Page 42 of Thorns That Bloom
Going to the toilet is a bit of a struggle at the end of the day, so I wait for as long as I can and usually leave through the main entrance, where I can use the visitor toilets. They’re close to the manned reception, visible, and busy enough even in the evening.
Only today, when I walk out of the toilets, the reception desk is deserted.
I frown to myself.Unusual.
As I reach into my pocket for my car key, I realize something is missing. “Dammit,” I mutter, reaching into every other place my house keys could be. “Not again.” With a tired groan, I turn around and head for the elevators again.
I keep forgetting things.
My keys are on the table, I know they are. I remember telling myself to pick them up.
“You need to stop zapping my brainpower,” I say with a smirk while touching my stomach. “And kicking my bladder.Andmaking me so damn tired.” Chuckling like an idiot, as if the baby could hear or understand me, I shake my head. “Ah, it’sfine. Just keep growing. I’ll deal with it.”
The elevator door opens, and I hurry to my office to get the keys. I want to get home, put my feet up, and eat. I’ve avoided the cafeteria ever since the incident with Theo at the pub, and it might be time for me to start cooking proper food to bring with me. Surviving off sandwiches I buy on the way here or snacks from the vending machine isn’t ideal for me or the baby.
“There you are,” I say, grabbing my keys. I didn’t turn my computer off either, so I do that, making sure everything I’ve worked on today is saved.
When I get back to the elevators, they’re both taken. With a sigh, I decide to take the other way instead of waiting. Walking will do me good.
I don’t get out of breath too badly yet, but I’m definitely starting to feel the physical changes in my body. The way the baby’s moving my organs around to create space for itself. It’s strange and uncomfortable and wonderful all at once.
On my way through one of the long, endless hallways, I see the receptionist—Amanda, I think—rushing toward me, worry all over her face. Part of me wants to disengage and continue heading home, since she barely seems to notice me with whatever is so intensely on her mind, but another part is curious. Every single time I’ve seen her, she’s had this almost robotic, impenetrable mask of customer service. That pleasant but distant expression that said she would happily stab herself in the leg if that was what the customer required, and she wouldn’t even wince.
“What’s going on?” I ask, glancing down at the first-aid kit in her hands.
She double-takes, pauses, and catches her breath. “Oh, one of the…one of the workers got injured on the machines,” she blurts, rolling her eyes like she’s annoyed more than worried. I can feel myself judging her, and worse, I can tell it shows on my face, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“Have you called an ambulance?”
“Yeah, of course,” Amanda says sharply, before her programming seems to kick in and she forces herself to soften her expression. Her eyes dart down, and I can almost see her thinking ‘maybe I shouldn’t be this mean to a pregnant person’. “There have been some gnarly crashes on the highway, so the services are pretty strained right now. They said they can’t spare any ambulances for him for a good hour, especially since he’s not in any immediate danger.”
“Is he going to be okay? Can’t anyone else take him?” It must be some paternal instinct in me acting up, because usually, I wouldn’t care this much.
Amanda shrugs. “It’s just an injury to his hand. They’ve patched it up. He’s conscious and all that, and he asserts he can wait. The policy says—”
The policy says the person should wait instead of wasting the on-the-clock time of the other workers by leaving their station and taking them to the hospital, losing precious time that could be spentproducing, producing, producing...
With a sour grimace, I look at her. “At the manufacturing floor? I just finished. I can…I can drop them at the hospital on my way home, I guess,” I mutter.
Her face immediately changes. It’s bright and light now—artificially so—as she suddenly grabs my hand. “Oh? Perfect! Yep, he’s in the kitchen there. That would be very kind of you.If…you feel up for it, of course,” she adds, glancing down.
“I’m pregnant, not incompetent.” Walking past her with a firm expression, I take a deep breath and head to the manufacturing floor.
With each step, doubt inevitably stalks me. Like my reason finally catches up to my spontaneous, altruistic decision, I start thinking about the alphas at manufacturing, and the prospect of being alone in a car, at night, with another man. Who’s possibly an alpha.
“Not incompetent,” I repeat to myself, clenching my jaw. “You’re fine. Can’t back out now.”
I open the door marking the Manufacturing Area and cautiously look around. The massive hall is quieter than the other times I’ve been here. Though the hum of the state-of-the-art machines is still present, it’s clear that not as many people work at night. It’s Sunday, too, which could have something to do with it.
Holding my hand over my stomach, almost like I’m actually gripping another person for comfort and support, I take slow, controlled steps forward.
Soon, I hear faint voices discussing something. I still remember where the kitchen was, from taking the plate there. Memories and intrusive thoughts of Theo flood my mind again, like they often do in the evening when I try to fall asleep. His widening eyes, as he spoke outside that restaurant, are forever imprinted in my memory. The realization dawning on him. The panic spreading once he knew he’d messed up. His words faintly ringing behind me as I ran away like a coward…
I swear I can almost smell the scent of spiced coconut as well.
“You can’t be serious,” I hear a feminine voice.
When I carefully poke my head into the door of the communal kitchen, the exact same thought pops into my mind:You can’t be fucking serious.
