Page 13 of Red Flags Only

I sniff, then regret it as the tempting aroma of carrot goodness finds a home in my lungs. My stomach speaks before I can stop it, ruining my author alter ego attempts. “I promise I’ll take a break.”

Mars smiles, somewhat gently, and deposits my breaktime supplies on the desk in front of me, casually closing my laptop as he does.

“That wasn’t saved,” I grumble, reaching for my plate.

“It might alarm you to learn that closing a laptop doesn’t delete everything on it, but let’s be honest, babe, if it doesn’t save your last actions, you’ll gain words.” He sweeps in to kiss my forehead. “Eat your cake. Drink your milk. Write your letter.” Then he’s gone, off to torture some other poor soul, I can only imagine.

I’m sure they deserve it.

Scrubbing my hand down my face, I sigh, then eye the offerings he left me. I suppose a little morale break isn’t theworstidea…

Three minutes later, I’m washing down half the slice of cake with the milk Mars left me and reaching for Lyra’s letter. I take a moment to appreciate the work she did on the envelope and try to guess the theme she went with.

It’s much darker than what she usually gravitatestoward – all reds and blacks instead of the brighter colors she tends to like. It feels off somehow, and I worry that our meeting in the hardware store influenced the harsh tone it’s giving. This letter is dark alleys and rock concerts, not soft meadows and the scent of spring.

I don’t think I like it.

Cautious, I peel away the wax seal – black, with a dull, dried up rose petal pressed into it – to get to the inside. Which is. Just. As. Dark.

Throwing caution away and placing concern firmly in its place, I pull out the thick fold of paper and set the envelope aside.

Black on top of black. Stickers depicting dead flowers and death’s-head moths. Sharp corners. Swaths of red throughout.

I retrieve the envelope again, double checking the return address. “Lyra Gold, 333 Evergreen Drive, Bandera, West Virginia…” I trail off, brows creasing.

Okay. So. This is definitely from Lyra. Except.

It’s not.

Not frommyLyra.

What is going on?

I unfold the flipbook-style letter, skipping over pockets full of stickers, tea, and whatever other gifts Lyra’s sent me. I zero in on a piece of stationery sticking out of a fold in the back, sporting my name in her delicate, swoopy handwriting.

Dear Jupiter,

I’ve figured out the problem.

After a rather harrowing experience at the hardware store, I went home and had a nice long think about things, and I know what the issue is.

I’m too soft. Too sweet. Too focused on being a good girl, and too insecure to accept that I will never actually accomplish that.

Well, my friend, no more! From now on, I, Lyra Gold, am going to be bad and confident! I’d say big too, but my darn shoulders prevent me. Maybe I could wear those pads like football players do? And some heels?

…

Yeah, all right, we’ll workshop it. I’ll focus on bad and confident first. And I knowjusthow to do it! It’s time for… drumroll, please… a baddie makeover! One montage to an AC/DC song, and I’ll be good to go.

As you can probably already tell, I’m rebranding. No more Mister Nice Lyra. Who cares if I have no friends and my life is in shambles? Not me! Because I ambadandcarefree.

This is going to be so good for me. I can tell.

I hope you like the bad and unbothered vibe I put into this letter, but if you don’t? Who cares! I am bad! And unbothered! Which is my response to your letter, by the way. Am I okay? Yes! Because bad and unbothered people are always okay!

Insert baddie sign off here,

Lyra ?

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