The Blue House of 1478 (21) (Patreon)

Unlike the drive to Sleepy Birch's cemetery, the ride home is silent.

Everyone grows quiet after finding the flowers at Edgar's grave.  Levi's actions are a sobering mystery.  The graveyard turned back to what it was — not a ghost hunt or a photo-op, but a field full of heartache and bones beneath our feet.

It leaves my friends lost in thoughts I couldn't expect to understand better than my own.  Confrontation scalds my conscience.  Kia and Hunter's expressions hardly change with passing streetlights.

Maybe it's because we all know death is much more than a ghost.

When Hunter parks, I tell the Wells siblings goodbye.  I stare at the night sky, one that's never too dark under the apartment complex lights, and climb the stairs to a locked door.

—

'... You know it's a graveyard, right?'

At the edge of my bed, I sit next to my sister Ximena.  And, for the first time in a long time, and in the privacy of my bedroom, I cry.

I've never considered myself too self-destructive, but now, I've visited the bridge.  I've visited the cemetery.  It's been years since I've seen either for what they are, places thick with remembrances and grief, places — so far removed from what Paranews would like them to be.

"... Tristan invited me to a party."

Listening to Hunter and watching him take something as ominous as the certitude of death, and turn it into something fantastical, simpler for me to digest, has always been an escape.

But I guess avoidance hasn't changed the fixation.  And, still, even with his persistence — when I think about ghosts, I don't think of Paranews and their daily columns or claims.

It's not that I haven't tried.

"I know.  He told me."

I've tried.  I've tried to associate ghosts with white smudges on a dark picture and the white orbs on a gritty video camera, but I can't.

"I can't believe he wants me to go."  Ximena laughs softly, tugging at the dove on the charm-bracelet dad gave her on her sixteenth birthday.  "He's just so — he's so handsome.  It's like a dream."

When I picture death,

I think of blue satin-edged dresses; the way they feel across raw and tear-stained cheeks.  I think of Liza, words slurred, eyes hot with resentment.  When I think of hauntings, I think of certain sounds, like the sound people make when they cough up mucus, when it sounds wet and slick in the throat.  I think of the noise my teeth make when they chatter after a yawn.

When I hear sounds like those, I remember things I don't want to remember.

"His dream."  I inhale, but my breath quivers before I glare, running my pajama sleeve over my nose.  I try to stifle another bout of tears.  It doesn't matter.  It doesn't feel like Ximena ever sees me, anyway, "Tristan — Tristan's an asshole."

"Liza won't take me, anyway.  She's horrible.  I mean.  I've practically begged her."

When I wonder what ghosts are to people —
I think of walking my sister down the aisle, of rainy days, of plastic spoons at Forget Me Not Cafe.  And now — of red Lobelia flowers on a dead man's grave.

I think of the blue thread tied carefully around their stems and the rawness of a tired man's eyes.

I think of how Leviticus Blue looked at me.

"Theo."  Ximena turns to me, her damp hair separated into strings.  She reaches and pushes one strand behind her ear.  The light of the television reflects off her brown eyes.  "After I dry off, will you take me?"

—

"Are you getting pink eye or something?  Your eyes are all puffy."  Liza huffs when I don't respond, tapping my terra-cotta pot,  "... You look gross."

"You look gross."

I've never planted anything before in my life, and Liza thinks that I'm having some weird mid-twenties crisis that she must observe.  And, well — she could possibly be right.

Apologizing isn't my strong suit.

I'm bad with words.

Hence, the potted plant.

"Well.  Whatever.  You and your pink eye are going to kill whatever that is,"  Liza inspects her nails, propped up on the dining room table next to where I'm attempting to unpackage the pack of seeds Kia sold to me earlier this morning.  "Looks like dried microscopic beans. What the hell are you burying?"

"Don't say burying.  You make it sound like I'm digging a grave, and I don't need help envisioning this flower's future,"

"Flower?"

I glare at her and then scowl at where her butt meets the table,

"Speaking of pink eye, get your buttcheeks off of where I eat my cereal."

"I don't know why you're trying your hand at gardening suddenly,"  My sister yawns and makes a good show of rubbing her arse further against the fake marble plating of the table, "like, the lease is up in two weeks, and your new love of flowers is going with you."

"Oh, screw off,"  I mutter —

And then drop the bag of tiny seeds all over the floor.

My sister snickers.

—

The potted seed, swaddled in plastic wrap, is safely nestled in my messenger bag when I approach the familiar willow tree and white picket fence outside house 1478.

It looks slightly different in the afternoon, especially since the grumpy owner's gardening skills have paid off.   The lawn is clipped with near-perfect diagonal lines, green and happy, and the entirety of the front of his home is blooming with various flowers.   They sprout upwards, reaching towards the cloudy sky like they're meant to find the sun.

Right.

That's right.

I've probably spent more time interacting with Levi's angry set of eyebrows than I have with he, who owns them, but — flowers.  He'll have to accept this choice in apology material. Plastic wrap be damned.  Like, in some sort of moral obligation to keep it alive, at least.

"Right.  I've got this."

I park my bike against the gate, careful not to chip what seems to be freshly painted pieces of wood, then twist the latch, anxiety pooling in my stomach.

"Totally got it."

While not the best at face-to-face apologies, here's at least to hoping it doesn't end in a fist-to-face response.

I stand next to the inner gate long enough to dig out the flower pot and even long enough to feign a quick check of my surroundings.

Blue's furry and overly-affectionate self hasn't come flying around the side of the house to tackle me with dog love, which is a little out of the ordinary, but other than that...

I peel off the wrap, wiping the excess dirt away from the sides and patting down the top of the soil to make it more presentable — then sort of wish buying regular old bouquets didn't seem so romantically motivated.

The door opens before I can even make it up the cobblestone walkway to the stairs, and Matthias peers out from the entrance — with disheveled hair and a careful gaze.

The porch light flickers with the dawn,

"Theo?"  Matthias glances behind himself, almost as if he's checking to make sure Levi hasn't heard him announce the name of his mortal enemy, and then pads out onto the porch, barefooted and silent.  The door shuts without sound, "What are you doing here this early?  The paper already came."

He looks as if he's barely woken, lashes grazing his cheekbones ever so slowly as he blinks, dove-gray eyes tired,

"Ah, no,"  I am still too guilt-ridden to even appreciate how handsome someone can be looking like they just rolled downhill at 20mph, but I store Matthias' messy hair in my head to gawk at later.  "I actually came by to talk to Levi.  Who is usually up and ready to like — tumble, you know?  Not that I want to tumble. If that's possible."

Matthias' brow quirks.

"I mean like," I shuffle my messenger bag about nervously, all but kicking an imaginary rock with the tip of my shoe, "What I mean is, if you suggest coming out to talk to me to him, and he doesn't look like he's going to grab the nearest accessible weapon.  Could you send him out?"

Matthias' grin appears just as quickly as it turns crooked.  His eyes are on the flower pot when he hums to himself, unsure,

"I'm serious."  I frown, stepping forward.  "You could do a signal towards the window.  If it's murder time, make an x, and I'll run as quickly as possible — you can pretend he was being punked.  But like, if it's a yes, you could send me a thumbs up, and I swear I'll be on my best behavior."

The porch light blinks on suddenly and unnecessarily, given that it's perfectly sunny-ish for a day in Sleepy Birch, and the screen door is pushing open again.

Matthias points behind himself and winks at me,

"... Hm.  Hope he doesn't choose murder."

"...What's going on?" Levi leans against the door frame with a pointed look towards Matthias before he shoots me a withering glare.   Matthias pats his shoulders with both hands, ruffles Levi's hair with a surprising amount of affection, and then steps past him and back into their home.

"He came for you," Levi nods to his roommate's announcement, and Matthias turns back to me to deliver a small wave, "best behavior, Theo."

He smirks, and then he's gone — leaving Levi staring daggers into my very soul.

"... I thought you weren't delivering the paper anymore.  And I thought I told you to stay away."

"I still am — doing both.  I mean.  I just switched shifts with someone for the week to write another article," Levi raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything, glancing down to the pot in my hands and back to my face, "uh, but that's not why I came."

"...Here to scope out some puddles before you return to work?"  Levi lazily points towards the newly installed birdbath,  "look, a nice big one for you."

I frown and resist the urge to make him eat the dirt that I planted his ugly little bean-shaped seeds inside of.  I try to remember that in this instance,

I am the asshole.

I take a deep breath, outstretching my flower pot in both hands, repeating in my head that, again, I am the asshole.

"No," I stare heavenwards because eye contact is making me literally want to vomit on my shoes,

"I came to apologize.  Except, I'm not good at apologizing.  So, I thought I would get you a gift and leave it in your yard — but then I couldn't think of anything because, like, mostly, I just wanted to get you an anger management book."

I snap my mouth closed, and my teeth click, barely missing my tongue.

"Also, if I left it in your yard, you wouldn't know it was from me,"  I add — quieter.

"I would if you left it in a puddle."  Levi's anger has been traded for amusement, regarding my outstretched hands quietly, before descending the stairs.  His arms are still crossed.

"... That's beside the point."

"What exactly is this?"  I unwillingly notice that Levi's shoulders look rather broad beneath his sleep shirt, and I hope he accepts my peace offering because his oozing masculinity is well — emasculating. "... What are you apologizing for?"

"Not the newspaper soaking, because that wasn't intentional and you kind of deserved it after a little —  " I frown again, reigning in my word vomit,  "Anyway.  Well, okay, you didn't deserve it every time.  What I mean is, I'm apologizing for me, and my friends, and how, uh — insensitive we were."

"I understand."  He says.

I blink.

"No, I — no, you don't.  We didn't mean any harm, but it doesn't mean we didn't cause harm and — demean the feelings of others — especially yours,"

"It's okay, Theodore."

"No, it isn't. I promise never to do anything like that again because it was super shitty.  And I could tell we made you feel super shitty — which was worse."

"I get it."

Levi takes the potted plant from my hands just as my arms start to tremble.  I don't know if it's nerves or the amount of time he let me stand there with them out like some sort of weird zombie lawn ornament, but I'm grateful to see the look of appeasement in his eyes as he twists the pot around in his hands.

"... You talk a lot, even when you're not being an asshole."

"Is that like a, I'm commandeering this flower pot as part of my floral pirating raid or like a — I accept your apology even though I recognize what you did was super toolish behavior. "

I'm kicking the invisible rock again.  Levi's stormy eyes are on me with an intense look of scrutiny that I don't have the confidence to rebut,

"...The second," Levi thumbs at the soil, "Even though you're shit at apologies."

"Nice," I flush, "Okay, great.  Nice.  All is forgiven. We can go back to our routine of mutually pissing each other off in benign ways instead of mega-dickwad ways.  And I can also just not — if we could not talk about this —"

"What kind of flower is it?"  He interrupts, the tips of his fingers sifting idly through the top of the soil.  I stare at him, caught off guard.

Levi rolls his eyes.

"... So I know how to take care of it?"

"Uh, ah,"  I wonder if there's a way for me to embarrass myself less, but realize there isn't,  "My friend Kia used to work as a florist, so she still sells some stuff — I mean, and she knows flower meanings and all that.  Language of flowers, you know?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, anyway, lots of dudes apologizing with flowers — like, surprise, surprise, so I asked her what kind of flowers mean 'I'm sorry,'"

Levi tilts his head as he waits, the low, warm light of the sun cutting across his cheekbone, the stubble on his face,

"So... It's a Gloxinia flower.  It means 'I'm sorry.'  Which we've established, that I am.  And that — you accept."

I stare at the ground for only a moment before Levi laughs so whole-heartedly that something in my stomach flips hard enough that I almost lose my balance; I stare at him with wide eyes when his meets mine, and he's grinning.

And I'm fucking blushing.

What the fuck!

"Gloxinia flowers don't mean sorry," he hums, eyes sliding to me with a spark of something mischievous — of something playful.

"How trusting of you."  He shrugs.  "It's the thought that counts."

I prickle, blinking hard,

"Um, what?" I watch as he turns away and steps up the stairs to his house, "Hey!  Wait!  What do they mean?"

Levi props open the screen door, doesn't even bother to look over his shoulder, but has the flower pot cradled carefully against his side,

"Love at first sight."

I gape, long after the door shuts, open-mouthed and fish-like, for at least one full minute outside the Blue residence —

And leave Kia at least six unintelligible voicemails of me yelling.