Page 29 of Thorns That Bloom
Something within me eases, so I raise my head to him with a faint smirk. “You actually spoke to her?” I ask, hinting at our inside joke about our third roommate being a sort of ghost. A shadow only seen or heard once in a blue moon. A shadow whose only actual proof of existence is the magically sorted laundry and occasional restock of the fridge with boxes of takeaway food said shadow made at work.
Martin chuckles. “We talked briefly before I went out in the morning.”
I nod. “Cool.”
“Anyway, the food. I’ll bring it,” Martin blurts, turning on his heel in the door and then he disappears. I let out another deep exhale and narrow my eyes, because it somehow eases my headache. The quiet helps, too, even if I hear Martin in the distance, moving plates and using the microwave in the kitchen.
I remember Sam again, and everything inside me relaxes.
Smiling, I rest my head against the wall by the bed. What the hell does it matter what anyone thinks, anyway? Despite my discomfort and lingering frustration, a strange sense of acceptance overcomes me.
What does it matter if what I feel is reasonable or not?Ifeel it.
It’s the most real thing I’ve felt in maybe all my life, and deep inside, I know it will work out. It has to.
Chapter 9
Sam
As I head down the hall toward the cafeteria with Kristoff and a few others, having a healthy appetite for once and experiencing an unusual lightness in my chest, it hits me that today is actually one of those days when I feel like…myself. Good and steady.
I look down at the dotted plate in my hand, my mind buzzing with the memory of Theo bringing me the food on it yesterday. I honestly didn’t expect to see him again after we talked in the cafeteria. I pretty much told him off in the nicest way possible, didn’t I? Then he turns up in my office the very next day, all smiley and radiating positive energy like I hadn’t completely shut him down, bearing gifts.
And not just any gifts.Oh, it was so damn delicious. I was starving, and Theo appeared like some magical answer to my unspoken prayers.
Arguably, what he did was a bit strange.
He thought of me, of all people. Just because I’m pregnant? Was there no one else who would’ve taken the food? It’s hard for me to believe that. And yet…I’m almost glad he did. Ichastise myself for it, but I’m not even sure what I want to feel and why. My thoughts are all jumbled when I try to make sense of it. When I try to make sense ofhim.
I know I’m overthinking this. He’s a sweet, young guy being nice. That’s it.
“I’ll be right there, just need to put this away,” I tell Kristoff when our group heads to the food counter. He glances down at the plate with interest and raises his brows, but doesn’t ask me about it. I think he’s learning to read when I want to talk about things and when I don’t, and that most of the time, I don’t.
I break away to the left to come up to the small window into the part of the kitchen that deals with sanitizing and cleaning the plates and cutlery. The rack with trays of unfinished food is next to it, ready for the workers to take in. It makes me a little queasy.
The air in the dishwashing room is radiating heat. I feel a surge of sympathy for everyone who works back there. If it were me, five minutes in the sweltering space would melt me. I was going to take the plate back last night, but by the time I remembered, I was too tired and the cafeteria was already closed.
Hesitantly, I poke my head through the window, hoping for someone to notice. A short, pale guy turns from one of the large sinks like he can sense me, his forehead glistening with droplets of sweat. He instantly puts on a polite smile and hurries toward me.
“Sorry. I was just returning this,” I blurt.
At Torken, the cafeteria staffhatedit when anyone took cups, mugs, plates, or anything else out and into the offices with them. The sweet little lunch ladies would shout at grown menin front of the entire cafeteria about it; the only time it felt like they were the ones on top of the food chain. Those arrogant, proud managers would roll their shoulders the same way I am now and hang their heads down in shame.
The man reaches out for the plate but stops in the middle of the motion with a confused frown. “This isn’t ours,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “Oh?”
“The plate. It isn’t from the kitchen,” he assures me, sounding more confident now. “All our dishware’s the same, see?” Taking a step back, he grabs one of the many clean plates stacked on the shiny, stainless steel table in the center of the room. “It must be from one of the office kitchens,” he says with a smile that’s honest and genuine, even if his eyes say that he needs to get back to work, and hopes I get the hint.
“Ah, okay,” I mutter, nodding quickly. “Thanks.”
Clenching the plate in my hands, I turn around and make a few steps before stopping. Theo said the food was from the cafeteria, right? It was…suspiciously good, though. Not that the food here is bad—oh, I’ve worked in places with godawful, shit food—but it tasted almost like it was homemade. But that would be crazy. That would mean he got it somewhere else, or worse, made it himself, and brought it for me, acting like he didn’t.
My cheeks flare up with heat. I can’t tell if I’m uncomfortable or touched or horrified.
Then, the realization of truly terrifying magnitude hits me. The plate is probably from the little kitchen the guys from Manufacturing have, just like there’s a small kitchen for heating food and making coffee in the office in Engineering. And to return the plate, I’d have to go there. To an unfamiliar placefilled with unfamiliar people. And alphas.
For a moment, I’m disgusted with myself. It’s probably the sort of feeling I will need to talk about with Dr. Stewart later today, because I know it isn’t healthy for me to be this hard on myself, and yet…Damn, itispathetic.
