Page 3 of Thorns That Bloom
The bitter taste in my mouth stings. Yet I swallow it, and together with it, my pride.
I’m going to need to save up for essentials, toys… God knows what else. And getting away from this place, from this city and these streets that all lead to that one building, that one memory… Isn’t that what I’ve wanted?
I nod to myself, steadying my breath as I get ready to reach for the door handle.
“This is what we’re going to do.”
Accept the deal. Move. Work for as long and as hard as you can.
I can’t stay locked in my apartment forever, hiding from life and people. From…alphas. “We’ll be alright,” I say firmly before walking out, hoping my lawyer is still somewhere in the building.
Chapter 2
Sam
“This is all so sudden, Sam. I can’t believe you said nothing about this or consulted us before making this massive change,” I hear Mother’s exasperated voice from across the room, where I’ve left my phone. As I open another moving box, I roll my eyes, grateful she can’t see my face.
“You were the one always telling me to stop stressing myself with the trial,” I say, trying not to let bitterness into my words. If I find a therapist here, maybe they will tell me it’s wrong to push everyone away like this. But right now, while I’m free to make my own mistakes, I don’t care that much about that.
This empty apartment I’ve put a deposit on with the last of my money is big enough for me and the baby, close to my workplace, and in a good area. Its white walls and bare rooms filled only with cardboard boxes are inviting. They’re not stained with memories. Not a single one. A fresh start.
I can finally breathe.
At least for as long as I don’t think about my first day at my new job tomorrow.
“Well, I didn’t realize it involved moving hours away, out of nowhere. You’re all by on your own there, in an unfamiliar city, with no support system…”
I take out and then fold all the little snapsuits I’ve already bought into the bottom drawer of the basic, cheap dresser that came with the place. Arguing with my parents is the last thing I want to do right now, so I let out a sigh and go grab my phone while grinding my teeth and building my resolve.
“I know,” I say, putting the screen in front of my face. Mom sits on the couch with Dad next to her. He smokes his cigar and looks focused on something else until he notices me. Their expressions are so similar it nearly makes me laugh—eyebrows drawn together, mouths slightly pursed in near patronizing concern. It's almost funny, except for their obvious certainty that I can't handle all these big changes. That makes it hard not to scowl back at them through the phone.
I try not to think about what I think about each time I see them now. The crude awareness that this isn’t what they expected from me or wanted for me. Even though neither of them would ever say it out loud, they don’t fully agree with my choices. I imagine they always thought I would have a regular,normalbeta life, just like them.
And they certainly have no clue how to act around me ever since it all happened, more so than before. A part of me worries they’re embarrassed. Disappointed. Disgusted, maybe.
“I’m already here. There’s no undoing it. All my stuff’s sold and the job transfer’s completed. I am almost thirty years old, Mom. I can take care of myself. I can handle this. Iam…handling it.”
They exchange a glance that conveys more to them than itdoes to me. A glance that only makes the paranoid side of me wonder about all the things they say about me behind my back.
“We’re just worried, darling,” Mom says, narrowing those meticulously plucked, thin brows.
“I know. You don’t have to be.”
“Promise you’ll update us and call if you need anything. And don’t forget to go to therapy, okay?” Mom continues. She means well, in her own way. She always does.
Therapy is going to have to wait until I settle into things here and make sure I can actually handle returning to work. That I can still function among other people. The thought worries me, but I push it aside, releasing the tension by flickering my fingers.
“I will. Promise. I…I still need to unpack a bunch of boxes. I have an early start tomorrow, so—”
Dad makes a pleased nod. “Right. Go on. Let him do his thing, then.”
As uncomfortable as I know he is with his son being pregnant, he certainly appreciates me jumping back to work. Tirelessly pushing yourself in your nine-to-five is all he’s about. According to him, marching on like that heals all wounds; besides the ironic fact that it was at work where I was wounded in the first place. We don’t talk about that part.
“Take care of yourself, Sam,” he says.
We share an awkward smile before Mom ends the call with a wave.
Releasing a sigh of deep relief, I place the phone on the box next to me and hang my head down. My eyes automatically land on my barely visible bump. I feel the corner of my mouth tug upward.
