Greniv
“You’re in a real dill of a pickle, there, sprout,” Mum murmured, setting a cup of piping hot tea in front of me. The silly pun brought Aster to mind. She loved those corny plant jokes. They were so silly, I could perfectly imagine her telling little kids that came in to the nursery them. Curling the cup close to me, I hid my wince into the mug. I bet she liked kids.
“Sounds like the boy’s more than a few pine cones short of a conifer,” Dad grumbled, his voice its usual stilted rumble. There was a sharp edge to it that had me stiffening. “Come.” Standing, he motioned for me to follow him. I couldn't help comparing him to the woman of the Marsh I’d jilted and thoroughly insulted. They were both sturdy, strong, comfortable in their own skin, and seemed pretty content. Until I’d gone and done what I did to Aster, that is, she had been. “Bring your dead love if you must,” he muttered under his breath.
“It’s not dead yet,” I mumbled under my breath.
Dad paused, his wide frame so large, walking down the wide hallway of my childhood home was almost a squeeze for him. His long arms brushed the walls as he lumbered down the long passageway. “That so? That what you think?” The dubious look he gave me made me feel small and want to conceal the dying blossom from his view. Opening the back patio door to trudge down the steps, I already knew where he was headed. Or so I’d thought.
Skipping the door to the greenhouse, he walked straight to the strange willowy oak, a hybrid plant of some type my parents claimed only existed right where we now stood, one of a kind.
“Some blossom into flowers, others… trees. Depends on the owner forfeiting for the first bud.” Dad lifted a hand to the tree. It was strangely flexible, swaying but never breaking. Glancing from the tree to me, he waited.
And then it clicked. “Are you saying…”
“Your Mum didn’t know what to make of my scent at first.” Lifting a thick finger, he tapped his nose. “She said I stunk of dead leaves.” Dad still sounded like he held it against her but loved her anyway. “The Wood Nymph in her mucks things up, I say,” he teased.
“He was nervous. I didn’t know. It was so strong that was all I could smell.” Mum grinned when Dad gave her a grumpy look for her admission. Skipping down the steps, she practically danced into my father’s arms. The tree shivered and small leaves began to sprout as she snuggled up against him, his hand still on the tree, her hand smoothing up his broad chest.
“Aster smelled like leaves,” I admitted. “I think she was nervous, too.”
“You are a handsome young man,” Mum murmured, smiling when she reached out to pinch my cheek and I made a face but allowed her this. “Aster is a lovely name,” she added into the silence that followed.
I’d complained to the guys in the truck on the ride back from the nursery it had sounded like an old lady name. Gods and monsters, I was a dick.
“You actually wanted to cut your toe off and present it to Dad?” I asked of my mother, shaking my head at the idea. I’d heard of love blossoms, and the barbaric rite that left you limping, slowing you down so your mate could catch you.
Even weirder, I used to climb that tree, had Dad hang a tire swing for me from on it. I’d played with many an action figure locked in an epic battle over the roots and base of that tree.
“Wild heather, no.” Mom shook her head vehemently. “I didn’t even know that was still being carried out until your father presented me with his bud of a willow. I supposed there aren’t many of us and most of us are so private, it’s not openly spoken of. I added to our blossom later.” Her hand went to her loose bun. “A lock of my hair he wrapped around the stem.”
“Gave it the strength it needed,” Dad rumbled, pride thick in his words.
“Wait… Dad’s the bendy part of your love blossom?” I sputtered, incredulous. “He cut off his toe so you could catch him?”
Dad snorted but Mom grinned. “Of course,” she chirped. “You didn’t honestly think he could out-stubborn me, did you, sweetie?”
“I-” I blinked a few times. “I never thought about it.”
“I think he knew the shock of it would bring me around,” she said with a knowing smile.
Dad snorted out a laugh and wrapped an arm around Mom’s smaller form. “She’s my rock,” Dad said without preamble.
“Or oak,” she joked, lifting a finger to poke him in the chest. “He’d come to me one day, this quiet, shy beast of a man just walked right up to me and announced I was his, and did you know I’d laughed at him at first? My mate?! He smelled like wet leaves! I couldn’t believe it. Could you imagine? My mate was going to smell like cedar and sunshine, and I would justknow, and everything would be perfect, like the wolves do, you know?” Her face scrunched up at the idea of her naiveté.
“Kind of,” I lied. I tried to laugh but it came out strangled. I was giving myself away but I couldn't hide it. I wanted to vomit as she went on, the knot in my belly so large my stomach ached. “What did you do?” I asked of my father, who was all puffed up from Mom’s half told tale.
“Gave her proof,” he grunted out, to Mom’s delighted tittering.
“The blossom?” I guessed, starting to feel like a heel and not quite sure how I’d gone this long in my life without knowing any of this.
Mom nodded. “I took one whiff of it and that was how I knew.” Mom’s breathy sigh was hard to make out with blood thundering in my ears. “I lost my mind after one little sniff.”
Oh good green gods. Dirty eucalyptus and cypress... Oh god...
“Excuse me,” I mumbled dazedly, racing to the side of the house. I made it to the dry patch of ground they’d yet to plant anything in, in time for that first heave to ho as my stomach let go. Gently setting my blossom aside, Aster’s love blossom, I corrected, I clutched my stomach as it proceeded to lose all of its contents.
I’d just told my mate she wasn’t. I’d yelled at her, shouted horrible things. She was nothing but nice to me and I’d all but spat on her. A long groan left me.
