Page 8 of Packing for Vacation

She sighs, running a hand back through her long blonde hair. “There’s already been a noticeable difference in their social media marketing since I left and people are complaining about the AI slop in the comments. One of the ‘models’ had six fingers in the latest post. It’s supposed to be an environmentally conscious brand, although I’ll admit there was definitely some greenwashing going on in the past six months that I was uncomfortable with, but now with this change they’ve lost almost five thousand followers in a matter of days.”

“Karma. But you should stop following them. Don’t torture yourself over it.”

“I know, I have, I just keep looking them up because… I don’t know, it’s like picking at a scab I guess, you kind of just compulsively do it.” She scrunches her nose. “Sorry, that was a bad analogy right before we eat and probably tells you a bit too much about me. Oh god.”

I rub my palm over my mouth to stop myself from laughing, and clear my throat. “It’s all good.”

And it is. It’s been less than two hours since I met Lizzie but I find myself thinking I like this girl time and time again. I like her honesty. She’s funny, her humour leaning towards self-deprecating. She’s intelligent, too.

I told myself I’d keep my distance from omegas other than at heat clinics, but here she is, and the most shocking thing of all is that I’m not mad about it.

Summer is here, but the holidays are still a few weeks away, and it means the beaches are still fairly empty on weekdays. We find a picnic table on the grassy bank and I set the takeaways between us and unwrap the butcher’s paper it comes in.

“Here. Try it,” I tell Lizzie, handing her the deep-fried food I know she’s been curious about.

“This is the moro?”

“Yep. Take a bite.”

She may be wearing sunnies but I can still tell when someone is giving me the side eye. “Okay then,” she says, before taking a surprisingly big bite. Her face transforms from distrust to pleasantly surprised. “Mmm! Yum!” She takes a second bite, hastily wiping away the drop of melted chocolate that runs down her chin. “Oh god, this is messy. It’s actually really good! And here I was thinking you were getting me to bite into some sort of shellfish dish with you saying ‘Just try it.’”

“You’re very trusting. But nah, that would be the pāua fritter.” I point to the single fritter in amongst the fish and chips. “Overseas they call it abalone. It’s a big old edible sea snail,” I add, showing her what nice legal size would look like with my hands. “It’s good kai.”

“Yeah… I’ll just pass on that one eh.”

“You sure?” I wave it in front of her. “You’re missing out.”

“I’m really, truly, quite good with my deep-fried chocolate bar surprise, thank you very much.”

“More for me, then.” I take a big bite of it while she makes a face. “That bad?”

“Oh, I’m just rethinking about whether I want to kiss you now that I know you’re eating a snail of the sea.”

I shake my head slowly, grinning. “Damn. That’s harsh.”

“I’m joking. This looks really good, though.” She breaks open a piece of crumbed snapper, popping a bit into her mouth. “See, I like some seafood.”

We watch as a toddler, seemingly alone, runs across the sand, heading straight for the water. I’m about to get up when his mother sprints after him, already carrying a matching boy in each arm. Triplets. She must be an omega. She wrangles the boys off the beach and I turn to a very tense looking Lizzie.

“You alright?”

She shrugs awkwardly. “I…” I take a sip of my beer while she takes a big breath and sighs. “I’m just deciding when is the best time to tell you the thing that puts everyone off me. Now, or later, when we’re already really invested and…”

“Now. Rip the bandaid off. I doubt it’s that bad.”

“I don’t want kids.”

Given her reaction to the children—they’re still screaming on the sand—I’m not that surprised.

“I know this is usually a conversation for later on, but I’ve been burned before so I need to just say it now. I don’t want kids and it’s not negotiable. I will never want to get pregnant or be a mother. I have no desire for it. Part of me wishes I did because it certainly would be easier because everyone seems to expect omegas to just pop out a whole brood, at least one for each daddy in the pack, but I know⁠—”

I hold up a hand and she pauses, because I’ve got my own bomb to drop.

“What if you have a partner with an older child?”

She sits frozen, her lips parted, so I continue.

“When I was in my first year of university I hooked up with a girl from my Law 101 class at a party and she fell pregnant. So I have an eighteen-year-old daughter. I used to do 50/50, but these days she lives with her mum. I see her at least once a week and she comes to stay with me during the school holidays. That’s changing, though, because she’s starting uni in February, and as much as I hate it, she’s decided she wants the full uni experience so she’s off to Dunedin at the bottom of the South Island. I told her she could just come live with Dad and catch the ferry over to Town for her classes, but no, she’s her own person and she’s gonna do it her way.”