The Blue House of 1478 (14) (Patreon)

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—

I can't focus. The town meeting sits, serrated at the edge of my thoughts, ready to swipe each time I try to place them elsewhere.

I obsess like I sometimes do when I'm alone. I think things like,

Are people talking about it?

Did they say something — in front of Hunter?

Will he go home and ask his grandmother about it? Will he ask what happened there, at that bridge I followed him to, looking for ghosts, ghosts that are possibly of my creation and think differently of me?

Will he ask what happened there, to bring Mr. Buford to tears in front of everyone — and think of me laughing behind him in the shadow of that bridge, at the sight of him eating a lake-soaked granola bar, and wonder what the hell is wrong with Theodore?

What happens to our friendship?

I have to move on, move on like I constantly do — drowning the what-ifs in the sound of an old, moody keyboard, the wind, and rain that sails in from the coast rustling the trees just outside the windows, battering the panes with damp leaves and gloomy weather.

Focus.  I tell myself. Deliveries are done, the meeting is over, and I'm meant to write about a hand-made jam fest.  As deceptive as the title might be, it is not a music festival — and the moodiness and general discontent I'm feeling are much more suited for sad love songs and familial anecdotes in lyrical form than what essentially is the pride of Sleepy Birch.

Jam.

Actual jam.

No jellies are allowed, as per the 1974 rule book. The coast is a prime location for berries and fruits — and we're considerably greener and much less polluted than the hustle and bustle of our neighboring cobblestone port town.

Sleepy Birch won't let Doveport forget that.  Jam fest is a proverbial tourist-attracting slap to the face.

"I don't remember his name. Not very tall, raincoat, brown bike, blue bike — maybe Hispanic.  His last name is El — something. Or Wells?"

Anyway.  Regardless of the legality as to whether the entries are strained or mashed fruit juices, my journalistic endeavor has me seated in Mr. Donley's office in a particularly bad case of unfortunate timing.

I only meant to wait until he was finished with his call — to ask if he'll be participating with his own jam, seeing as how he spends an inordinate amount of time tending to his currant plants. Interviewing possible participants is all part of a small-town article's charm, after all.

Also, a good distraction from stress.

But Mr. Donley has the habit of taking his landline calls on speakerphone. His hearing isn't what it used to be. And of course, out of all the calls I could ever walk into, this one —

Shit. It's about me.

"What I do know is that he keeps soaking my newspaper."

I must be charmed with the supremely unwanted ability to have the worst days — all self-made and well-deserved, of course. I could've left Levi a dry paper.  I could've if I weren't in such a hurry.  And now, for the first time that I've witnessed, in a town full of grouchy elders, Mr. Donley is taking a complaint.

"This morning, for example, he threw it into a fucking mud puddle. Does he need some goddamn glasses? Do you not provide your workers with health insurance?"

Mr. Donley's withering stare pierces into mine, and I shudder slightly. I try for a weak smile, but when his lips purse, I groan and mouth,

"I swear it was an accident."

I should've known right away, from the sandpaper voice and the deadly bite of sarcasm that says the caller hasn't had regular contact with human beings in years, that it's a very angry Levi.

Mr. Donley sighs, tapping his pen across the desk, and leans back in his chair. It creaks unappreciatively.

"Well, Mr. Blue, without a name, I'm afraid I can't take a complaint."

I hold my palms up in surrender to my elderly boss, or perhaps gratitude, but he makes a slicing gesture across his throat — then motions for me to remain seated.

Fantastic.

There's a slight smile — the hope of salvation, proof that he's a bit humored by Levi's frustration.  It is my first screw-up.

Maybe he won't actually kill me.

"... You're telling me that you have more than one newspaper boy in his twenties in this tiny-ass town?" Levi's irritation brims from each consonant. "I bet if it were Janelle or Susan Sowers calling, you'd do something about it. Wouldn't you?"

"I'm telling you that I need a name. I don't know how you think these things work here in Sleepy Birch, but we need a name to reprimand our employees."

"How I think things work? I'm a resident. Just because I didn't want to live smack-center in your freak-show town for a few years, doesn't mean I'm an outsider. Doesn't mean my paper-delivery matters less — or the fact that it's being thrown into a puddle.  Seems pretty fucking personal that everyone gets a dry paper — except Ayana's son."

I inhale. Levi doesn't sound like he's going to drop this. It sounds all too personal, and I know that chances are, I'm in trouble. I sort of deserve it.

I guess.

I'm not in the mood for self-reflection.

"Leviticus. I had no intention of treating you like an outsider.  And — it has nothing to do with your mother." Mr. Donley appears much more upset with that accusation than the complaint itself, which doesn't look too great for me. "... I'll round everyone up and give them a stern talking to on the matter. Is that better?"

"Look. I don't give a shit. I just want to read my newspaper."

"Right. And you will have a perfectly good newspaper tomorrow," Mr. Donley's tone turns abruptly chipper like he's had a no-good-very-bad thought — a thought to soothe an angry customer. I'm covering my grimace with my notebook,  "In fact, a hand-to-hand delivered newspaper in the morning; to ensure its safe arrival."

I blanch, dropping my notebook to motion a fevered 'no' in Mr. Donley's direction.

His eyes narrow.

When the phone call ends and I begin to protest, he stands — pressing the end of his pen to my forehead,

"Theodore. By God.  Don't you even dare."

He huffs, turns to grab his coffee with a severely pinched expression, then glances at my notebook on the floor.

"... Are you going to ask about my currant jam or not?"

—

Liza is half-awake by the time I get home from the library and much more docile.  She still hasn't told me the location of my keys, and I'm feeling particularly cranky about that, as well as everything else. I almost think to rile her up again — maybe say that she smells.

I decide against it.

I want to shower more than I want to fight, for once. Biking all morning, then sitting in the remnants of sweat and rain to work on an article, to be somewhere with a reliable internet connection, leaves me feeling gross.

Provoking my sister will only delay the importance of personal hygiene.

"I want my fucking tennis shoe," Liza grunts, half hung over the couch, a small container of ice cream in hand. Maybe she wants to fight, "you hear me, Theo? You're the bane of my existence. I want my tennis shoe. I want you to move out."

"I see. We all have wants," I glare at her, pulling my towel from the laundry bin. She doesn't look very tough like this, and I think, maybe I can take her. "like, how I want my keys. I don't seem to have them, though. What a sad world we live in."

Liza glares from where she's resting, but it isn't even in my direction — glassy-eyed and distant. I don't know how three hours of work and half an hour of Yumba Yoga manages to turn her into a gelatinous mess on our furniture.

"No keys. Want my shoe first."

Aadesh clears his throat before using his chin to gesture towards the kitchen cactus's flower pot discreetly. I nod in recognition but decide I'll wait till she falls asleep to snatch back my keys, all in the goodwill of not outing her fiancé as a snitch.

Outgoing message: Katie

Liza hid my bike keys today, and I got a customer complaint. How was your day?

I then text Hunter that I bought a book on cryptids, ignoring his 'Are you alright?'  text from hours prior, and then strip out of my work clothes to shower. I hope that he'll reply the same way that he always does. I hope I'll wake up tomorrow and press the reset button by the time dawn breaks.

My thoughts stray, thighs are burning with extra exertion. For some outrageous motive, I'd taken a long way home. The ridiculous goal was that I wanted to walk by the Forget Me Not Café, where Matthias and I had met for coffee, hoping that I'd casually run into him.

Why?

How the hell am I supposed to know.

I shake my head, water dripping from my hair and down my neck. It's not like I have a crush.

That would be dumb, right?

It's not a crush.

—

It's probably a crush.

It's embarrassing and mortifyingly superficial to form a crush on someone I've met one time and know absolutely nothing about. I'd like to say that I'm only attracted to Matthias, which I feel is probably normal.  People base crushes off of super-shallow, unwanted feelings of attraction all the time.

People are probably attracted to him all the time.

Only.  People never talk about Matthias.

They only talk about Levi.

I wind my fingers over the steering handles of my bicycle and stare as I bicycle past Matthias, ignoring the shift of newspapers strapped into the bag on my back. I likely wouldn't even have noticed the man if my brain wasn't on high alert from narrowly escaping my 500th Chihuahua attack, but I do notice.

And he's there — at ease.  Peaceful. Like he doesn't sit and obsess over stupid things like I do or work a stupid job — bicycling around town and being chased by tiny dogs.

It must be nice.

He has both hands in his pocket, shoulders broad in his thin jacket, standing next to the coast, and everything reflects bits of gold in the blue morning, almost like it's remembering the bright promise of sun without rain.

It's an early hour to be out, and I romanticize him — I add purpose to him, wondering if he woke up to watch dawn break, wondering what he thinks about, if he likes mornings or nights better and —

I turn my eyes back to the street, red-faced and glad to have gone unnoticed.

I did this with Adrian.

I inhale, deflating, and my mood turns sour.

Crushes are best at a distance, anyway.

Reality is sobering. That — and the fact that I'm only a couple of houses away from the dreaded 1478.  I sigh as it comes into view, slowing my gathered speed.

Hand-to-hand delivery.

Right.

Great.

Whatever excitement had started at the concept of a new day, the sight of my crush, and the shocking normality of my conversation with Hunter the night prior — dies in the presence of the glass bottles that dangle from Levi's willow tree.

They clack together noisily as I put my brake down, lifting my leg over the side of the bicycle.  I roll my eyes heavenward, asking everyone dead and above for the inner peace not to piss off the grumpy homeowner.

That inner peace flies southward when not even a foot past the gate, Blue tackles me to the ground.  I yelp, pushing back against the black furball with a grunt,

"Oh my God, what does Levi feed you?" I mutter, submitting to the urge to lay there and be licked to death by a hundred-pound dog. "I don't know anything about physics — but how come you're huge, and I never hear you coming in for the attack?"

"... Do you enjoy talking to animals?"

I jump a bit in my skin, another swipe of Blue's tongue up my nose, and I cringe.

Gross.

The stormy-eyed devil man himself is braced against the side of his house, a small shovel in hand, black gardening gloves covering them entirely. I already feel like throwing a newspaper at his smug face.

"Feel a bit more comfortable that way?"

I scoff,

"Animals?  Such as you? No, not at all. Blue, on the other hand, isn't so bad." I give him a bright smile when his nose wrinkles — lips twisting into a snarl. He disposes of his gloves quickly, then pulls himself upwards with ease and pats the dirt from his knees,

"Blue, come here; you don't know where he's been."

I glare at the comment, but the pup is surprisingly obedient, and she scampers off towards him with a parting nuzzle to my side.

"Got the message about the newspaper?  Woke up early just for you." Levi levels me with a look of disdain when I unzip my bag. "Got poor Mr. Donley under your fucking thumb, huh?"

I stop mid opening and glance up at him, pulling myself off the dirt with a sneer,

"Yeah.  I heard some weirdo swamp-lover wanted to leave a customer complaint and didn't even know who he was complaining about." So much for not pissing him off, I think.

I can't help it.  I stare up at the ferocity in his features, and it infuriates me to no end.

"So now I have to pamper him with a hand-to-hand newspaper."

Levi bristles, then takes a couple of purposeful steps towards me, his boots sinking in the soft and overwatered earth.

"With an attitude like yours, I have to wonder," He grits his teeth, "Are you throwing my newspaper in puddles on purpose?"

He snatches the newspaper from me with a single swipe of his hand. I shrug my backpack back on with more force than necessary,

"Oh yeah, everyone's out to get you.  I love throwing paper into water for fun, one of the many great joys of my day." I roll my eyes, "or, consider this.  You have a huge yard and a lot of trapped water that it can fall in.  Maybe you should take care of that?"

"Listen here, you little shit." Levi bites out. I have my chin brought up with too much pride for my lithe body, which will probably be beaten into little tiny smithereens. I never learn I suppose, "If your employer won't teach you a lesson about your shitty attitude, I will."

He pauses suddenly, his eyes darting behind me.

"Woah, Leviticus," I hear the gate creak back open, "What's going on here?"

Levi startles further and lowers his raised finger. I frown, pushing my rain jacket hood off to turn and face the mystery individual who was able to call, 'down, Bessie!' on an enraged Levi.

But —

I'm confused.

I find myself staring back at Matthias, who seems a bit surprised at the developing situation. His head tilts, tongue sliding over his teeth, before his regard shifts over the angry flush on my cheeks.

He squints,

"Theodore? What are you doing here?"

"Well."  I blush, embarrassed to have been caught in a spiff with Levi of all people, and stick my hands into my pockets, abruptly unsure.

"Uh, hi Matthias," I feel sheepish. I try to smile at him from above the high neck of my raincoat, where I'd rather sink inside to hide, "I'm just delivering the newspaper to Mr. Blue here."

Matthias' grey eyes are unreadable as they shift from me, slowly, and back to Levi, who has gone from on edge to downright...

What is that expression?

He looks ill.

That's the only word I can think of. He steps back, eyes darting between me and Matthias like something horrifying is taking place and —

What the fuck?

"I thought you stayed at the lake,"  Levi says — immediate, defensive.

"...This is the newspaper boy?" Matthias laughs, short and unimpressed. "This man — is the newspaper boy?" His tone is on the end of quizzical or humored. His eyebrow raises, the sharp cut of his jaw clenching, "Theodore?"

Levi gives a curt nod. He's still angry. I can see it each time his eyes travel to me, but there's something shaken in his gaze, something raw, and his mouth finds no words.

"... Theodore." He whispers, finally, and it's uncharacteristically quiet. "You should leave."

Blue curls up against Matthias' side to be petted as they exchange looks I can't decipher.

"There's no reason to leave." Matthias smiles, warm and straightforward.  "Or fight for that matter."

I stand there like an idiot, watching the two interact in morbid bewilderment. I take a step back, distracted at the de-escalation of events, the escalation of something different — perplexed at the sense of ownership Matthias has towards a very docile Blue,

"... How do you know each other?" I babble, on the wrong side of discomfort, and Levi's bright eyes narrow. He clicks his tongue and looks back to Matthias and then back to me with furious bewilderment, unsaid words, and runs a hand over his face.

"This is Levi, Theo." Matthias' soothing voice cuts between us. The glasses hanging from the willow tree clank together louder. His dove-grey eyes appear feather-light and striking beneath the cloud cover. "And our dog. Blue."

I feel my clenched fists relax at the sight.

My stomach turns.