Page 8 of Red Flags Only

“Generally, in our genre, the sexual tension is what overcomes the whole enemies deal. Theyhateeach other, but each other is just sohot. Hard to hate a hottie. Even when they’ve committed atrocities beyond reasonablebelief. Romance, as a genre, isn’t realistic at all. You sneak in an emotional connection one time, and – suddenly – the expectation shifts to love.” His cards fly between his hands. “Heck, our readers root for side characters that make eye contactone timewith a desperation that results in hate mail when we don’t write their stories. You just havemomentsand then make themmomentieras you proceed through the book.” Cards stop moving. Mars pauses. His eyes find mine. “Wait. I’m sorry. Did you say we’re going fromValentine’s DaytoFlag Dayin a manner that suggests a natural, and even exponential, romantic growth between the two?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “I read about it online. Flag Day’s the most romantic holiday there is. All that fabric, waving in the wind. I’m not a girlie, so I can’t explain the intricacies of how it appeals to them, but I trust my sources. And my sources confirm: the girliesloveFlag Day.”

Mars does not return to shuffling his cards. “Jovey… what the flag?”

I blink, green eyes wide as they meet his incredulous ones. “What the… flag?” I ask.

His gaze holds mine, then skims upward. Thoughts flit between his eyes, calculations devolving into solutions. Once the moment dissolves, he’s shuffling again. “Okay. Right. Yes. Flag Day. I can see that, especially when I remember I’m also not a girlie. The girlies have spoken, and who am I to challenge them? Unworthy. I can, however, challenge you. Because it seems like you’re trying to plunge me into endless ages of boredom by stealing my job.”

“I’m not trying to steal your job,” I reply, rubbing a hand down my face. “But I make it unduly difficult when I could, with a little effort, make it easier on you. You dosomuch, Mars. So unbelievably much. It isn’t right and it isn’t fair, and I really,reallywant it to be right and fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war, babe. You handle the parts that are hard for me. I handle the parts that are hard for you. We could argue about who gives more or less, but in the end it doesn’t matter. We’re giving, because we love each other, and this is how we take care of each other.”

“Okay,” I say. “Then let me take care of you how I feel I need to, if it’s all the same.”

He’s staring at me again. With those scheming eyes. Once they close, he sighs, and smiles, and stands. “If torturing yourself makes you happy, far be it from me to stop you. I’ll just give up something else so it all stays balanced in my brain.”

I frown, not loving the idea of that. “What are you giving up now?”

Flicking the ace of hearts out between his fingers, Mars sets it before me, rustles my hair, and says, “Control.”

…know you don’t like Chrissy, so you’ll be thrilled to hear that after this letter, you’ll no longer have to hear – read? – about her. She’s finally realized, as I’m sure you will eventually, that I actually do quite suck as a person. So. That’s what that is.

Sorry for the wet spots on this letter. They’re on account of my tears, you see, because even knowing that I deserve this, it still hurts. Feelings are pesky like that, you know?

Unrelated, surely… I hope you don’t feel like I’m trapping you in this friendship. I hope you know that you don’t have to keep writing me if you don’t want to. I’d never want to obligate you into doing something you don’t want. I love you far too much for that. I’d much rather you be happy. Even if that happiness is without me. I don’t want to ever make you feel stuck.

I’m sorry for the short letter. I’ll add some extra goodies to make up for it – I found a whole section of comma butterflies at the craft store last time I was there. The owner, Margaret, said she ordered them special for someone, but I convinced her to let me buy them all. Well, bribed her, more like. I paid triple what she was asking. Worth it, though.Soworth it, especially if you love them as much as I do.

Love you as big as Lester Halloway’s cat,

Lyra ♥

I’d like to throw Lester Halloway’s enormously fat cat at Chrissy’s stupid, ugly head. Right after I shake some sense into my sweet, adorable, lovely little idiot of a friend.

I forgo my usual letter-making process – a processwhich involves creating a multi-pocketed flipbook covered in stickers and scrapbook-esque other decorations to hold all of the letters, stickers, papers, and random other bits I’ve collected to send to her – and head straight to my stationery drawer to pull out a pale peach sheet of paper to write my response.

Typically, the letter is the very last thing I do before sealing and sending off my correspondence to Lyra.

Typically, Lyra isn’t implying that I’d be happier without her in my life.

Without prepping the paper – not a sticker or ripped piece of ephemera to be found – I put pen to paper.

My dearest Lyra, the music of my soul, the beating of my heart,

What. The. Flag?

Chapter Four

Small town run-ins! How on trope of me.

Jove

Lyra’s here.

It’s only been a day since I replied to her letter, chastising her for suggesting that friendship with her is anything but glorious and checking in on her mental state after Chrissy The Moron stomped all over her already trampled self-worth. I couldn’t sleep last night, lying in bed wondering if Lyra was okay – if she was sleeping, or if instead she was lying in her own bed, wetting her pillow with the same sort of tears that wet her letter. Wondering if she really believes that I’d ever let go of our friendship, a friendship that means so much to me that I’ve spent years getting tattoos to commemorate my favorite parts of her, inking her into my skin the same way she’s inked herself into my heart through two decades of correspondence.

Our friendship started in third grade as part of a school assignment to write letters semi-anonymously as pen pals to kids in other third grade classes in the county. We were assigned to each other randomly and instructed to introduce ourselves in order to practice writing, reading, social skills, and the art of letter writing, which our teachers assured us would be a life-long needed skill foreveryone.

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