Page 24 of Red Flags Only

A jolt goes through me, sharp and uncomfortable. I couldn’t talk to him last time. Why does he think I’m going to be able to this time? Nothing has changed.

“Here,” he says, holding the butterfly out to me. “Read. The letter is tucked into the top of the right wing when you open her up.”

He approaches, gently passing her to me before skirting around me to make himself at home on my couch.

I look at him, then I look at my shiny new present, which he appears to have made out of recycled cardboard, painting it to resemble a comma butterfly, except in peach.Lyra’s Loveliesis scrawled across one wing above an intricate bit of lace ribbon, which holds the wings shut.

I run my finger along the lace, then over the classic comma shape on the butterfly’s lower wing that gives the species its name.

I suppose it couldn’t hurt anything to have a look. You know. To be polite. It’s common courtesy, really, and everyone deserves common courtesy, even criminals.

Keeping every civil rule I’ve ever learned in mind, I untie my butterfly to reveal the inside and nearly expire on the spot. I was not ready. It’sgorgeous.

Everything is peach. Butterflies litter the space, 3D wings flashing as they reach off the page. A row of hand-drawn ants march the scallop-edged perimeter of the wing edge, then disappear into a paper pocket labelledMomentos. A soft pink origami heart peeks out, as familiar to me as the freckles on my skin.

I know that heart. I made that heart after many,manytrials and errors to send to Jupiter for our first Valentine’s Day as friends. Dried blood stains one of the folds, a leftover from the papercuts I gave myself trying to fold thepaperjust right, convinced that if I gave the best Valentine, I could prove myself worthy of friendship. Or at least con Jupiter into thinking I was.

More scraps stick up behind the heart, the nostalgia of them tugging at my soul and constricting my throat.

“Top right wing,” Jove repeats softly. “You can look at the rest later. A gift for you.”

I blink.

Right.

Letter. Read. Common Decency.

Ignoring the rest of the butterfly’s insides – including fern fronds made of paper fringe and stars scattered into constellations of caterpillars – I direct my gaze to the top right wing, where I do indeed find a letter. Folded. Into a leaf.

“What’s the theme here?” I ask. “Nature but in peach?”

Jove hums. Always with the humming. Goodness. “The theme is you, Ly. All your favorite things, and all my favorite things about you.”

“Oh,” I wheeze.

Just.

Run me over with an eighteen-wheeler, please.

In the absence of any conveniently timed semis, I gently take off the washi tape holding my leaf-letter shut, then set the giant butterfly on the coffee table so that I can unfold it.

A glance at Jove, a fortifying breath, and then I read.

My song,

I’m sorry. Not for coming to your house or holding you hostage, because without that, we wouldn’t be here, communicating now. You’d be at your house pretending I never existed, and I’d be at mine, gutted andunaware of what I did wrong. My hostage situation is saving us a whole lot of heartbreak, I believe.

I am sorry, though, that you seem to be under the absolutely insane notion that we won’t be continuing our friendship. I did not spend an entire summer learning about the best plants to put into a butterfly garden for nothing. I certainly didn’t spend a month tearing myself apart at the mere thought of losing you just for you to give me a “Welp, that was nice, goodbye forever!”

Sorry, my darling, it’s simply not happening. I’m here and I’m not leaving. I need you. I need your sweetness and your jokes and your kindness. I need your thoughtfulness. I need those little moments where the beauty of your soul shines so bright, I wonder if it could be lightening the darkness within my own.

I want to be here for you. I want to love you and protect you in whatever capacity you let me, just the way I’ve always been. Well… maybe notexactlythe way I’ve always been, because if you haven’t been avoiding me for the reasons I thought, then I can love and protect you even better now – not from afar, but up close, where I can see more, say more, do more. I love you just as dearly as I ever have. Me, Jove. Your friend.

Because, lovely, as much as you’d like to separate the Jupiter of your letters from the Jove in your living room, the reality is that I am and always have been both. I’venever lied to you. I’ve never purposefully misled you or manipulated you. I’ve given you the inner parts of me that no one else, outside of my brother, has ever seen, the same as you’ve given me those parts of yourself.

I’ve told you about my mom. About how much I loved her. About how much I miss her. I’ve told you about my dad and how lost he is without her. I’ve told you about dumber things too, like when I had that weird mole that I was convinced and terrified was cancer. You were with me every step of the way to finding out it wasn’t, and you were with me again when I had kidney stones and thought I was dying.

For every embarrassing moment you’ve had, I’ve matched you. For every secret you’ve told, I’ve told one too. For every bit of yourself you’ve gifted me, I’ve torn off chunks of myself to gift back, praying to the heavens that it would only be enough for you to keep loving me.

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