Page 19 of Red Flags Only

“I- you- well. You’re aboy.”

He blinks again, slower. “What?”

“Jupiter is gender neutral, do you know that?” I respond.

More blinking. More slow. “Lyra.” He pauses, fingers contracting against my skin. “You’re not mad at me for talking to you in public? You’re mad at me for…” Another pause before he chokes out an incredulous, “Being a boy?”

I don’t think I care for his tone.

“A man,” I correct. “A large man.”

His hands slide off of my shoulders to settle on my upper arms, thumbs sweeping against the fabric of my dress. “A man now, yes. But a boy when we became friends. You’re angry with me for this? Something I have no control over?”

Angry is a strong way to put it. Disturbed, more like. “I’ve told youeverything,” I remind him. “Things I’venever told anyone else. Things I’d never in a million years have told you if I knew you were…” My hands fist my dress at my sides as I force myself to maintain eye contact. “You.”

His brows, already furrowed, nearly become one. “I don’t understand.”

He doesn’t… “You’re Jove Rogue,” I inform him, something he’s clearly forgotten.

“Right,” he says. “And that changes… what, exactly? I never lied to you in my letters. I was always completely me. What difference does my gender make? What difference does me beingmemake? I’m still your friend.”

I sputter. “It makes all the difference!”

“How?” he asks, hands dropping to cover my fists, squeezing. “How does it make a difference?”

“By… well. For instance, I know that you set fire to the courthouse when you were twelve, around the same time you were responding to letters from me discouraging my love for Brian Single. Discouraging my unrequited love? Exactly what my best friend would do. Committing felonies? Not so much.”

His jaw clenches, then loosens to reply, “That was Mars who set the courthouse on fire. And he got 500 hours of community service for it. Flagging ridiculous. The fire barely even caught.”

See, a girl would never have completely missed the point just then.

“Okay, maybe that one was Mars, but what about senior year of high school when you were talking me out of moving to Indiana while simultaneously skipping classes to slash tires in the parking lot? Or, you know, two months ago, when you poured cement into Mr. Fearling’s gas tank after sending me a hand-drawn portrait of a cabbage white butterfly. I’ve literallyneveractually known you!”

He hums. “I think what you’re talking about is referred to as the duplicity of man. And, still, I don’t see the relevance. Those people deserved those things. You deserve my unfailing love and friendship. You all get what you deserve. What’s the issue?”

I am speechless. Dumfounded. Flabbergasted.

“What’s the issue?” I repeat, wheezy.

He nods, then echoes, “What’s the issue?”

I stare at him for seconds that turn into minutes, going through every avenue of conversation I can think of in my head, trying to find the one that would get through to him. The one that would get through to Jupiter.

He waits, observing me as scenario after scenario flit through my brain, each one less helpful than the last.

This isn’t going to work.

“I think,” I take a breath, then exhale the end of my sentence, “that you should go home.”

He does not let me go, turn around, and exit my house. Because of course he doesn’t.

“You don’t know how to talk to me,” he mumbles, teeth pulling on his lower lip and eyes wandering as he thinks.

I wait, the same as he did with me, doing my very best to resist the urge to physically push him out my door. I can give him the same allowances he’s given me. It’s the polite thing to do. And definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that pushing him would be about the same as pushing a tree.

“Okay,” he says at last, then repeats, “Okay. You don’t have to talk to me then.”

Relief courses through me, sweet and swift, only to be ripped away when he continues.

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