Page 59 of Red Flags Only

He grins, and my nerves spark. That can’t be good.

“You’re going to write me a love letter tonight, Lyra-love.”

Um.

What?

“I can’t write you a love letter,” I squeak. “Are you crazy?”

The question is rhetorical. He is, of course, crazy. I know that.

“No,” he lies, the lying liar. “It’s for research, Ly. I was writing last night, getting a trillion words thanks to you, but then I came up on a love note I need to write and I just. Couldn’t?” He winces. “I’ve written thousands of letters, maybe even hundreds of thousands, but thisonehas me… Well, I spent four hours attempting it and I have two lines. And those two lines are trash.”

“Have you tried searching them up online?” I ask, feeling for his plight but also really quite desperate to not write this man a love letter. One does not write their best friend a love letter. It’s in the code or something.

“The ones online are stupid,” he says. “And stinky. I need an expert’s touch.” He gestures at me. “As a professional letter writer and life-long romantic, who could be more expert than you?” His eyes widen, and thick, dark lashes flutter over them. “Please, Ly? Won’t you help me?”

He clasps his hands, bringing them up with his plea.

“Are you doing puppy dog eyes?” I groan. “That can’t be a legal maneuver. Where’d you even learn those?”

“From Mars,” he says. “He has a one hundred percent success rate with them.”

Yeah, I bet he does.

His brother is about to, also.

I sigh, and Jove smiles, pulling me in for a hug that nearly breaks my ribs. “Thank you, Ly-Ly. You’re a hero.”

Somehow, I doubt it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Love letters are hard.

Lyra

What am I doing?

Well, Lyra, you’re writing a love letter. Obviously. With the recipient right beside you, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye every twenty seconds even though hesaidhe’d keep his eyes on the movie.

“Jove, I can’t do this with you watching me,” I tell him. For the fourth time.

“I’m not watching you,” he replies, also for the fourth time.

Seriously, since when is he such a liar?

“If you keep sneaking, I’m going to go do this in my room,” I warn.

He wrinkles his nose and aims his eyes at the TV. “Fine,” he pouts. “I’ll be good.”

Mmhm. I believe that.

Side eying Pinnochio, I pick up a pen. To write my love letter. To send to Jove.

I’ve spent the last two and a half hours procrastinating this moment. First, I made a flipbook. Then, I gave that flipbook about a thousand pockets, taking my dear, sweet time finding the perfect stickers and ephemera to fill themwith. After that, I decorated it all in a maximalist’s dream style, throwing more and more on until I couldn’t see the paper beneath.

Once I’d used up as much time on the flipbook as I could, I moved on to the stationery I’d write on, adding doodles and stickers along the borders and creating cute spots to write the greeting and the salutation.

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