Page 195 of Ex Somnis

“Why’s that?” I ask. “The hard time.”

“His dad had the flower shop in town. The one in the corner where the laundromat is now.” Nevan turns his water glass a quarter turn.

“I remember that one.” Paul nods. “He had nice plants.”

Ridge snorts, but we all ignore him as Nevan eyes Paul, then continues the story.

“When Simon was little, his dad had an accident in the shop, a bad one, and after that, there wasn’t a flower shop anymore, and Simon was put in foster care.”

“Oh no.” I feel the pity rising in me, and I hate that I can’t seem to stop empathizing with assholes.

“Right, I remember that too,” Ridge scoffs. “The other other tragedy in Vernonia.”

The first tragedy is my comatose best friend, and the second is sitting at this corner of the table in a wheelchair, holding a fry in a way that’s somehow menacing, daring any of us to be soft about it.

“There are a truly insane number of tragedies in this town,” I mumble. “We should move.”

“What exactly happened to the dad? I can’t remember.” Paul frowns at Nevan, who looks into his glass.

“Apparently, some heavy pots fell on the guy. Whole shelf of them, I heard.”

“There are an awful lot of things falling on people in this town,” I hear myself mutter, glancing up when I hear Ridge’s dark chuckle.

“And it’s always plants.” Ridge grins at me. “Have you noticed? Trees. Pots of plants. Plant-adjacent. Whatever fell on the flower-shop guy was probably a fern.” He slowly looks around at the fiddle-leaf fig in the corner and the herbs on the sill. “I don’t think we should move. I think we should get rid of the plants.”

“The plants are staying,” Paul says, without looking up from his potatoes.

“I’m just saying.”

“The plants are staying, Ridge.” Delivered like a man who has loved his ferns longer than he’s loved any of us and is not interested in our trauma about it.

I laugh until my eyes sting, which is a relief, because some of the sting was already there waiting for an excuse.

“We didn’t get to rehearse yesterday,” Paul says when I’m finally done laughing.

“No.” Ridge doesn’t look at me when he says it, and I don’t look at him, and the not-looking is so loud I’m amazed the plants don’t rustle.

“So, we use tonight.” Paul folds his napkin into a square, then into a smaller square. “I, for my part, could use a tea and some sleep.”

The guys do the dishes, and I make four cups of Seraphine’s tea. Not too hot. She was clear about not being too hot.

We all get ready for bed and eventually end up in Ridge’s room, where he transfers from the chair to the mattress.

“I can see you not helping,” Ridge murmurs to Nevan.

“I’m just standing here,” Nevan protests.

“Then stand there less, baby boy.”

I go around the room with the crystals Jasper gave us, placing one on the nightstand on my side, where it can see me. Then the others, the way Jasper taught me with points and groupings, a small circle on the dresser, one by the window. I don’t fully know what all of them do, but I trust my little punk fairy.

“I am never,” Nevan announces from the middle of the bed, where he’s arranged himself diagonally like a fallen tree. “Going to get to sleep in a house without these things in it, am I?”

“Probably not,” I say through a chuckle.

Nevan sighs at the ceiling. “Can’t that be a new rule when we’re done here? No crystals in the house?”

“Absolutely not. Paul keeps his plants. I keep the crystals.” I glance at Paul, who nods in agreement.