Page 43 of Talk About… Dramay

You’re mates. Why don’t you start with making the first move.

First move? What the fuck move could I even make? My eyes darted to the floral section. I could even go to the florist.

But she didn’t want flowers. Or at least, she didn’t before.

Before I knew it I was scanning the aisles again, dropping ingredients in my cart. I was practically running out the door after paying, racing through town until I pulled in front of my Mama’s house.

She was on the porch, sipping her tea and putting her book to the side. It was crazy how different she’d looked since Charlie walked into her life. Now she was glowing again, happy, and no longer looked frail.

“Mama, I need help,” I said, voice rough as I snagged the bags from the truck and met her on the porch. She watched me, those knowing eyes of her full of amusement.

“With what, exactly?”

“Look, I know this won’t fix a damn thing, but we’ll call it a peace offering while I think over ways to apologize to the girl I never should have hurt like this,” I said, finally meeting her gaze.

“Is there alcohol in that bag?” she asked, eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

“No,” I said. “I walked away to get all this.”

“Good boy,” she said, patting my head and leading me into the kitchen. “And lucky you, I just happen to have a few hours. I take it we’re making her the famous Whitaker spicy mix?”

“Yes,” I said, relieved she was on board. “Show me how?”

“Of course. I’ll park my butt in this chair and tell you what to do,” she said with a grin.

My Mama watched as I unloaded all of Ori’s favorites. The cereal, crackers, and pretzels that would turn into her favorite mix of savory snacks. We’d make these about once a week, at least.

“Mixing bowls are in the corner,” Mama called out. She was enjoying this a little too much. I bet she had already taken a picture to send on to Avery so they could make fun of me.

Both of those omegas were a pain in my ass.

I followed every instruction my mama threw at me, tossing the crackers in a bit of butter and a mixture of spices, coating them all before laying them out on baking sheets.

“Cameron.” The way she said my name as I slid them in the oven to bake told me that the lecture was incoming. I braced myself as I turned, crossing my arms and looking at her so she could begin.

What I didn’t expect to find was pride in her gaze.

“I’m so sorry that you lost your dads and yourself back then. I should have done more to be stronger for you,” she started, voice cracking as a tear escaped. “I still think about them every damn day. But I’ve found a way to live again and I want nothing more than for you to do the same. You’ve punished yourself enough. Now, it’s time to realize you were young and in so much pain. That you can try and fix this and I’m so proud of you for taking the first steps."

My eyes burned but I refused to cry right now. Tears wouldn’t help a damn thing. She needed to see actions and that’s what I was working on.

“I’m going to try,” I said gently, not wanting her to get her hopes up. My Mama just looked at me with a small smirk on her face, like she saw right through me and knew something I didn’t.

“I have no doubt. This is about her now, Cameron. Show her the man you’ve become. We omegas want to know we’re loved, maybe it’s time to let her see all of you this time,” she said before walking away, yelling back over her shoulder before disappearing. “Take it out in ten minutes and let it cool. Containers are under the sink, leave your Mama some, too.”

Shaking my head I did as she said, pulling out a few containers before the oven timer went off. As they cooled, I pulled out one of the notebooks she always had in the kitchen and started to write down my thoughts.

I expected it to be an apology but it didn’t work out that way. Instead, I poured my heart out over memories of movie nights and late summer nights under the stars. Writing to her had been something I’d done for years after I realized she blocked me. Her dads wouldn’t give me anything and I didn’t know what else to do.

My mom had suggested I start a journal, but it never felt right. Instead I talked right to her on the pages of these letters. I had several boxes full of them. Every major holiday, birthday, and all those lonely nights I was thinking about her. There were hundreds.

This would be yet another, though this one would be delivered.

Soon, I had four pages full of my thoughts. I took accountability and all the blame. An apology was a given, but it had to be more than that. I wanted her to know that what I saidwas never true, that it was me and my issues and I spent years trying to think how I’d fix it.

I wanted to see her, to scent her, and hold her; have her again. But I didn’t deserve any of that yet.

But I would work my ass off to win her back. I’d spend every day until my dying breath trying to prove to Oriana that I was worth taking a chance on again.