Page 48 of Thorns That Bloom
I finally step foot back in the building exactly four weeks and one day after the accident, giddy and nervous and fuckingdyingto see Sam again.
Just a glimpse. That’s all I need. The baby must have grown, too.
Oh, I’ve missed him so damn much.
Drowning myself in books about pregnancy, trauma, and venus gender politics and relationships got me distracted onlyto a point. So did singing and coming up with songs. Strangely, I haven’t felt the hyperactive creative pull since meeting Sam. I usually do after starting a new relationship or getting a crush.
Only now, it feels like…whatever I come up with simply doesn’t do justice to how I feel about him. Any stupid words I can push out of my stupid mouth can’t even come close to describing the heavenly tune that plays inside my heart.
Besides, I don’t live in some romantic musical. I can’t win him over with a silly little love song…
Ben talks my head off about all the things that happened while I was gone. Which wasn’t much, but he still goes on and on about it. Who was seen chatting with who. Who do people think is cheating on their spouse. Someone from HR having been seen in the parking lot flirting with a janitor…
Then he talks about his wife. Complains about his mother-in-law. Complains about his wife more. Complains about his wife complaining about him complaining about his mother-in-law.
I remind him he loves her, and he agrees before poking fun at my scar and how wonky my finger looks now. With a huge scar of his own running down his forearm from his time in the army, he’s the one to talk. “Only handsome fellas have scars,” he says with a wide grin, and I nearly snort my drink at him.
I hope Sam doesn’t mind.
After getting a stern talking-to from Gary about safety, I get temporarily moved to the new section of the manufacturing floor. There are a few machines I can work with while following the doctor's advice about avoiding too much vibration and putting pressure on certain parts of my hand.
The machines Gary puts me on are the smaller ones I don’t know very well, so I spend most of the day fairly engrossed. And every time my mind wanders, I remind myself that dreaming about Sam and getting distracted was the reason for nearly losing my finger the first time.
I expect the lunch break to be my chance to see him. I barely even eat with how much I study the entire room, eyes darting toward the entrance at every slight movement.
I stay a little longer than I should, going over my allowed time, but there’s no Sam to be seen. There’s a crater in the middle of my chest that I try to ignore.Push through, I tell myself, and get back to work.You’re not some lovesick teen.
Unfortunately, the need inside me only grows. I’ve held on these past few weeks, driven by the knowledge that I’d be able to get a glimpse of him today. Sure, he might be working late. He might even be out, or it might be his day off. Again and again, I have to remind myself that I’m not owed seeing him and that I shouldn’t slip into thecreepy, stalking alphacategory.
And yet, the idea of leaving without having seen him twists my gut.
Against my better judgment, I decide to go upstairs to his office after I finish my shift. Even if it’s only to get a whiff of his scent lingering there, to feel closer.
God, I sound like an animal.
My knees feel weak by the time I get up there. I take the stairs to make sure my head is clear, and in case I change my mind on the way. Instead, my gait gets faster and more urgent with every turn I take toward that door.
The door that’s closed. Usually, it’s open.
Drawing in the dizzying scent of blackcurrant and sagethat I’ve been craving like it could sustain me, I step in front of it, looking through the small glass window. There’s light. Sam’s computer is on, and he sits in front of it, working.
A wave of joy passes over me, leaving a faint tingling in my chest. He looks focused. His left brow furrows slightly, creating a faint crease in the middle of his forehead.
I can’t say I don’t feel a bit hurt. If the world played into my fantasies, he would’ve wanted to see me at lunch today, asking about how I’m doing. In reality, he likely doesn’t think about me at all. How would he even know I was back?
He’s probably enjoyed these weeks without having to suffer my tiresome presence. That thought sends a ping of pain through my heart, so I close my eyes briefly to shake it off.
When I open them again, Sam’s looking at me. He must have noticed my shadow or even my pheromones.
I step away swiftly and hold my breath. I take account of my emotions, of how much I’m letting out. With another cautious glance into the window, I see Sam’s expression, and it’s…neutral, I guess. I’m not sure if he wants me to come in or not before he wiggles his brows, beckoning me to do just that.
As panic and excitement swirl inside me, I take hold of the door handle and slowly open it. I take care to make my movements controlled and calm—the exact opposite of how they would be if I behaved how I really feel. A part of me wants to run in and fall on my knees in front of him, crying about how much I’ve missed him.
Obviously, that would be weird.
Smiling softly, I walk forward, leaving the door ajar for him to know that he’s safe. Sam’s eyes follow me as I go around the table, and with my every step, he pushes himself away fromhis desk and swirls his chair to the side to face me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice a weak mess.
