The Blue House of 1478 (22) (Patreon)

"I think I'm hilarious." Kia has half a Coastal Cafe pretzel shoved in her mouth, but I reach over the table to yank it out, all while ignoring the disgusted looks of the elderly couple seated two tables away from us, "Theo, you little shit."

"Not funny,"  I groan, wiping the pretzel cheese off onto her napkin, "None of this is funny.  You are seriously the worst."

"I was eating that."

"Okay, so, I go there to make amends,". I'm talking over my fries, fully aware that Kia is staring at my mouth full of food, "and instead, you give Levi the ammo of the century to forever be my sworn lawn rival — eternally making fun of my creepy flower gift."

"He's not gonna make fun of you, sheesh,"  Kia lets out a long-suffering sigh, forlornly gazing at her now tainted pretzel,  "If he does, I'll charge him interest every time for giving him such great joke making material."

"Can you divorce friends?"  I wonder aloud, propping my cheek into my hand, "because sometimes, I think I want to divorce you and keep Hunter as collateral for all the damage you've done to my life."

Kia looks affronted at this, before she snatches a handful of my fries,

"I deserve these — you fucked up my pretzel,"  She shrugs, "I'm just trying to incite something here.  I'm igniting the fire of romance beneath both your little booties."

"You're sick." I guffaw, "I would rather die than have a romance with Levi; he's such a pain in the ass."

Kia wiggles her eyebrows, snorting around her chewed up fries, and the elderly couple is blatantly gawking with disdain, yet again,

"Oh, shut up, Kia."

She shoves more fries in her mouth and sends them a cute little wave. They wave back in confusion.

"You think that they're staring like that because they haven't had their glasses' prescription checked in ten years and think I'm like, a trippy animatronic Coastal Cafe mascot?"

"...You're going straight to hell."

—

Most memorial excerpts that you'll find in your local newspaper are brief.

They'll give a name, a birthdate, a birthplace — the names of all the loved ones they've left behind. They'll say something like:

Henry Mcalpin, 82, of Sleepy Birch, passed away Saturday, April 6th, at Diantha Memorial Hospital.   He was preceded in death by his parents and his brothers, Donald and Edmund.  He leaves behind his wife, Lorna, a son, Harold Mcalpin of Adeline, and three grandchildren.  A graveside memorial will be held at 1pm, May 21st at St. Peters.

That's not what Mr. Donley expects of his paper, especially in a place like Sleepy Birch, and it's really not what people like Henry Mcalpin and their family deserve.  Mr. Donley wants the town to know that Henry — he was the owner of Howdy Hats, the founder of the Sleepy Birch chess club, and the favorite elementary school bus driver of Abingdon for 34 years.   He wants the town to know all the good things those around him have to say.

So - I take writing memorial pieces seriously, just as seriously as Mr. Donley has taught me to.

Too bad Adrian Donley never learned a thing from his father.

"Quit calling us a retirement community," Mr. Donley chuckles over his cup of coffee, the steam blowing to the side with his breath, "you realize it's not one, right?"

"Yeah?  What do I call it instead?"

I keep my head ducked down low, fingers tapping against the keyboard — but my train of thought left exactly twenty-six minutes ago, right when Mr. Donley's 'hot reporter son' decided to drop by.

I'm not trying to listen in, but his voice is deep and carries through Mr. Donley's small, open-doored office. I haven't seen him in such a long time — but still I feel like I do when I have a fever, all cold-sweat and warm chested, dizzy — foggy at the edges.

"Vintage human housing?"  Adrian's voice is so snide and proud that it physically pains me that I ever found it the slightest bit attractive, to begin with.  I hate that, for some reason, past the dread and nausea —

I still do.

I distract myself with the shame of that realization, finally able to tune out of their conversation through a montage of self-hatred and humiliating memories, but Mr. Donley is waltzes out of his office in my peripherals, Adrian in tow behind him; his broad, snotty smile still plastered on his stupid stereotypically perfect face.

"... Anyone can live here, the elderly just happen to choose this town more than anyone else," My boss is shrugging, and I can see the second his son notices that it's me positioned behind the singular desktop computer, right next to where he intends to make himself a cup of coffee.

I quickly flip open a book next to me, one that is not the slightest bit work-related — and stare down at the words with hopefully an alarmingly realistic look of focus.

"Coastal towns are known for that."

"And disturbing missing persons' cases, apparently.  There's nothing to do here - and that new true crime documentary - well.  You wont ever get this little newspaper off the ground if young people don't want to move here."

"That was the seventies."  Mr. Donley huffs, "And I will not take responsibility for the fact that the media loves to rehash old wounds and for the cheap thrill and easy money of crime 'documentaries',"

"Dad."

" — every five years and destroy Sleepy Birch's economy again.  Gruesome, awful —  trash.  Those people had families.  Hell.  I knew -  I know their family.  I won't have it."

Adrian deflates.  This time, his picking has undone something that his father won't tolerate.

"Well.  All I meant was... You should come work for me back in McLaughlin." I want to roll my eyes at his rapidly reviving cockiness, mouthing McLaughlin with as much sassiness that my eye roll can't take.  He's purposely dragging his stupidly shiny leather shoes against our gaudy carpet, making as much sound as he can muster as he approaches the Cuerig behind me, "You'd be able to retire.  And, I wouldn't have to come here to harass you."

Wouldn't that be a miracle?

"I don't want to retire,"  Mr. Donley snaps, then tiredly, he adds, "You'd harass me more in closer proximity."

"That's harsh."

"Well.  I think I need some nicotine to be able to deal with you today, my dear son. We'll pick back up in five." Mr. Donley shakes his head, digs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket — and steps outside.

I blanch when the door shuts, and the crease of Adrian's pressed slacks are directly at my side. He's loud while he makes his coffee, and I wonder how it's possible to make so much commotion, demand so much attention, with just a styrofoam cup and a pack of hazelnut creamer.

Adrian clears his throat, and I look back just in time for his emerald eyes to snap to mine with the meanest sting of a past shared.

"Hey there, Theodore.  So I see you've made it past janitorial duties and onto glorified newspaper boy," I don't have to look back again to imagine his angry smile, to see the downwards glance of how he could perpetually look down on me from any height.  I swallow at the words.  I feel old butterflies sway in my stomach, below the reminder of the passive insult, "movin' on up in the world?  Was it worth it?"

"Hello to you too," My voice warbles, and I curse it, ready to sell it to the nearest sea witch in order to turn Adrian into a tiny shrimp that I can feed to something scary looking. "Glad you're still so pleasant to interact with."

Adrian hums to himself, turns just to grab a little red straw to stir his coffee with.  He taps the edges of his cup unnecessarily, and I wrinkle my nose at the sound,

"Am I ever anything but pleasant when it comes to you...?" Adrian takes a swig of his coffee, leans back against the counter, displaying the amount of space he can take up with one singular movement, "Pleasant, pleasure...  Same things, right?  As far as I remember...  We're pretty good at the second, so who needs the first?"

"I do not — "  My nerves spike, and I shut my mouth, and the book next to me, right as he leans over my shoulder.  My rain jacket is still zipped up to my neck.  I glance towards him.  I can feel his warmth curdling up any comfort left from his intrusion into my personal space, and swallow again — a retort lost in my throat.

"Don't you have anything else to do?"

"I'm okay just hanging out and waiting for an answer."  He tugs at my hood lightly, and I turn further away. "I'm on vacation, after all."

"Well.  Drop it," I mumble, click the computer mouse aimlessly — just for a reassuring sound. He laughs in response like it's just a joke between old friends.  "Not interested, Adrian.  Take a hike"

"Oh my God, chill," He taps my book on prolific hauntings, and I feel my cheeks heat, his arm thrown over my shoulder casually, "Sorry.  My dad has me on edge.  Not trying to pick a fight."

I try to clear the knot in my throat.  I find that I can't.  It's so easy to accept - when he turns kind.

"So.  How've you been?"

"What?" My gaze shifts upwards, and he smiles.

"How's the family? Heard your snappy, alcoholic sister is getting married soon.  That must be a nightmare."

"In a month," My fingers are trembling over the keys, feelings mixing with the anxious warmth in my chest.  It was easy to commiserate about family when I loved him.  Now it feels like a betrayal to Liza.  It sits uneasy on my heart, "...  Not exciting or anything.  You've got to have more interesting things to want to talk about if you're living in McLaughlin."

Adrian sighs,

"Oh, definitely," he nods, swings back into his own space, "not even a competition.  Doesn't mean I don't want to check up on you."  He's quiet for a moment.  I'm quiet too.  Then he huffs, and in a mumble, he says, "Hard to do when you blocked me off everything."

"Right."

He delivers another dry laugh, and I shrink down the tab of Henry Mcalpin’s memorial piece.

"Awe. You don't have to hide it," He smirks, all teeth, "I think it's cute that you're putting in so much effort for such an unbearably unimportant paper."

"Cute?"  I repeat, and my heart feels  bit weighted.  I realize the rest of what he's said seconds too late.  "Henry Mcalpin died."

Adrian's eyebrows raise.

"Relax.  You're taking everything I say totally the wrong way,"  He shakes his head,  "I only meant that you must have a lot of pride in your writing.  Enough to stay in this shithole."

"Mr. Donley asked me to write it — " Adrian cuts me off with a cluck of his tongue,

"My dad is a good guy," He circles my desk, inspecting a pen in the jar across from me, "He's such a softie for people with big dreams." He glances at me and smiles, and I smile back — forced and confused, heart swaying a little lower in my stomach. For some reason, my eyes prickle with tears,

"So, forgive me if this is rude but, if you're on like, say, a newspaper boy wage, and your sister probably doesn't want to live with you after she's married — what are you going to do about your living situation?"

He perches his fancy-pants covered ass on my desk, and I resist the urge to push a thumbtack into his left buttcheek.

"Should've come to McLaughlin with me, after all, huh?"

I blink.  I might go home and cry.  I might think of all the things I could've said...

But — strangely...  The blue house of 1478 comes to mind.  All rationality leaves with the thought of it.

"I've got a place in mind."