Page 17 of Red Flags Only

Right. And I’m a famous Shrek impersonator.

I bid goodbye, assure her the plants will be delivered as soon as possible, then toss my phone on the couch beside me before turning my eye to the – sad, pathetic, tiny – letter from Ju-ove. I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that it’s from Jove, or the fact that it doesn’t contain a single sticker to lift my spirits in the wake of this life-altering news. The sticker thing, probably, if I’m being honest.

I lift my hand, reaching the short distance to poke at the letter.

It’s so… corporeal. Much exist. Very actual.

I flick it with my finger and watch as it slides a scant few inches away instead of into the realm of make-believe-stuff-that-never-happened, as I intended. Sorrows.

I stare at the offensive paper, wondering where I’m going to put it. Surely it can’t go in my Jupiter box, nestled cozily next to the years and years of beauty that she-hehas sent me. Not only is it the worst thing I’ve ever received content wise, it’s ugly. Its only redeeming quality on the beauty scale is that he used cute, if simple, stationery to pen his note. It’s point blank not worthy of the Jupiter box, which is actually the Jove box, which means the box might cease to exist, gone to the same plane of existence as my dignity, never to be seen again.

I groan, rolling off the couch and heading to the dark oak sideboard in my kitchen where I store my fancy drink supplies. I choose my favorite butterfly pea flower tea and a glass mug to drink it out of, the better to showcase thegorgeous blue of the liquid within.

Sadly, the tea does not solve my every problem. I wonder if I can sue. Then, I wonder if finding out your best friend is Jove flagging Rogue works the same way as a traumatic brain injury, because only that sort of trauma would change my personality enough to have me seriously considering suing someone. Over anything. Where did I get this hubris? Clearly, from the trauma.

I put my now-empty mug in the dishwasher, then walk as quickly as I can past the letter on the coffee table, not making eye contact. If I can’t see it, I don’t have to deal with it.

More really great life advice from Lyra Gold at ten, folks. That girl really knows what she’s doing.

Chapter Ten

Jove, get back in character.

Jove

I’m dying.

I am in withdrawal-induced hysteria, and I. Am. Dying.

Lyra hates me.

It’s beenweekssince I had Brianna deliver my letter to her, and I’ve heard nothing. Received nothing. My PO box is empty of anything but unwanted fan mail every time I check it, and I’ve been checking it an average of three times a day every day forthree flagging weeks.

The butterfly hanging from my neck pushes against the skin of my palm, where I’m squeezing it so hard I can feel blood pooling before trickling down my fist.

I can’t eat. I can’t function. All I’ve done is sleep. I’ve barely written 3,000 words in all that time, and every one of them was trash.Iam trash.

I couldn’t just leave things alone, could I? I had to approach her, knowing she didn’t want that, and now she doesn’t wantme.

I need Lyra. I cannot live without her.

Why did I write her an apology? Everyone knows you’re supposed to apologize in person, face-to-face, so that the other person canseeyou’re sorry. I’d never apologize to Mars in a letter. I’d consider it cowardly.

So why, when it came to Lyra, did I think it would suffice?

Because she didn’t want to interact with me in public? I have her address. She could have interacted with me in private. I could have apologized properly, and she could have forgiven me, and we could have gone back to our letters. We could have maybe even, once the seal had been broken, hung out in real life, in the privacy of her home or mine, as friends. It could have been a step up in our friendship.

But no. I didn’t do that. I wrote her a letter, stormed through town, intimidated Brianna into delivering it, and then… sat in my anxiety for three weeks.

What am I doing?

Whyam I doing?

Since when do I sit around anxious and worried, letting my problems simmer into bigger problems rather than solving them?

Since never.

No more, I decide.

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