Page 103 of Red Flag, Green Light

“Because. I don’t get sick of the people I love.”

She searches me, lips parted. “What if…”

“What if I fall even further? What if I can think of nothing but you? What if you become my world and my air and my reason for it all? Oh, love, it’s too late for all that.”

“What if I can never love you half as much as you love me?”

I smile, move in, and touch my lips to hers. “Then, my darling, I will have won at this game called life.”

Chapter Thirty

My future husband isn’t allowed to die on me.

Ceres

“And that is why—” Mars finishes explaining, over the phone, congested, “—I am dying and cannot attend our counseling session today.” He blows his nose. “I’ve already let Braden know.”

I find myself staring at the latest addition to my very favorite Rouge book ever and blinking ever so slightly out-of-sync. I’m supposed to be at my third pre-marriage counseling session in a few hours, then Mars and I are supposed to bike over to Party Plaza and arrange to have bouncy castles for the festival. But, instead, he’s calling me as though we don’t live next to each other and the mosey on into my house is actually an impossible trek. I say, “You’re…sick?”

“Oh good. I am lucid enough to communicate what I thought I was trying to. Yes, I’m sick. I’ll let you know if I survive. Love you, bye.”

The call drops, and I pull my phone away from my ear to stare at it. Mars is sick.

Mars is sick.

And I’m his…fiancée?

Yes, fiancée. That’s the correct term. We’re getting married, officially. We’re in counseling for it. So that means I’m his fiancée. And, also, I think that means we skipped being girlfriend and boyfriend, but…surely that doesn’t matter. What matters is…

Soup.

Soup and tea and fire honey. Essential oils.

I have…no soup, no honey, and no essential oils. All I have is tea. So much tea. I forgot I had tea. I haven’t had tea for…a while. I think I went through a minor stroke one blustery winter shopping day and added a bunch of teas to my order as my treat.

I was cold.

Then, promptly upon unloading my groceries, I think I realized I could never be quitethiscold.

“Wellness tea,” I mutter at a box with a bear on it. This will surely heal him, right? But what if he’s hungry? And if I don’t have honey, am I just going to bring him plain tea? I can’t give a sick person processed white sugar…

Why don’t I have honey or soup? What kind of person has neither honey nor soup?

“Well, Ceres…the kind of person who has been living off whatever their next-door neighbor has deigned to bring by, I think.”

Mars takes such incredible care of me, and I don’t even have a premade can of chicken noodle soup for him. Is this the kind of wife I’m going to be? A spoiled little princess wife, who neither mans the home nor brings in the most money, at least judging by the sound of his job, which…may be exaggerated given the non-specific way he told me about it. He might be a bottom-rung employee, working remotely for one of any number of million-dollar enterprises. He may have enough savings to build a library, since he doesn’t really seem to live excessively or even need to buy gas often, but that doesn’t mean he’s bringing in constant big bucks.

Maybe I will be the bread winner, after all?

But maybe that does absolutely nothing to help Mars right now when he needs soup, not money.

In a fit of delusional confidence, as prompted by blatantfrustration, I grab my purse, get in my car and…go to the store.

All by myself.

Armed with nothing but a thermos of soup and a thermos of tea—both spiked with essential oils—and a fresh-made jar of fire honey, I wait—lingering—by Mar’s bedroom window while Jove tucks in his little brother and kisses his forehead.

Feebly, Mars says, “Germs,” but Jove does not seem to care.

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