Page 8 of Brood (After the End #5)

I could have gotten up and walked myself to my bed, but I kind of like that he carried me. It makes me feel…protected. And jittery at the same time.

“Good night,” I say into the dark after he turns off the light.

“Good night, Cadence.”

* * *

I’m in a bad mood the next day. I have no idea why.

Will is even more uncommunicative than normal during our brief interaction first thing in the morning. Then Monica picks on me endlessly during the morning shift.

She’s not a nice person—that much is obvious—and not a great supervisor.

But she’s not nearly as picky and critical with anyone else as she is with me.

Every time I attempt to adjust a recipe to improve the taste, she insists I’ve made a mistake.

This morning, she chastises me for having delusions of grandeur.

Plain people prefer plain food, and I need to accept my place and stop making our meals too fancy.

If I don’t improve my performance, she says in her primmest tone, then she’ll have no choice but to demote me to packager and let someone more mature and competent be our head taster.

She gives me this lecture in front of the entire kitchen.

It takes every ounce of control I possess not to argue or defend myself.

That doesn’t work with her. I’ve tried it more than once, and it only makes the situation worse.

So I take it. I swallow it down with as blank an expression as I can manage.

Instead of going to the Meadow for my midmorning break, I hurry back to our quarters and throw myself on my bed so I can cry.

I do have sense enough to check the time, but it’s right in the middle of Will’s exercise hour. He won’t be back here to shower for at least thirty minutes. I’ll be better and gone by then.

I’ve been bawling into my pillow for only a couple of minutes when a voice startles me so much, I jump.

“What the hell, Cadence?”

I sit up, wiping at my eyes and my runny nose. The shock has distracted me from my distress, and my heart is racing with nerves. “You’re back early.”

“I pulled a muscle in my shoulder,” he says, taking a few long steps to stand next to my bed. “What’s wrong?” I get no more than a first consonant sound out when he talks over me grumpily: “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’ve been crying.”

“It’s not a big deal. I just got upset and needed to cry.” I pause to choose the words to explain the reason to him.

He assumes the hesitation means I’m not going to continue because he bites out, “Tell me why. Right now.”

I gulp at his tone. It makes me jittery in the same way I felt last night when he carried me to my bed. “It’s…it’s hard getting used to a new supervisor.”

His glower softens slightly. “You’re crying about work?”

“Yes.” I move so my legs are hanging over the side of the bed and straighten my shoulders. “It will be fine. I’ll get used to it. But she’s…she’s not Vanessa.”

I hear him take a ragged breath.

“And she doesn’t seem to…to like me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she’s always picking on me. I’m not imagining it.

Everyone else has noticed too. She singles me out for criticism, and then she tells me how terrible I am at everything in front of the entire kitchen.

” I sigh and rub my face. “I try not to be a complainer, but it’s hard.

Having a new supervisor is hard enough, but when she dislikes me so pointedly, it’s even harder. I’m not used to…”

He’s been listening. I know it even though his expression hasn’t changed. When I trail off, he prompts, “You’re not used to what?”

“I’ve always done a good job at any work I’ve been given. Vanessa would sometimes correct me, but she always indicated I was good at what I do. I’m not used to this.” I drop my eyes. “I shouldn’t complain.”

“It sounds like you have reason to complain in this instance.”

“Maybe.” I let out a long exhale, and for some reason, it tightens my throat. A tear slips down one cheek. “I miss Vanessa.”

Will doesn’t answer. But he meets my gaze when I raise my eyes. He gives a brief, jerky nod. Then he strides into the bathroom.

By the time he comes out, I’ve pulled myself together. I watch as he unbuttons his shirt and pulls out one arm. He sits on his bed and uncaps the tube he brought out.

It’s some sort of muscle rub, I realize, as he puts some on his hand and reaches over his left shoulder to rub it in. He strains to reach the spot that’s hurt. His face twists briefly.

“Here,” I say, standing without thinking through the impulse. “I’ll get it for you.”

He grows still.

“Do you want me to do it?” I ask him in a different tone.

He doesn’t answer with words, but he hands me the tube. I squeeze out a dollop. It smells minty. Strong. When Will readjusts his body on the bed, I can reach the back of his left shoulder. With my empty hand, I feel his shoulder blade. “Here?”

“A little higher and to the left.”

I move my fingertips.

“Yes,” he mutters. “There.”

I rub the stuff on his skin and keep rubbing until it’s been fully absorbed. Then I put some more on my hand and rub that in too, slower and harder, kneading the muscles there.

Will’s heavy breathing is the only thing breaking the silence of the room. His body feels tense. So does his spirit.

I have no idea what he’s thinking.

When I’ve finished with the second dollop, I’m shaking and jittery again, so I step back. “There. Hopefully that will help.” I carefully set the tube on his nightstand.

He hasn’t moved. Not at all. Except for his eyes, which have shot up to my face and then dropped again. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Trying to shake off the weird mood, I glance at the clock. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen soon, but I can put more on for you tonight if you want.”

He mumbles something in response, but it doesn’t consist of any real words.

* * *

Something has changed that afternoon when I arrive for my four-o’clock shift.

Monica still glares at me with the same disapproval and impatience, but she doesn’t criticize or correct me at all. Not when I add different herbs into the dinner stew, and not when I put balsamic vinegar on the strawberries because they’re so dry and flavorless.

I’m not the only one to notice it. Bella comes over at one point and asks in a whisper what I did to get her off my back.

I didn’t do anything. She still obviously doesn’t like me or approve of the work I do. But she doesn’t say a single negative word to me the entire shift.

She also doesn’t say a positive word, but not in my wildest dreams would I expect that.

I sit down for dinner at my normal table, both confused and relieved. Bella and I hash out some theories, but we have no answers for the change.

A couple of times, when I glance over to Will’s table, I catch him watching me. He’s as stern and unrevealing as ever, but it feels like he’s searching for something in my face.

It would be nice to have a spouse willing to talk to me, but that’s evidently not in my future. Hopefully he doesn’t think I’m doing something wrong.

I don’t think I could handle that today.

* * *

After dinner, I’m more exhausted than ever. I return to our room and go to the bathroom.

I’m sitting on the toilet when I discover that my period has started.

I stare at the blood staining the white fabric of my underwear for a long time.

My eyes blur. My body shudders. Tears spill from my eyes.

No wonder I’ve been so emotional. And felt so tired and heavy. It’s not because I’m pregnant.

It’s because I’m not.

I lean over and cry silently into my hands for a few minutes. Then I pull myself together enough to get my menstrual cup, clean between my legs, and insert it.

I stare at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands.

I’m paler than usual. And my brown eyes are oddly dark.

My hair is messy, large sections having slipped out of my braid.

I didn’t change the lighting color to gold the way I usually do, so the whiteness of my hair looks startling against my skin and eyes, despite the fact that I’ve had this same coloring since birth.

My nose is small, and my lips are wide. They’re normally rosy, but they look pale pink today.

This is me. The same Cadence I’ve always been.

But it feels like I’m staring at a stranger.

* * *

I’m curled up on my bed when Will walks in a few minutes later.

He pauses, frowning when he sees me. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing.”

“Something is wrong. Was your supervisor still singling you out this afternoon?”

“No.” I almost forgot about that incongruity. “In fact, she didn’t criticize me at all in the afternoon shift. Did—” I cut off my own question. It’s too presumptuous.

He’s still frowning as he comes over and sits on my bed, turning slightly so he can see me. “I had a word with Nichole earlier.”

Chief Nichole is in charge of Domestics. Monica’s boss.

“You did?”

“Yes. It’s not appropriate for me to intervene in Domestics, but I mentioned there might be an issue and asked if she’d looked into it. Clearly there was and she did.”

My lips part. “Oh.”

“So things are better in the kitchen?”

“They…they were. This afternoon. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His shoulders lift as he takes a long breath. “So if it wasn’t work, then what’s wrong with you?”

I hesitate only briefly. I have to tell him the truth. “My period started.” I contort my face to keep from crying again. “I’m not pregnant.”

He’s going to be disappointed. I know he will. We’ve been trying every single night, and it didn’t work.

He moves his hand in my direction like he might touch me, but he doesn’t. He stands up. “We’ll keep trying.”

He meets my eyes, and I nod in agreement.

He goes to get ready for bed, then slides under his own covers and turns off the light. We don’t have sex. There’s no reason to, since there’s no way for us to get pregnant during my period.

The strange thing is that I still kind of want to have sex with him tonight.