Lucas had been visiting the grave for so many years now, it had become a routine for him.
Every year, without fail, he would stroll out of his house on June 13th and set a brisk pace down the sloping street. He would think, The sun’s shining too brightly today. He would turn the cracked concrete corner, maybe wave at a neighbor or two he passed by.
And every year, he would let himself through a crooked gate into the quaint little garden that awaited him, pick a few fresh flowers, and take them to the tombstone he had memorized, though the letters were faded: Jared. Beloved January 18, 1987-June 13, 2011.
Jared would have been thirty-one now. A man who would have most likely found a wife--those good looks of his would have done him well--and a steady career. A man who would have looked at Lucas’s humble home, his fluctuating writing job, and thank the heavens that at least it wasn’t him.
Their mother and father, who had moved thousands of miles from here and never looked back, had always insisted on bringing Jared flowers. Not that Jared had taken a particular liking to them during his lifetime. He had detested the fragile, ephemeral nature of them (above all, he had valued steadfastness), but for some reason, it became a tradition that had fallen on Lucas to carry on.
He made it down to the end of the street and turned. The garden was there like it always was. He plucked a small bouquet of the vibrant blooms--roses, lilies, daffodils. It was a pretty garden, despite the few prickly weeds and the broken chunks of fence that littered its perimeter. He thanked it mentally every time he came here, although he wasn’t sure why.
“Hey.”
Lucas looked up.
A petite girl, no taller than five-foot-two, tapping her foot on the doorway of her brick house. It loomed behind her, half-shadowed by the surrounding trees, like an ancient dragon following a pixie. He’d never known anyone was in that house.
“Who are the flowers for?”
“Pardon me?”
“She must be pretty if you’re desperate enough to steal flowers for her.”
“No--I’m not--”
“You’re taking them without my permission. Stealing,” she reemphasized. “If you think you can do that without a proper explanation, then you might as well drop the flowers and go home.”
Lucas frowned, still grasping the flowers tightly in his left hand. He didn't know any other gardens nearby. The suburbs didn't allow for a lot of open space. The thought of forgoing the flowers this year... it made his stomach turn, just the slightest bit. It was like he was dishonoring Jared, somehow.
“Whatever your name is--”
“Alexa.”
“Alexa, I’m not taking these flowers to a girl. I’m--”
She raised an eyebrow, and Lucas’s explanation died down involuntarily in his throat. Alexa was still tapping her foot, and the sound cut a harsh rhythm through the otherwise-silent neighborhood. “Take me,” she finally said. “I wanna see her.”
“It’s not exactly--”
“Take. Me.”
A few minutes later, she was following him to the cemetery.
He tried to figure out how to break it to her, but he had no clue how to talk to this fiery girl. Her upturned nose, narrowed hazel eyes, and snarky attitude gave off the impression that she would shoot him down if he so much as tried to make small talk. Lucas wasn’t intent on finding out if he was right.
They reached the cemetery. He swung open the gates and gestured apologetically at the tombstones that dotted the field before him. “Here we are.”
Alexa’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, my God, I am so sorry--I didn’t mean to--I didn’t know--”
“That it was for a dead person?” Lucas smiled drily, making his way around the tombstones to Jared’s grave. He didn’t check if Alexa was following. “My brother died seven years ago. I come here every year, and I… I always take flowers from your garden. I never knew that someone lived there. I'm sorry.”
“I mean… it’s okay, I guess. I have a lot.” She shrugged, her eyes darting around the cemetery. Everywhere but him.
He stopped at a small, nondescript stone, knelt down, and placed the flowers on the ground. It was always so strange, kneeling over the mahogany coffin they'd placed in the soil, like any moment Jared would claw his way out of the earth and reprimand Lucas for encroaching on his grave. They'd loved zombies when they were little, had practiced walking like them. Even now, his favorite show was The Walking Dead. But he'd never thought that either one of them would have the chance to rise up from the grave... at least, not so soon.
It had been a long time since he’d cried, a year exactly, but he let the tears fall again.
After he had finished crying and waiting for God knows what--he never talked to Jared while he was there--Lucas turned and found Alexa still standing at the gates. Watching.
“You can take flowers if you want to, you know. If you want to... put them here. Give them to him.”
“Thanks.”
Wordlessly, they began walking back. Lucas shut the rusted gate behind them and shoved his hands in his pockets, his mind scrambling for something to say.
“Do you live alone?” she asked, glancing at the cemetery.
“Yeah. My parents moved away, and I don’t have a significant other.”
She had tilted her head at that, looking him up and down. Her gaze was sharp, but... refreshing. Clear. As if she was looking inside his head, reaching into his thoughts, and was not afraid of what she saw.
By the time they reached Alexa’s house, she had borrowed a pen from Lucas and scratched out something on a piece of paper she dug out from her jeans’ pocket. She handed it to him.
315-6458.
“If you’re lonely. Or you can… you know. Walk a few yards to see me.” A small smile.
Lucas looked at her house, noting the disrepair. The bent nails. The lone car, a small red Beetle, waiting on the driveway. “Aren’t you ever lonely? You don’t have…”
“My mom’s dead. I moved away from my dad because I’m tired of using makeup to cover bruises.” Alexa said, rubbing her wrist, opening her mouth to say more--but remembered who she was talking to and shut it. Smiled again, as if apologizing for her wariness.
So he tore a piece of paper from the fraying writer’s notebook he carried everywhere and wrote his number on it, handing it to her. “You sound lonelier than me.”
She gestured to her garden. “I have the flowers.”
On his way back to his house, he thought, The sun really is shining too brightly today.
He was whistling a tune as he went inside and locked the door.
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