Thorns That Bloom (Venusverse), page 10
“What is it?” I ask, barely managing to sound somewhat decent.
“You two are really over, huh?”
I let out a bitter chuckle. “Yes. I told you we were.”
Martin raises his hands in defense, all theatrical. “Hey! I figured you were having issues again and were probably gonna get back together eventually. Was I not supposed to take this in?” He glances at the box.
I want to be annoyed at him, but it would be a lie to say that’s never happened before. Emily has managed to reel me back in when I tried to pull away a few times, so I suppose his estimation was based on some solid evidence…
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I put the box aside, deciding to deal with it later. I’ll keep the photos, because those moments meant something, but the t-shirts and anything else that’s salvageable can go to charity. I don’t want it.
Only look forward.
When I slouch my shoulders and sit on my bed, Martin studies me. He must detect something isn’t right about me, or maybe he senses the change in my pheromones. His otherwise punchable face becomes more understanding and tender. “Enya brought a bunch of leftovers from work last night. She’s sleeping. I’ll heat some for you, yeah?” he suggests, his voice softening.
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? I feel 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. I chastise 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 of him.
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 staff hated it 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 men in 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 place filled 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, it is pathetic.
It’s fucking pathetic that I can’t do this one simple thing without my stomach twisting and my throat closing up. Walking into a stupid room and putting a plate down. Something that would’ve been normal before. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but now everything inside my head is fucked.
I’m so angry and annoyed that I just start walking. I should tell Kristoff where I’m going, considering I said I’d be right back, but I don’t. As I march through the cafeteria, I scan the tables, looking for Theo, hoping to find him. Would it be awkward to talk to him right now, especially with what I realized?
Probably, but it would also make life easier for me.
Of course, I can’t see him. Not at that table where I saw him last time, or anywhere else. He might have already been, or he might be out, or…
“You can do this,” I say to myself, gritting my teeth, and head toward the manufacturing floor. At least I think that’s the right way. For a split second, I feel incredibly small, and consider coming back to Kristoff and asking him to come with me, but then bile rises in my throat again, and I bite down on that pathetic urge and push myself to go alone.
I’m not a child. I don’t need moral support or a chaperone.
I try to think of what Dr. Stewart would say in response to something like this. Probably something like ‘we’re always the hardest on ourselves’ or some shit. How else am I supposed to get through this if not by being tough on myself? I can’t just self-love my way through the trauma and violation I experienced.
Shutting my eyes briefly, I caress my stomach with a sigh. “Sorry,” I whisper to the baby. I felt great moments ago, and now I’m all strung up, irritated, and spiraling.
Suppose I really do need the help.
The manufacturing floor is loud and bustling and smells of metal, acetone, and a bit like dust. Besides that, there are also a lot of people. Like upstairs, they’re mostly focused on their tasks, only instead of computers, it’s machines with computers on them.
Here, the air isn’t as clear, and not just because of the busy environment. I can sense the pheromones floating around. It might be a stereotype that alphas are always physically strong and capable, but all stereotypes come from a grain of truth. Plenty of the guys I see around the machines are tall and muscular, and their pheromones show who they really are.
Pressing my lips together to stay calm, I clutch the plate in my hand, still hoping to catch Theo’s eye somewhere. I picture them in my mind, bright and lively.
I can’t see him, though. So I stand by the door, clearly out of place, and soon enough, one of the workers notices me. With a confused grimace, the older man heads toward me, glancing around as if me being here is some sort of trick or a trap.
“You need somethin’?” he asks in a rough voice.
Somehow, I keep the anxiety bubbling up inside me at bay. For now. “I’m returning this,” I blurt out, perhaps a little too sharply, and show the plate. His reaction is completely uncontrolled, and it shows utter confusion about why he should care or know anything about a damn plate. “Is…is Theo in?” I ask instead, hoping to end the conversation quickly.
“Theo? Err…no, don’t think so,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “He’s off. Sick or something.”
Just my luck. “I borrowed this from him.”
Again, the man glares at me like he couldn’t care less. With a suppressed sigh, he twists his body and points to the left corner of the massive room. “Kitchen’s there.” He points. Briefly, he lets his eyes slip down to my belly, then walks off.
The old me would’ve torn him a new one for being rude and would’ve been twice as unpleasant in return.
Instead, I stand there, nervously shifting on my feet to gather courage to pass through the entire area filled with a myriad of sources of various pheromones. Any of which might be similar enough to the ones I've tried to erase from my brain, to no avail, ever since that day.
It’s happened before. In the store. And once in the hospital.
It was terrifying, and the mere memory of it sends chills through my bones—the way panic took over. I was powerless, nothing but a passenger in my own body, swallowed up by the monstrous echo of it, forced to relive those awful moments again.
I can’t use citrusy shower or hand gels either, because that was the scent they used in the restroom. Not to mention pheromones with undertones of wood, or…whatever it was. My senses got completely scrambled and overloaded between the heat, the pain, and the terror of that endless loop of overstimulation of all my senses… It wasn’t until I was in the hospital for a checkup and that man walked past me, carrying a scent of amber, that it hit me, and I nearly lost it.
But that’s not happening now, I remind myself firmly as I make my way across the manufacturing floor. It’s not happening now, and you’re fucking okay.
The tiny, dark blue kitchen is much smaller and messier than ours. There are a ton of cups just scattered on the worktop, a few dirty dishes in the sink, and a sponge that looks like it really, really needs changing. A man sits at the rickety white table in the corner with a plastic box of what smells like spaghetti with some meaty sauce. I know he’s an alpha, I can tell, but thankfully, the freshly microwaved food overpowers the scent of his pheromones, whatever they are.
The moment our eyes meet, he has the same expression as the guy from before—the ‘what the hell is this fancy office person doing here?’ one.
“Can I help you?” he asks, the fork with twirled spaghetti inches from his mouth. At least he doesn’t sound as rude. Maybe a little bored.
“I borrowed this from Theo. I know he isn’t in, so I wanted to return this and…um…leave him a note, I guess. Do you know where his locker is?” This time, it all comes out of me with confidence. Like I know what I’m doing. Like Theo and I are friends or something, and this is completely normal.
Places like this have lockers, right?
He blinks slowly. “Mhm. Leave it somewhere, don’t matter. The locker room’s out the door and to the right, end of the hallway. Won’t miss it for the smell,” he says with an amused chuckle and sticks the fork in his mouth.
Already a little uneasy on the stomach from the unusual mix of scents, I smile through an uncomfortable grimace and head there. I pat my pockets when it occurs to me that I might have nothing to actually write a note on.
What do I want to say, anyway? Why am I exchanging notes with this guy in the first place, like we’re in high school? God, Sam, you are a mess.
I always carry a pen with me. That won’t be a problem, but all I have for actual writing is a crumbled cafe receipt. It will have to do.
A tight, uneasy feeling zaps through me as I open the door to the locker room. The intense mixture of scents, pheromones, fragrances, and sweat spills out, causing me to tense up. There’s a lump in my throat all of a sudden, making it hard to swallow or inhale. Even the room itself—a windowless dark space with only one entrance—summons that paranoid, worried side of me that’s always near the forefront of my mind now.
‘Anyone could come in and corner you,' it says. 'Trap you. Hurt you. Just like before.’
“It’s just a room,” I tell myself sharply and force my foot to move.
No one’s here. It’s just me and the sound of a dying overhead light bulb buzzing along with the loud pounding of my heart inside my ears. I gulp, slowly running my eyes across the many lockers with small name tags on them. I wonder why I’m doing all this when I could be eating right now, which is one step closer to settling back into my safe place upstairs.
It doesn’t really make sense. It’s just that…he was nice. Genuinely nice, like it wasn’t fake or for a show, but actually coming from somewhere deep within. It makes me want to be less of an asshole than I usually am.
Finally, I find his locker. Theo Reid. The weak scent of spiced coconut is what pulls me toward it subconsciously. I try not to think about that fact. With my bottom lip between my teeth, I put the receipt against the metal and hover the pen over the blank space.
What the hell do I say?
‘Thanks for the food. You really didn’t have to bother, but it was delicious.
I left your plate in the kitchen.
Sam'
Is it too blunt? Maybe. Is the last line indicating that I know he made up the lie about the food necessary? Probably not.
I slide the folded note in through the horizontal holes in the locker anyway.
Walking out, I look down at my hands that tremble a little. I’m not really sure why. Even my heart hiccups inside my chest, and my stomach twists with a mix of emotions I can’t decipher. That in itself makes me more uneasy, but at least I know I have my therapy appointment to look forward to in a few hours. As much as that stresses me, too, for once I feel like I might benefit from talking to someone about this.
It’s the first thing I tell Dr. Stewart when she asks me how I’ve been. She honestly looks surprised, like she didn’t expect me to hurl all that information at her. Like she thought she would have to get it out of me.
“You should be proud of yourself, Sam,” she says. Even if all this sweet and delicate therapy talk always makes me feel like I’m a toddler being praised for the bare minimum, I…do feel proud, I think. For not having a panic attack, for not freaking out over all the people and scents. For even pushing myself to actually go down there and do it, no matter how trivial the act really was.
“Yeah,” I say, hanging my head down while I play with my hands in my lap.
Dr. Stewart sits in her chair with her legs crossed, a notepad in hand. “You still sound unsure about the situation, though. Why is that?”
I shrug. “It’s just…I don’t know why he’d do that. I don’t know what to think.”
“You won’t know unless you ask him yourself.”
Ugh, like I don’t know that.
I glance at the painting behind her to distract myself. “I don’t know if I want to.”
“Considering the food he brought you, it was a nice gesture. By thanking him in that note, you did all you needed to do. If you want nothing else to do with it, it…” She pauses when she notices my confused expression.
“What do you mean, considering the food he brought?”
“Well…it was overall a pretty good and healthy meal for a pregnant person. Fish for lean protein—that’s important in pregnancy—and mango is very high in vitamin C, also important. From the way you described it, it was thoughtful, not just something thrown together. And you said it was well made.”
A fuzzy sense of comfort over someone being thoughtful of me, and unease over that someone being an unfamiliar alpha, clash inside of me. Pressing my lips into a tight line, I frown and try to figure out which feeling is stronger and more rational.
“Why would he do that?” I mutter to myself.
“He was probably trying to be nice,” she says lightly.
“I told him I’m not looking to date.”
