When my attention returns to the handsome lumberjack, I spot a tattoo of a flower on Jameson’s wrist. I’ve never seen this flower before, and now I have to know more. The minute Jameson takes a breath, I jump in.
“You have a tattoo! I’ve always been too chicken to get one. It’s really unique. Don’t see many guys with flower tattoos. Is there a story behind it? What kind of flower is it?”
“Oh, yeah …” he says, looking almost surprised by my question, like he forgot it was there.
Jameson looks away and tugs at his sleeve, covering the tattoo.
“Um, it’s a funny … well, maybe not funny, but an interesting story. Growing up, my parents were part of some fanatical religious group. It wasn’treallyreligion. It was more like a cult. Anyway, their symbol was this flower,Orbexilum. It wasn’t very pretty, but it apparently had a sweet citrus smell.”
“Apparently?”
Jameson just got really fucking interesting.
“Yep, apparently, because the flower went extinct a few hundred years ago. We had a tiny amount of driedOrbexilumthat sat at our altar. When the cult was at the height of its popularity in the early 1700s, members used to decorate traveling tents withOrbexilumwreaths and garlands to use in their ceremonies. They said the scent keptthe othersaway. They were big on ‘sticking to your own kind,’” Jameson explains in a small, quiet voice.
“Oh shit, Jameson, I’m sorry.” My fingers hesitate before resting on his arm. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it. I shouldn’t have asked.”
I mean it. Mostly.
The shittier part of me—the part that can’t stop watching true crime documentaries at 2 a.m.—wants to hear more.
“Oh! No, it’s okay, Aurora,” he says reassuringly, covering my hand with his. “I’ve had years of therapy for occasions just like this. But, long story, short, they tattooed me with this symbol when I was seven. I could have it removed, but it reminds me of where I came from and what my true purpose is.”
He seems so determined and sure about where he’s headed. I gotta say, I admire that about Jameson.
“Does this cult have a name? Is it still around? I guess I want to steer clear. It sounds awful.”
Jameson’s features darken for a moment before fixing me with a bright smile.
“They’re called the Disciples of Humanity’s Light. Pretty pretentious, right?” he says as he leans in conspiratorially.
“My dad used to tell us stories about the Disciples fighting monsters like demons, witches, and vampires. There was one monster the Disciples were obsessed with. Some kind of queen of monsters. I had nightmares about her almost every night when I was younger. According to them, she’s the most dangerous thing on this planet.”
Something in Jameson’s eyes when he mentions this queen creature makes me uneasy.
“Anyway, it felt like Halloween all year long. One day, I saw the Disciples for what they truly were—a hateful, self-destructive group—and, at fifteen, I ran. I never saw my parents again. I don’t even know if they’re alive. But to answer your other question, my guess is they’re still around. They’ve been around for thousands of years. It would take an act of God to destroy them at this point.”
Jameson finishes his story, then chugs the rest of his beer. Poor guy.
“That sounds awful. I’m really sorry you had to go through that. But like you said, you got out, got a great education, and are doing things on your own terms. You found a new purpose.”
As far as I know, Jameson’s new purpose involves leading breathwork retreats for fragile tech bros and using TikTok to explain why centrism is sexy. But, ya know—empathy.
“Yeah, I mean, as odd as my parents were, I miss them. But I know I made the right decision. Especially since those decisions led to me being here with you tonight. Do you see your parents often?”
Dang, that was a smooth subject change.
“Well, my mother died a little over five years ago. She was an amazing woman—kind, loving, thoughtful, quirky—” Before I can go on, Jameson interrupts.
“Quirky how?” Jameson’s voice is light, almost playful. But his grip tightens. Just for a second.
And when I glance up, something in his face doesn’t sit right. Like he’s trying too hard to stay casual.
“I mean, that’s an interesting way to describe your mom, so I’m curious.”
He looks down at his hand squeezing mine and loosens his grip with a shy smile.
“Oh, um, well, I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you,” I say quietly, pulling my hand away.
