vote against it, but definitely not all the fifteen percent that didn't say aye.

“Great, motion passes. Roan, come by my office in a couple of days, and Lerena will get your expenses sorted.”

“Meeting adjourned,” Barnaby says quickly after that.

Before we can even stand up, he and his mate have surrounded Roan. Maisie grabs her by the shoulders while they exchange a quiet word. I wish I knew what it was about. I wish Clay wasn't anchoring me by the hall’s gross coffee station so I could smell blueberries again.

No amount of baking could replace that scent for us. All week, Clay tried different blueberry recipes. Cakes, scones, crumble—none of it was right when the real thing was just out of reach.

Roan and Maisie hug a final time, and then she turns in our direction. Out of the corner of my eye, Clay sucks in his gut, and I have to fight the urge to tell him to relax. I grab hold of his hand, reminding him I'm here too. We're a unit, no matter what.

“Hey,” Roan murmurs, her rubber clogs squeaking with every step she makes towards us.

“Hey, sugar,” Clay says, his voice low and gentle like he might scare her.

Am I vibrating? It feels like I am, with every fibre of my being at war with each other. I want to make demands I don't really have a right to, force her to tell me what the problem is right now, right here in front of the whole damn town. We can't help or fix it if we don't know.

More than anything, though, I want to hug her. There is a grey colour to her skin. Some sickly exhaustion haunts her eyes as she looks at both of us. I can barely smell her at all, just a faded berry scent that doesn't seem right. My hand twitches in Clay’s as I fight the urge to comfort our Omega.

What in the hell's bells is going on with her?

“Do you mind if we talk somewhere private?” she asks.

“Course not,” I say, without a single thought going through my big, stupid head. “You lead the way.”