Page 18 of Thorns That Bloom
As I’m reaching for the handle, I hear footsteps and turn to see Pop poking his head out of the room at the end of thehall. “Maybe write him a note. That’s a good, low-pressure, no-contact starter, no?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I snort and shake my head. “This isn’t the eighteen hundreds, Pop. Bye,” I say on my way outside, catching his amused chuckle in the background before the door slams closed.
As I walk out of the building, though, I realize that he might have a point.
I don’t have Sam’s number.Of course I don’t.He barely even knows I exist. He has no reason to care. So…maybe leaving a note with an apology on his table isn’t the worst thing. That isn’t weird, is it?
I spend the rest of my way to the pizza place and then home racking my brain about what to write. But like it usually does, it turns my jumbled thoughts into an inspiration for some stupid song that I hum to myself and play out in my head.
With two pizzas in hand, I step in. Martin’s in the living room, watching the front door from there like a guard dog.
I know that working in radio can be stressful, but there really is no limit to his obsession with talking. At work, off work, but most importantly, over delicious food. That’s his favorite time to chat away. Fortunately for him, I’m happy to just nod and listen.
We eat the pizza and watch TV. News coverage of tragedies and celebrations and boring political meetings blares through the room while I twist the dripping cheese around my tongue. I put it in my mouth, glaring at Martin, who chews loudly. Again.
After a while, he finally runs out of words and turns tostaring into his phone. Letting the food digest, I pick up my guitar lying by the couch and start flicking some tunes as they come into my head.
It’s like there’s a stream of inspiration running behind a wall inside my head somewhere.Soclose. I can hear it, I can almost feel it, but something is blocking me from accessing it properly.
“Why does it sound so sad?” Martin mutters without looking up at me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Does it?” The melody isn’t the most cheerful one, I suppose, but I wouldn’t say it’s sad. “Hey, um, random, but…do you believe in fated mates?” I ask thoughtlessly as I stare ahead, faintly plucking the few chords that come to me over and over again.
The judgmental chortle that comes out of him puts a frown on my face. “Do you believe in the tooth fairy? Of course not,” he scoffs, glancing at me like I’m a moron. I purse my lips and stop playing. “Are you making a love song about it or something?” he continues with the same amount of ridicule.
I roll my eyes, glancing away. “Or something…”
Martin isn’t the gentlest or most understanding of individuals. I don’t even know why I voiced that thought. I have no one to blame but myself.
“Fated mates are a fairytale that only fools, manipulative alphas, and the ultra-religious venus from that weird-ass cult believe in,” he says firmly while shrugging. “Just go with a normal love song, dude,” Martin concludes. His attention quickly drifts back to his phone.
Blinking slowly, I stare down at the floor. I guess I would have had the same opinion a few weeks ago.
Fated mates are a silly belief with no scientifically provable basis. Something most people learn about from romance books or movies. It’s nothing but the venus version of what betas call soulmates. Only…our own strange mutation pushes us toward that concept already. Pheromones draw alphas and omegas together on a biological level. Some might say spiritual, too.
A fated mate is someone superior even to that. The one right person, perfectly made just for you. An impossible, ideal match. A flawless connection beyond understanding. Or so they say…
I’m not sure what it is for me, exactly. It’s never meant anything. I never even thought twice about it before.
All I know is that from the moment I sensed Sam in the cafeteria, I haven’t been the same.
I spend the evening in my room with a sticky note and a pen, trying to come up with a message that isn’t weird or stupid or too much, all the while wanting to portray my feelings and maybe even get him interested.
If only writing it were as easy as music.
Unfortunately, my life isn’t a love song. I can’t come up to him and sing my heart out, no matter how romantic and lovey-dovey that sounds in my head.
With the note in hand, I make sure to be super early at work the next day.
His office is empty, thank goodness, so I quickly place it on his keyboard, adjusting it for longer than I’d like to admit. It smells like him in here. Faintly.Sweetly. Blackcurrant and sage. Such a relaxing, lovely scent. It makes me want to tilt my headback and take it in until it fills my lungs completely.
With a sharp headshake, I prevent myself from having more unruly, stupid thoughts, and rush out before he, or anyone else, can catch me where I’m not supposed to be. I belong downstairs, on the manufacturing floor.
So that’s where I go, knowing that I’ll think about him reading the note all day.
Chapter 6
Sam
