Page 47 of Red Flags Only

Inside, the volume decreases significantly, so I only have to half-yell to order our tickets.

“No bumping into each other. Don’t leave the kart on the track. Follow the flags,” the woman behind the counter rattles off, glancing at Lyra’s adorable toes. “And, miss, you can’t wear those shoes. Closed-toe only.”

“She’s wearing those shoes,” I reply, tucking our tickets in my back pocket.

“Oh, that’s o–”

“Sorry, sir. Policy,” counter woman says, interrupting Lyra. Rude.

I scowl. “She’s wearing those shoes,” I repeat.

“We have shoes you can rent over there.” She points to the far wall, next to an area taken up mostly by a bowling alley.

“She’s wearing–”

“Thanks!” Lyra cuts me off, shoving me toward the shoe counter. “We appreciate you!”

“I don’t,” I disagree. “She won’t let you wear your shoes. They’re cute shoes. They trail butterflies up your calves, and they match your outfit. You shouldn’t have to wear their ugly shoes to push a pedal in a kart.”

“I don’t mind,” she says. “It’s probably better, actually, because I won’t scuff them or get them dirty.”

I see her logic, and I hate it. “But they trail butterflies up your calves.”

“And they’ll trail butterflies up my calves later, too,” she says, gutting me. “It’ll be okay.”

“It won’t,” I insist. “I will be a starved man, deprived of all goodness, with naught but a patch of bare, smooth skin to get me by. How will I survive? Nary a butterfly in sight!”

She snorts. “I have a butterfly on my belt and a butterfly on my necklace.”

“So few!” I complain.

“Oh?” she asks. “They aren’t enough? I should just take them off too?”

I halt. “If you take off that necklace, I will forcibly put it back on.”

Her brows rise. “Forcibly?”

“Correct. Forcibly. It belongs right there.” I point to the dip between her collarbones, where her comma lies. “Forever. Always.”

“Are you wearing yours?” she asks, apparently on a mission to offend.

I reach behind me, following the chain at my neck to the front and lifting until a matching comma to her own surfaces from my collar. “I’m always wearing mine. Like you should always be wearing yours.”

“I recall you saying something about it being up to me if I wore it or not,” she says. “When you gave it to me.”

“I was young. Stupid. Didn’t have any brain cells rattling around in my skull. I’m older now. Much wiser. Would never suggest something so moronic as free will when it comes to our friendship.”

“You’re really dedicated to this red flag thing, huh?”

“I am, but this has nothing to do with that. This is just good old fashioned character growth.”

“Character growth turned you into a controlling lunatic?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Character growth taught me control. As it should.”

Her head shakes, and she grabs my hand to drag me the rest of the way to the shoe counter. “Come on, Mr. Control. Let’s get me some appropriate footwear. For my safety. Did your character growth teach you anything about that?”

“My top priority is safety,” I respond. “The safety of my sanity, mainly, which requires a dozen itty butterflies on each of your legs. Please.”

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