Page 35 of Thorns That Bloom
The old man Mickey’s retirement party turns out to be exactly the Friday evening distraction I’ve been needing. Since I ended it, I’ve got dozens of messages from friends Emily and I shared. I don’t know what she told them, but it was convincing enough for them to believe I was an asshole who broke up with her in the most horrible way possible. None of them were real friends, not really. I’ve decided not to even try to get my truth out there, so that I don’t slip back into that whole mess, but it still sucks.
I barely have time to think about it now. Mickey has been at the company long before I started. In fact, it almost seems like he’s part of the place, the same as the metal beams above and the solid concrete floor below. For an old guy, he always had a scary knowledge of all the technology, including the newest machines and software. Even supervisors have been going to him for advice, and one thing about Mickey is that he never turns anyone down.
And thanks to this fame of his, he’s been popular with just about everybody. He’s been one of the few friendly linksbetween Manufacturing and Engineering.
As a result, the pub is packed to the brim with so many people it feels like half the company’s here. Mostly guys from manufacturing, but also a bunch of office people and even those fancy creatures from HR seen only when something’s wrong.
Even Madison’s here, which is unusual, considering how much she hates social outings. But I guess the old man Mickey wasn’t helpful only to me in his years of working at the company.
Not long after I started, I made a massive error. Mickey jumped in to help me without hesitation. What could have been a huge issue was quickly fixed by him, and I always respected him for that. I didn’t even have to ask. He just appeared like some guardian angel and did what he could.
The room fills with music, loud chatter, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. And the party is only beginning. More people keep coming in, joining us at the spacious U-shaped area that the pub’s staff made for us by pushing several tables together.
I sit with my typical group—Ben, Blake, Gordon, Jim, and Enrique. Other familiar faces are around us, and when I run my eyes across the room, I notice…Sam.
My heart flips in my chest at the sight of him. I kind of hoped I’d be able to use tonight as an excuse to stop thinking not only about Emily and my ex-friends, but also Sam. Because the way I can’t stop wondering what he’s doing and how he’s feeling at every moment of every day can’t be healthy.
But here he is. Coming in with some of the engineering office workers, he…doesn’t look exactly relaxed or excited. His gaze darts across the many people around him, and a faint, polite smile flashes on his lips when someone greets him, but disappears as soon as their eyes are gone.
He doesn’t have a sweater on, like pretty much every other time I’ve seen him. Instead, when he takes his coat off, underneath is a light gray t-shirt and a soft, comfortable-looking cardigan. He’s wearing jeans and black canvas shoes, and he looks as gorgeous as he would if he had on absolutelyanythingelse.
I blink quickly and look away before he catches me staring.
When he found me in the cafeteria the other day, I thought I was still in my bed dreaming, at first. And ever since, I’ve struggled to remind myself that he was nothing but civil with his questions and his interest.
Nothing but cordial. Polite. Small talk.
I keep telling myself to be patient. To not overplay my hand, not overstep, not be…too much, but Ifeelso much, and want to know more.
The instinct to know him, to touch him, and watch over him, lives in my body like some primal hunger. It wraps around my chest and squeezes each time he appears in my mind. This want to be near him is perilously close to becoming a need. And I don't… I don't know what to do about that.
I order a drink instead of letting myself ponder about it, and when old man Mickey isn’t swamped by his friends, the group and I go to him to congratulate him and share stories full of laughter. He talks about his plans to move away, somewhere warm, with his wife and the dog. He’s worked hard his entire life,so he deserves it.
I tell him that wherever he ends up, the people there will be lucky to have him.
He playfully ruffles my hair like a grandpa I never had and laughs before hugging me and buying me a drink. Mickey’s booming voice cuts through all the others as he tells his stories, years and years’ worth of hilarious mistakes, corporate awkwardness, and wonderfully human experiences he shares with us.
Madison asks him if he has any regrets. Pondering, Mickey goes quiet, sunken eyes fixating somewhere on the ceiling. Then he purses his lips. “I don’t regret working for a corporation that don’t care about me for over forty years. At the end of the day, what matters is that I had people I cared about. Never compromise on that. It should always be your priority, no matter how crap the higher-ups are.”
Everyone laughs, even the few HR workers present, albeit awkwardly.
My heart constricts painfully at his words, and I can’t help but find Sam again. He’s sitting in the corner, still nursing a glass of Coke like he has been for most of the evening. He doesn’t look like he even wants to be here and isn’t bothering to hide it, though he does smile a little when the younger guy next to him says something in his direction, before looking back down at his drink.
I wonder if he came only to fit in. Old man Mickey’s retirement party is a big deal for a lot of people at the company, so maybe he didn’t want to stick out by not turning up.
Oh,but he does. To me, he does… Everyone else in the room fades in comparison to those rich brown eyes. And even over all the other scents, I can detect his. I want to hear his voice. Touch him. Just the idea of his skin meeting mine sends a wave of adrenaline through me.
But I can’t, and I know that.
I keep to myself, suppressing the irrational urge. I have Sam at the back of my mind throughout the evening, glancing at him briefly every now and then, while I chat with the others. After all, there’s much more to life around me than the person I don’t know—who wants nothing to do with me—no matter my weird, confusing feelings.
The party quickly devolves into a loud, drunken, out-of-control shindig, and so does old man Mickey. Together with his closest work friends, he takes over the karaoke machine on the other side of the restaurant and amuses the rest of us with his attempts at singing.
It lasts for about twenty minutes, until Mickey stumbles away, out of breath and laughing so hard he starts coughing up a lung.
By then, the majority of the attendees are primed to hop in too, and the karaoke attempts keep flowing. People I never would’ve expected to see this out of control, like Madison, get up there and sing their hearts out to cheesy songs.
I’m sober enough to fully enjoy watching them, while by my side, Ben—who’s increasingly more and more wasted—cackles so hard I barely hear the music. I’ve never been the drinking type, and I especially didn’t want to risk the possibility of losing my inhibitions and doing something foolish when it comes to Sam.
