The guys don’t say anything as we walk past to the employee room. Noah’s sitting on a couch at the side, reading a small book, and looks up when we enter.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing. Just going to heat you guys up some food.” Pulling the containers out of the fridge, I pop one into the microwave. Noah looks from me to Cora, as if seeking permission. “Grab a drink if you want and have a seat. It’ll be ready in a few.”
When the first container is done, I set it aside to cool and then pop the other one in. The entire time, I will my hands to stop shaking. I’m so fucking mad. Cora called off to take care of Noah because he got in trouble for fighting some shithead kid who made fun of him for having dead parents. Now she’s here, getting threats and flowers? It makes no sense. How could someone hate a person so fucking perfect?
Pulling the second container out, I set them both on the table for her and Noah. I feel a surge of pride when her eyes flash in appreciation. “I told you I could cook, Firefly.”
“Are you going to eat too?” she asks, pointing to the other containers.
“Nope. I had some earlier. I’ll be out working. You eat and take your time.” Standing from the table, Cora walks over to me and wraps her arms around my torso. It calms the angry ache in my chest, but barely. Eying Noah over her head, I see him tucked into his food, lost in his own world.
“Thank you, Atlas,” she whispers. “For everything. Not just dinner.”
“You’re welcome, Firefly.” I kiss the top of her head, then lowering my lips to her ear, I whisper, “Dinner didn’t taste as good as you did, but I’ll live. Enjoy, pretty girl.”
Walking out of the breakroom, I steal a glance at her flushed face. Smiling at her, I head back out to the lobby and try to figure out how badly I’m going to have to beat Matt’s face in. There’s no one else who could be sending her flowers, right?
Chapter Thirty
Cora
Sitting in the breakroom with Noah, I think about the day. He’s quietly eating the food Atlas made, and I have to admit, it’s really freaking good. He made some chicken and gnocchi concoction with a creamy sauce and spinach. I’m impressed. I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he could cook.
“Noah, you okay?” I glance at him. He hasn’t said much since he came home today, and I don’t know how much to push. We don’t really talk about our parents. I pray he doesn’t remember anything from the first two years of his life, but it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t ask me about them, and honestly, if he did, I’m not sure if I’d have a good memory to share. If I think long enough, I might be able to conjure up one or two.
“Yeah. Just mad.”
“About what?”
“Dylan can say whatever he wants, and no one cares. So what if my mom is dead?”
He says it in a way that makes me flinch. I know she’s gone and they weren’t good parents, but there’s something that still hurts when you hear a child acknowledge they’re an orphan.
“You did what was right, Noah. Kids like Dylan think they can say and do what they want. There will always be people like him.”People like Bea, I think, but keep it to myself. “There is nothing wrong with sticking up for yourself. Not everyone lives with their parents.”
“I know. There’s a new boy in our class this year. His name is Micah. He said he lives with people who aren’t even related to him.”
“You mean like a foster home?”
“Yeah. That’s it. He doesn’t know where his parents are. Dylan asked him, and when he started picking on Micah, I got mad. I told him his new haircut was stupid, and it was too bad his mom let him do that.”
“That wasn’t very nice, Noah.” Though if I remember this Dylan kid correctly, he’s not wrong. Focusing on the conversation at hand, I remind him, “Words have power, Noah. And what do we know about power?’
“We have to be responsible.”
“Yep. This is us taking responsibility for our actions. Was punching him right? Not really, but were you right to defend yourself? Absolutely. Have you talked to the teacher?”
“Yeah. She moved us, but she can’t help at recess.” He pushes around his food in the container, and I know our conversation is over.
“I’ll email her if you want,” I offer, deflating a bit when he shrugs his shoulders. Sighing, I give him a side hug. “I’m going back to work. You good back here?”
“Yep. Can I watch a movie?” he asks, pointing at the TV.
“Go for it.”
Getting up, I rinse out our containers in the sink and set them on the drying rack. Heading back out to the lobby, I’m prepared to work. There’s a pile of emails to go through, and I promised the guys I’d work on adding pictures of their newer work to their socials.
