I wasted no time buying it and hiring a contractor to fix up the cottage and restore it to its previous glory.
It’s not often I get the chance to stay out here, but when I do, I never want to leave.
“What was her request?” Rev asks quietly.
“Let me show you,” I say before opening my door and stepping out, prompting her to follow suit.
I say nothing as I head to the right and away from the front door. Reverie follows behind me silently as I lead her around the corner of the cottage and toward the back, opening directly into a small, open garden.
Everything is barren and dead-looking now, but during the summer, the foliage is bright, full of life and color.
I stop before an area against the back of the house, right by the glass sliding door that leads inside, and peer down at the limp, dried plant spread amongst the soil, the crispy petals brown and tan.
“She’s not so pretty in the winter,” I say casually. “But in the spring, she’s fucking beautiful, and the petals are a vivid strawberry red. I’ve always found it a little funny that my mom wanted to be a plant called bleeding hearts. I think she had a pretty dark sense of humor.”
“I—” Reverie pauses for several beats. “I’m confused… She's a plant?”
A grin tilts up one side of my mouth, understanding her confusion all too well. I stuff my hands into my pockets, letting the plant fade and inviting in the memories of my mother’s smiling face.
“Yeah. I didn’t really understand it at first, either. She loved to garden, and I would help her weed and plant flowers and vegetables every summer.” My smile widens until both sides curl, memories of a younger version of myself—a much happier version—engulfing me. “Except my way of helping was kind of just tossing dirt around. But, yeah, there’s a company that offers biodegradable urns.” I glance at her as she stares down at the dried petals, tilting her head curiously. “Fun fact: human ashes are actually pretty harmful for plant life, but these urns are designed specifically for it, so you store the remains in the urn until you’re ready to plant it, and then you add these nutrients and shit on top to protect the roots.”
“Huh,” she chirps, sounding fascinated. “That’s actually pretty incredible.”
I chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t think she was even aware ashes were bad for plants, and I think this urn was invented maybe a decade ago,but if it wasn’t, I probably would’ve gone insane trying to keep all this shit alive.”
She lets out a soft laugh, and my heart skips at the sound. “Why did she want to be a bleeding heart plant?”
“They were her favorite because the petals look like actual hearts when they’re in bloom. I think she found it poetic, too, with how it feels like our hearts bleed when we’re grieving.” I offer a tiny, nonchalant shrug. “Like I said, a little dark, but that’s who she was.”
I feel Reverie’s stare burning into the side of my face, but all I can see is my mom—her dark hair piled into a messy bun with small strands wildly sticking out, streaks of dirt smudged over her cheek, and these threadbare overalls she refused to get rid of, even though they were full of holes and stains.
I blink, and the world comes back into view.
“My grandmother knew my mom’s wishes, so she put her in a pretty urn and decided to let me plant her when I was old enough. She knew it would mean the world to me to choose where, but I think she also knew I wasn’t going to stay in California forever, so she didn’t want to risk killing the plant if I had to uproot it later. Once I knew I was leaving out of state for college, I did a lot of googling and found the biodegradable urn, transferred my mom’s ashes over to it, and carried her with me until I could plant her in her forever home.”
Rev’s stare doesn’t waver as she quietly asks, “And you chose here? Why?”
I slide my gaze to her, colliding with warm copper. Her expression is soft, clear of any previous anger and anxiety.
“Because you’re here.”
She blinks, taken aback, then frowns with confusion.
“You could’ve chosen anywhere in the world, and we’d be standing right here, just with a different background,” I tell her, holding her bewildered stare. “I didn’t always understand why, but I knew I would follow you anywhere. Even if it was to hate you, I still wanted nothing more than to be with you.”
Her throat bobs as she works to swallow, and she quickly turns her gaze back to the ground. Her brows knit, seeming to struggle to comprehend my words.
I face forward again, giving her the space to process something I hadn’t fully realized until it was pouring off my tongue.
“You followed me here.”
It’s not a question, but a conclusion she must’ve always known deep down yet never admitted to herself.
I nod slowly.
“I watched you when we were teenagers,” I confess. From my peripheral, I see her head snap back toward me with shock, but I feel no guilt. Stalking her is the least of my crimes. “If I wasn’t obsessively stalking you on social media, I’d sneak away, catch a bus, and find you wherever you were. Most times, you were home, but I knew who your friends were, which ones you were closest to.” I glance at her, a shameless grin curling my lips. “I knew where they lived, too, for the times you slept over with them. I wanted to watch you live a happy life so I’d have more of a reason to hate you.”
A beat passes before she quietly asks, “And did you get what you wanted?”
