The Blue House of 1478 (10) (Patreon)

(A/N: please have this chapter while I work on Wicked Boy’s monster chapter)

—

I wasn't lying when I told Katie that I didn't want to leave Sleepy Birch.  I get it. There are awful memories here.  There are ghosts that linger and raw spots that haven't healed.

It's the best place to run from.

But it's the perfect bout of cold in the mornings, cold in the night, and a subtle warm throughout the day. There's pretty greenery; the sun peeks over the lake on my bike rides through town. I like the smell near the water, collecting sea glass, walking the docks and reading all the different boat's names, and the sound of the gulls at the shore.

I like to see what the waves pull to the shoreline and sit on the rocks.  I don't mind watching my step, just to make sure I don't crush the barnacles and muscles beneath them.

It's perfect for me, for anyone stuck between forgetting and a memory. It's a place to lick life's wounds, and my wounds are still gaping.

So, Sleepy Birch is where I'm resting.

—

Today, I want to be left alone.  I need to be left alone, or I'm going to make a very bad impression on my future renter.

I've been rained on, chased by a satan-chihuahua, who I'm starting to believe is my reincarnated and eternal foe, and my paycheck is soaked. I even happen to be out of everything in my fridge aside from a mysterious bottle of soy sauce.

Who bought the soy sauce? I don't know!  And this means — I have to buy groceries now because Sleepy Birch's local grocery store closes at two on Saturdays.

I have no idea how long a housing interview is supposed to last, and despite all this, in thirty-five minutes, I'm supposed to be meeting with the mystery renter from the local newspaper.

I debate going home and changing. I think that maybe I should've worn something other than my rain jacket and oddly patterned rain boots. I also believe that my cowlick is on overdrive today, parting down to my scalp like Moses parted the Red Sea.

Therefore, I have a comb in my grocery cart, a pen, a gallon of milk, pizza pockets, and a cereal box. I know if I buy anything, it's going to be strapped to the front of my bike, that my potential roommate is probably going to see it strapped to my bike, and I curse whatever teenaged idea from years ago that had caused me to take on the paper route.

"Just be yourself," Katie had assured me this morning, "be yourself, and they'll love you."

Right, because that will do the trick!  My knack for saying whatever I think, obsession with the supernatural, and astounding ability to make a mess of regular day-to-day events are very appealing.

I'm going to make it on time, I tell myself, know that the coffee shop attached to Mr. Fredrickson's family-owned antique and coffee shop is only a few minutes by foot away.

"I hate it all.  I want to die already!"

I realize that maybe through my inability to make friends that God has granted me patience,

because there's no more remarkable patience than the patience that's needed to listen to Kia's grandma, Mrs. Wells, tell me a third time how she obtained her shoulder injury of the week — by merely reaching too quickly to flick off her bedroom light,

Fantastic.

"Age ruins you," she nods as she says this, her pained expression accompanying the third variation of her story, "Can't even turn off a damned light. You can forget sex."

I cringe at the thought of Mrs. Wells doing anything naked. I do feel sorry for her as she touches her shoulder mildly, wincing in genuine pain. I know she only took this job for the extra bit of income and only because she is determined to fix the warped middle of her kitchen by summer's end.

I place a hand on her upper arm, avoiding her tender back.

"I'm sorry, why don't you go home for the day?" I ask her, and it's sincere. I seriously wonder how Mrs. Wells manages to pull herself from bed every morning when I can barely force myself to eat breakfast before noon.

"You know — I'm sure Hunter has told you that rotten husband of mine won't buy me a new floor.  That's why I'm here!"  She laughs snidely at that, like Tom helping her is the funniest thing she's heard all day. "You know, my mother told me that it's as easy to make yourself love a poor man as it is a rich man.  Why didn't I listen?"

Mrs. Wells pats her ringlets and stares wistfully out the window,

"You know he doesn't work, boy, and he thinks the house falling apart gives it character — but I'll show him character," She nods at that, crosses her dark arms over her chest petulantly, "when I break every bone in my body surprising our grandkids downstairs when I fall through that goddamned floor!"

"Oh," I shake my head, thankful when the girl behind the check stand brings up my total, "Ah. Do not do that; that sounds dangerous.  I think you should stick to the rich man theory for now."

"Nah.  I'll go out with a bang!" She exclaims, using her shopping cart full of work materials to prop herself up,  "take the whole house down with me.  Then, I'll find a rich man."

And that's that, I guess, because she's finally pushing in the opposite direction when the cashier hands me my change.  Hunter's personality has never been so easily explained.

"I'll see you next week, Ms. Wells! Tell Kia and Hunter hello!"

—

I'm peddling faster than I've ever peddled in my life because the dingus that I am didn't double-bag the carton of milk, and it broke right through its flimsy plastic about halfway through my journey.

Thankfully, the carton didn't erupt into a dairy volcano, but I had to tie it awkwardly onto my backpack — my backpack that's already overstuffed with library book returns.

"Great."

I can't bike with one hand, not with my lack of coordination.  So now, here I am at light-speed, gallon bouncing on my back as I swing down the next street to the Forget Me Not café.

I nearly throw my bike onto the stand as I climb off.   I try to hide my milk behind the side of the door, so I don't look like a complete weirdo with my pet milk when I meet the dude, and, of course, I notice then that I've got one grey rainboot on, one black — and fuck.

"Welcome," Mr. Fredrickson's niece calls, perched back behind the counter that blocks off the espresso machines from the seating area. Mr. Fredrickson peeks his head around; his white mustache damp and curving upwards into the indents left by his dimples,

"Oh, Theodore, it's you. You look like you're having a rough day." Shari's eyes travel from my flushed cheeks and down to my mismatched shoes, and I close my eyes — taking in a deep breath before I can laugh. 

She snorts, 

“Is it a rough day?"

"…Very rough," I say, finally, and scan the room.  It's mostly empty, with only two elderly couples scratching out a word puzzle together and one with a young granddaughter perched in their lap.  "The roughest in a while, I believe."

"Then I guess you'd like a cup of tea to make it better?"  Shari questions.  Mr. Fredrickson echoes the sentiment, nearly at the same time.  It's incredible how similar she’s becoming. “Peach?”

I smile guiltily and nod,

"I'm eternally grateful,"  I mean to thank both of them, but — Katie's concerned stare lingers in my thoughts, prodding at my comfort. 

I know I'm not supposed to talk to Mr. Fredrickson, so I turn to the side, directing it towards Shari instead.  My nerves are still rattling a bit at the thought of interacting with someone I haven't met yet, so I don’t have time to dwell on anything else,

“Oh.  Also.  I'm supposed to meet with someone, um, he sounded young and — "

"I haven't seen anyone."  Shari frowns, peeking over her shoulder to double-check the truth to her statement.  "Not young anyway."

"Oh, crap, I wonder if he didn't...."

"By the flowers." Mr. Fredrickson cuts in, his voice low and waterlogged.  He directs a quick nod over to the back door, his tidy clothes dripping against the floor.  "In the blue."

Oh.

The garden.

Oh!  The garden.  A blue cardigan!

I nod in thanks, giving the welcome mat one more drag of my wet rain boots.  A few seats are empty, quiet, and I force my nerves to carry me towards the open back door.

Just past the glass entrance, towards the canopy, and beneath hanging red lobelias, still dripping with rainwater, sits a man — a man I've never seen before.