by Devon Monk
I plucked a tissue out of the box and wiped the dampness of his sweat off the back of my hand.
“Perhaps you would stay awhile.”
“I have a life.”
“And yet, you are here. So late in the evening. When you should be home with Mr. Bailey.”
I stood there, crumbled the tissue in my fist, then stuffed it in my pocket.
“Ah,” he said.
“You have any coffee in this house?”
“Yes.”
“Good coffee?”
“I’ve been told.”
There was a carafe by the refrigerator. Full. I poured thick, black coffee into a cup that said Get Mugged. He’d brought it into the station once and told me he’d picked it up as swag from some alternate universe.
I should be home with Ryder, and I’d tried to be. I’d tried an entire chicken dinner with pudding cake’s worth of trying. I’d tried cold beer mugs, nice wine, and a side salad I didn’t even like’s worth of trying.
He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted.
It was pretty clear he didn’t want to be home. Not while I was there.
The rich scent of coffee calmed me, easing the tightness in my shoulders and the annoyance at myself, at my boyfriend, and at Mr. Sick Guy over there.
“Reed Daughter?” his voice drifted back. “Perhaps you could brood in the living room where it is more comfortable.”
I rolled my eyes, then took a sip. A deep roast with something spicy at the end, maybe nutmeg or ginger. I approved.
“One,” I said, coming back into the room, “I’m not brooding. I was just reading your stupid coffee cups.”
“And what is two?”
“No more putting on the show. You have a cold. You know it. You know about diseases. You know how to sneeze into your elbow instead of all over the place. So why am I here? Really?”
“In a cosmic sense? You are the Bridge for Ordinary’s god powers. I’d go so far as to say your conception was fated.”
“Don’t change the subject. Why did you call me over tonight? Really?”
“Myra.”
Not what I’d expected.
I settled in the chair. “Is she all right?”
Than had partnered with Myra when he had first joined the force as a reserve officer. They’d developed a friendship that seemed to consist of a begrudging approval of the other’s tea choices and arguing over books.
As far as I knew, he was the only person she had invited to the magical library. And she’d done so weekly.
“She is.”
“So this is about the book club?”
“Book club?”
“Yes. The one you and Myra are in. Just the two of you, giggling over the naughty bits in the marginalia of ancient texts and magical scrolls. Getting buzzed sniffing fermented ink and snorting archaic mold.”
He settled back, his tea at the ready. “Do tell me more.”
“I’d love to join your clubhouse. What old, moldy book do I have to lick to be part of the fun? Is there a dress code? Please tell me it’s silly hats. It’s silly hats, isn’t it?”
“There is no book club.”
“Right.” I gave him a big, exaggerated wink.
“She called me.”
“About the book club?”
“About you.”
Mayday. “Well, isn’t that nice? I’ll be going now. Call me if you need anything. No. You know what? You can call your book club buddy, Myra, and she can make you soup.”
“Delaney Reed.” That voice. Those chills. “Please be seated.”
I could leave. He had no power over me here. Not that kind of power. It would be easy to go home.
To my empty house where the leftovers of a dinner that never happened sat in the fridge.
I flopped down into the chair. “What?”
“She is…concerned.”
“She is nosey. You know that, don’t you? She is really a big ol’ busybody.”
He sipped tea, watched me.
“Fine,” I said. “What is she worried about this time? My work quality? My attendance? My tattered old soul?”
“Your happiness.”
I ran my fingers through my hair, which I’d forgotten to pull back in my usual pony tail before heading over here. “I know she wants what’s best for me, and I know she’s seen me make some pretty hard and maybe even wrong decisions lately. So I mean this from my heart—with all the love—please tell her to buzz off.”
I stood.
His eyebrows quirked up, and he leaned in and placed the teacup carefully on the wooden cutting board next to the teapot.
“She is concerned you haven’t seen Ryder Bailey on an adequately regular basis. Is this true?”
“That’s really not your concern. Or hers.”
He refilled his cup and reclined with an aggressively patient look.
“I live with him. Of course I see him. I saw him just a few hours ago.”
“At your home?”
“At the grocery store.”
Than sipped tea and watched me.
Civilizations probably gave up and crumbled to dust under the weight of that stare.
“He’s got a job. A build. Outside of town. The client is demanding. He’s…it won’t go forward without him there. Making the decisions. Talking his client into doing the right thing. And I understand it. I do. I have a job that sends me out at all hours of the day and night. Unexpectedly.” I pointed toward him, and he lifted his cup in toast and acknowledgment.
I didn’t know when I’d started pacing, but I just kept at it. “It’s not about that. About his job, except it could be. If he’s telling me the truth, then… No. There’s still something that isn’t adding up here. Something that doesn’t fit. And I try not to do that, you know?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Go all detective on my relationship. Assume there’s some kind of crime or mystery I need to dig at. Assume he’s guilty for something when I know perfectly well that’s not how relationships work. It’s not about right and wrong. It’s about want and need, give and take, support and stepping back when needed. I’m just not…just not good at some of that stuff.”
I was staring at a lovely little pot of miniature daffodils, their cheery yellow blooms blown out like trumpets with frills, sturdy dark green leaves and stems anchoring them.
They looked like nothing could hurt them. They looked strong and vital and endless. But I knew. A little too much water, a little too little, and they’d be goners. Dead.
“It’s hard to know,” Than said. “It’s hard to know how much. Or how little.”
I stuck a finger in the dirt and found that it was dry on top, but just beneath that, a little scratch and wiggle down, the soil was damp. It was just right.
“How do you know?”
Than stood. I wouldn’t have heard him, probably, but the spider eyes rattled with each step, the scrabbly legs scratching and whispering across the polished, dark wood floor.
“These questions are not as uncommon as you may think, Reed Daughter. Among the living, they are legion. Verse, chorus, song.”
“I know. Intellectually I know this is nothing new to the human race. But for me. For Ryder and me…” I pulled my finger out of the dirt and dragged the tip of it across my jeans to get rid of the soil.
“How long have you been together?”
“We’ve known each other since grade school…but if you want to count the six years he was away at college and doing that secret, monster-hunting training…”
“Dating. How long have you dated?”
“Over two years.” There was something about that. Shouldn’t we be in a better place after years together? More honest, more open, more in love? Not hiding stuff? Or was this the mark in time where we found out all the crushes and unresolved attraction was just a fluke. A fad. Wanted because it was unattainable.
“That long.”
The way he said it made me look up at him. Eyes still glassy, nose still red, but
the medicine must be kicking in, since he didn’t sound as sniffy.
“That is long,” I said.
“Is it? Twenty-four months? Must I recount the difficulties you’ve endured within that time?”
And no, thank you very much, I’d prefer he didn’t bring any of it up.
I’d been shot twice, given up my soul to a demon, been bitten by an ancient vampire who was a total asshole, and kind of almost really died for a moment, because of the dude with the head cold standing in front of me.
We’d seen zombie gnomes, chased down and returned Mrs. Yates’s penguin a couple hundred times, and weathered some really bad weather. The gods had come, and the gods had gone, not always as per their preference.
People, good ordinary people, had been turned into frogs. One of my sisters had fallen in love with a demon, the other with a half Jinn.
And Ryder. Well, Ryder had found out about all the supernatural stuff that was happening right here in town, joined the force, quit the secret, monster-hunter agency, and become a servant to Mithra—a jerk of a god who didn’t like how we Reeds ran Ordinary, and who, as near as I could tell, had forced my boyfriend to pledge fealty to him just to find a way to get under my grill.
It had been…hard. There were days I thought we were just a normal couple trying to decide whose bedside tables worked better in the bedroom (his), and who had the better coffee pot (me). Other days, I knew we were so far from that kind of normal, we might never reach it.
“But how do you know?” I said.
“How do I know what, Reed Daughter?”
I couldn’t look at him anymore. “How much water. How much sun.” I vaguely waved at the flowers, then crossed my arms over my ribs and nodded at the sturdy daffodils and the little pot next to it where thick, strong triangular leaves speared up through the dark soil.
“Ah,” he said. “Life, I find, takes some time and observation. It also takes trials. Those trials bring errors.”
“Doesn’t look like any errors here.”
“Because you only see that which I have accomplished. You have not seen the broken pots, the poor drainage, the moldy bulbs.”
I nodded, not having words. It was all obvious, but I needed to hear it. Even if we were still talking about flowers.
“Would you like to?”
I frowned. “To what?”
“See my failures?”
My heart stopped before thudding forward. “This better not be some kind of metaphor,” I said. “You better not have some kind of greenhouse of horror back there somewhere. Frankensteined, half-alive experiments in cages. We don’t allow that kind of mad scientist stuff in Ordinary.”
“I am aware. I’ve read the rule book. So then, perhaps you should go on your way instead.”
“No. Oh, no. You hint at mutated monster plants and think you can brush me off? Nice try. Take me to your horror show, Reserve Officer.”
“You insisted I need rest. And fluids. I am lacking both. Better for you to leave.”
“Freak show. Now.” I snapped my fingers twice.
He sniffed and lifted to his full height before spinning on his heel and leading me through the dining room, the kitchen, and out to a little mud room space. It may have been built for hanging up wet coats and kicking off sandy boots, but it had been retrofitted with shelves and cupboards, a utility sink in the corner and lots of working space.
In that space were flowers. From the softest buttery cream to the deepest purple-black, the blooms were grouped and spread out, basking beneath grow lights, in seed trays and starter pots, all of them looking alive, well, hearty.
“Not there,” he said. “Here.” He pointed to the other side of the room.
The narrow table stretched from one end of the room to the other. Clumps of dirt, broken pots, a little row of bulbs that had gone black lined the table in tidy rows. A tangle of roots lumped together to make a small hill in one corner, and dry brown leaves and withered stalks lay in an oddly artistic mat that appeared woven.
“The mutants,” he said quietly. “The freaks. The mistakes.”
I couldn’t help myself, I walked over and took my time looking at each broken failed item laid out on display.
“Why didn’t you just throw this all away?”
“I have not finished learning, Reed Daughter. Why would I be rid of my greatest learning experience?”
I stood there a little longer. The chime music was too far away to hear, except for the occasional high tone.
“So I just need to give it a little more time? Pay attention to the mistakes, but not worry about them? Don’t throw away all the blooms just because there are a few broken pots and dried leaves?”
“Are you speaking of gardening?”
“Something like that.”
“Perhaps you have found your answer. But in case you have not.”
He reached across the other countertop, the one with the grow lights, and picked up a small sky-blue pot with dirt in it. He held it out for me.
“What’s that?”
“It is known as a flower pot.”
“I know that. What’s in it?”
“Tend it with water twice a week, enough each time that water collects in this tray beneath it.”
“Okay, but what’s in it? What’s trying to grow?”
“It will need sunlight, but should remain indoors. I would suggest a window sill where the dragon is not allowed to touch it.”
The way he said dragon like it was an invasive species make me smile. “Aw, c’mon. It’s pretty cute for a dragon. Even you have to admit that.”
“I must admit nothing.” He plunked the flower pot into my hand, and I could either catch it or let it fall.
I caught it of course. “I didn’t ask you for a flower.”
“That is not what I gave you. I gave you a flower pot. With soil.”
“If this is weed… Seriously, Than. I know it’s legal, but I don’t want to grow weed at my house. Can you imagine if the dragon pig ate it?”
He had already turned and started out of the potting room.
“What if it gets stoned?” I asked. “What am I going to do with a stoned dragon, Than?”
He flipped off the light, and I grinned at his quickly retreating back. “You know it can eat a car in one sitting. Can you imagine it with a case of the munchies? We’d lose buildings. Entire blocks.” I followed him out, matching his long stride with my own.
“It won’t just want an order from Taco Bell, it will want Taco Bell. The entire restaurant. And then what am I going to do? Than? Than?”
He had crossed the kitchen at speed, those spider legs flipping and slapping at his ankles like they were trying to send up distress signals. He was halfway through the little dining room before I’d even stepped into it.
“I’ll blame you,” I called after him. “I’ll tell everyone you’ve been growing pot that was strong enough to make a dragon eat the Bell. Well, I can’t tell everyone in town about the dragon, but whatever cover-up I use for the rest of town, I’ll make sure you’re the reason no one can buy Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos within a fifty-mile radius. And then what? You haven’t seen small-town anger, you haven’t seen small-town mobs until you’ve seen their favorite, cheap, fast food restaurant get eaten by a dragon.
“What I’m saying is you are playing with fire giving me this. Fire. And you should just take it back now so that neither of us, or our beloved Taco Bell, gets burned.”
We were in the hallway now, the entranceway to the house. He stopped so quickly the spider eyes rattled like Yahtzee dice.
He opened the door. “Water. Twice a week.”
I held the flowerpot out to him. “This is a bad idea.”
He waited.
“I’ve got the black thumb of the Grim Reap…uh…” I shut my mouth. “I don’t think I have what it takes to keep it alive.”
Those words were hard. So hard. Because suddenly I wasn’t talking about the flowers. Suddenly I was talking about Ryder. H
is love. Our togetherness. Our future. Our relationship. Those words cut through me, punched right through my heart and lungs.
“Water,” he said as he reached out and curled his hand around mine, pressing my fingers gently but firmly against the sky-blue flower pot. “Twice a week. If you forget, water. If you do it three times in a week, let it be.”
“But…”
“Sunlight. It doesn’t have to be direct. But it needs light. And time. And patience. And care.”
His hand was still on mine. It felt like it was just our two hands, our fingers and palms holding that little plant together, holding the soil and water and hope all in one small place.
“And if it doesn’t work?” I looked up at him, could not hold his kind gaze and immediately looked down at the spiders.
The spiders were looking at the wall, floor, ceiling, a left leg, the corner, but not at me. And that was good.
“Flowers bloom. Even after disaster.”
“Is that an inspirational quote?”
“No. It is in the forest ranger comprehensive guide on wildfires and wildfire recovery.”
I looked up at him. He gazed calmly back at me. He was not kidding.
“Some light reading?”
“I thought I should be aware of all of Ordinary’s rules. And since it is surrounded by national forest land.” He just shrugged to finish that thought.
“Okay.” I nodded. “Twice a week.”
“Yes.” He let go of my hand and stepped back. “Good night, Reed Daughter. I will not be at work tomorrow. I shall be taking a sick day.” He coughed into his fist, but it sounded totally fake.
“Get well. Don’t spread your germs around.”
I stepped out onto his porch. It was cold, the wind gusts whipping hair in my face. I pulled the little flower pot toward my chest, unzipped my coat, and tucked it in behind the small safety of my lapels.
I didn’t know why I did it. A blossomless flower or weed or whatever it was could handle a little wind.
Still, I held it there close, close to my heart and just kept repeating to myself, water, sunlight, patience, time.
Then I got in the Jeep and drove the dark road home.
Chapter Ten
I heard the key in the front lock, the creak in the hinges I loved and had told him not to oil away to silence. The door closed, locks clicked, deadbolt, then the chain. The rustle of his coat coming off. A soft groaning exhale, as if the full-range motion of shoulder and torso hurt to complete. As if he were sore. Exhausted.
