Page 68 of Red Flags Only

Knife to the heart. “Your mom?” I ask, already knowing and hating the answer. He doesn’t bring her up much in his letters, but when he does, it’s always heartwrenching.

His breaths come fast, stuttering against my cheek as his heart beats in my ear, a too-quick thumping that has me straining my arms to hold him together.

“My mom,” he answers, sorrow spitting the words out rough. “She was everything, you know? Not in the same way that you are everything, but in her own way. So special.” He sniffs, and my heart breaks. “She was beautiful and kind and so sweet, she could rival you in that department. Loving. Perfect.” He pauses, chest puffing as he breathes. “And then she was gone.” Then, in a whisper I barely hear, “I don’t want you to be gone.”

“I won’t be gone,” I promise. “I’ll be right here.”

“You swear?” he asks. “Even if I’m not in love? Even if all we ever have is what we already have? You won’t leave me behind?”

“I swear.”

He takes in a huge, heaving breath, then separates from me. Mostly.

His hands trail down my arms, fingers hooking in mineas our glassy eyes meet. His resemble a misty forest, hazy after a summer rain, depths full of lurking scaries and uncertain steps. Mine probably look something like rotten seaweed.

Some people have all the good genes.

His mouth moves, an unsure motion that endears as much as it concerns. I suppose I will be taking the lead still.

“Do you want a secret Diet Coke?” I ask. “They always make me feel better.”

Surprise flits across his face before a spark of humor takes over and his lips lift, just the tiniest bit.

A kaleidoscope of monarchs take off in my stomach.

“I would love a secret Diet Coke,” Jove replies, running a thumb over my knuckles. “Does Diet Coke solve mommy issues? And abandonment issues?”

I wince. “It solves the snoozies?”

“Ah,” he mutters, tugging me toward the kitchen, which leads to the garage. “Close enough. Let’s go.”

We get our Diet Cokes and drink them crouched behind my car in the garage, lit only by a faint sliver of sun filtering through a definitely-needs-to-be-replaced window. As I sip, I watch Jove carefully for any signs of upset, but the only clues I get that he’s not his usual self are the crushing hold he keeps on my hand and a niggle of uncertainty that floats through his eyes before I speak, whispering about nothing and everything, showing him that we’re okay in the only way I can think to – bybeingokay.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Only one bed! Only one bed!

Jove

“You know, I don’t know if this is actually an only one bed trope,” Lyra comments, tossing her empty soda can into a green bin under her sink and gesturing for me to do the same. “I think only one bed requires there to truly be no other option. Not only do you live near enough to find your own bed, but you’re rich. You could go to a hotel.”

My can follows hers as I hum. “True,” I confirm. “Which is why I gave Mars everything in my wallet – except my license – and told him to bar me from the house should I show up. Voilà. Options eliminated.”

Lyra takes a moment to process my incredible problem-solving skills, then says, “Would Marsactuallybar you from going home?”

I snag her hand as we head to the living room, letting the pressure of her skin continue to soothe the lingering anxiety beneath mine, then answer. “Yes. Quite happily, I believe. He heavily implied that he wants me to try so we can have play time while he ‘defends the tower’, as he called it.”

Lyra’s eyebrows rise. “Do you guys often have play time where you attempt to break and enter into your own house?”

I shake my head, falling into her couch and tugging her down with me. “Sometimes we attempt to break and enter intootherpeople’s homes.” Mainly our dad’s, but her adorably appalled face as she turns toward me stops me from admitting that. She might unwiden her eyes and close her mouth, and then what will I do? Suffer in the knowledge that she can make such a cute face and no longer is?

No, thank you. I need this morale.

“Occasionally, we play fire chicken instead,” I tell her, thoroughly enjoying the way her eyes get impossibly larger. Her jaw continues to hang, and I find myself wondering if it would be cuter closed, or if the addition of her little pink tongue is what pulls the expression together. To test, I untangle my hand from hers and push on her chin.

Hm. No less cute, no more cute. A different kind of cute, one might say.

“Do I want to know what fire chicken is?”

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