Page 2 of Packing for Vacation

It had started with a relatively innocent mistake. My complete and utter uselessness when it comes to sensing the passage of time, combined with a very tempting array of pretty notebooks, had led to me browsing a little too long in the airport bookstore back in Ottawa. When I’d realised my plane was already boarding I ran, my carry-on suitcase dragging behind me as I dodged my way through meandering packs and loved-up beta couples. My rudimentary understanding of French meant I wasn’t entirely sure of all the insults one man hurled my way as I cut in front of him on a travelator, although I did catch the words fat swine. That had stung.

I hadn’t missed the flight. I hadn’t even delayed it. But I had arrived just in time to be last in line, the flight attendant at the gate crinkling her nose as my sweat broke through the scent blocker I’d sprayed on myself that morning to hide my sweet berry scent. I only had my own time blindness to blame for the humiliation ritual that followed, nodding along as I was told that the plane’s overhead lockers were full and my carry-on needed to be gate checked, and could I please hold my arms out from my sides so they could spray me with heavy-duty scent neutraliser before I boarded?

I’d walked onto the plane in a fog of artificial fresh linen scent, clutching my small handbag, and it was only once we were speeding down the runway that I’d realised that in my early morning rush to pack, I put my prescription-only heat suppressants into my now checked in carry-on luggage.

Two more flights and one missing carry-on case later—because it turns out the small suitcase didn’t get on the first plane and as of yesterday morning was yet to leave Ottawa—and I’m now lying in this bed in Auckland, New Zealand, with the knowledge that I’m almost certainly going to go into heat at some point during this four-week vacation.

I guess it could be worse. I could’ve also lost my large, bright pink suitcase with all my clothes and toiletries inside. That had, thankfully, come through the final conveyor belt at Auckland Airport, so I may be suppressant-less, but I’ll at least be clothed on this vacation.

I sign my phone in on the hotel’s free wifi and type heat clinics in New Zealand into the search bar. There’s an overwhelming number of results showing clinics in locations I’m only vaguely familiar with—is Christchurch in the North or South Island?—so I modify the search to include best heat clinics, and find a thread on social media that seems useful enough to read through later.

I can’t quite let it go, though I don’t know whether more research at this stage will ease or increase my anxiety. Like everywhere in the world, heat clinic costs are expensive here. They have to be when they cover not only accommodation for the duration of a heat, but meals, healthcare, disposable sex toys, and the cost of heavy-duty cleaning alongside anything that needs replacing due to damage. Here, like in Canada, the use of heat clinics is covered by universal healthcare for citizens and residents, but I’m neither of those things, and my damn travel insurance doesn’t cover it either.

I’m still so annoyed about that because it could have, were I willing to spend more money back when I booked everything. “You fucking cheap bitch,” I tell myself, tossing my phone onto the bed and flipping back the covers. “Saved a hundred bucks back then on the basic plan and now you’re going to have to pay thousands to get fucked by a bunch of Kiwis.”

I contemplate just wallowing here for a few hours, but my stomach rumbles and I realise I’m starving, so I treat myself to room service from the night menu since I’m still too early for breakfast. I pace the room as I make the call down to reception, ordering a large plate of dumplings and a Coke Zero, freezing as I smell something amazing.

“Can I confirm this is for room five-oh-four?”

An alpha.

“Ma’am? Please confirm the large chicken dumplings and Coke Zero are for room five-oh-four.”

“Uh, yeah,” I answer absentmindedly, whirling around, searching for that hit of alpha pheromones I’m sure I just picked up, but even as slick pools in my fresh underwear, I can’t smell anything out of the ordinary.

This doesn’t bode well if two days without heat suppressants already has me imagining alpha scents. I look up and spot an air vent above me, and in what’s perhaps an embarrassingly desperate move, I jump on the bed, rising up on my tiptoes to see if I can catch a whiff of that pine scent again. It had felt like a lightning strike direct to my brain, not just an alpha scent but the alpha scent, one that’s just right for me, and I don’t know what I’m hoping for… that the pheromones of my scent match waft through the air vent so that I can somehow attempt to locate the right person in a hotel with at least a thousand beds… but I get nothing, and then room service is at the door with my dumplings and Coke Zero, and I tell myself that I must be imagining things.

Katie

I take it you landed safely?

Made it to your hotel ok? No dramas?

I cringe at the text message from my sister. She’s the responsible one, the one with her shit together, the one with the husband and the three kids that the grandparents get to enjoy.

I’m responsible too, even if I am bad with time, but my omega nature makes me inherently strange in the eyes of my family members. To them, going into heat, needing multiple partners rather than just preferring it, merely existing in a body driven by hormones that they don’t have and can’t understand, makes me unpredictable, an oddity, someone to make jokes about under their breath. It’s certainly an experience to be the first omega in a family for generations.

No dramas.

I shudder, thinking about how she seems to have a sixth sense for knowing when I get myself into trouble. I can’t be bothered admitting the truth to her—she’ll go on about it and then tell Mom, and I’ll get a million messages from them stressing over me having a heat in a foreign country.

Made it to my hotel in the city centre yesterday, went exploring down by the waterfront and had dinner with the ocean right there. Tried to stay up, managed til 8pm, woke up at 3am

Have been lazying about the hotel room waiting for sunrise since then.

Will probably go find breakfast somewhere then check out. I’m heading further north this afternoon.

You still got 7 hours sleep

I know, that’s good for me.

Keep me updated

Will do.

It’s still an hour before the sunrise, so I slip out of my PJs and rifle through my suitcase for my toiletries. I might as well use the time to enjoy a long, hot shower.

I’m naked with my wet hair up in a towel when I step out of the bathroom and freeze. A cold day, pine needles underfoot, and the fresh, salty air of the ocean. I take a deep breath—the scent is everything—and try to stay calm despite the bubbling sense of urgency in my gut.