Page 34 of Red Flag, Green Light

“Are you paying attention?” Mars, who isnotmy girl, interrupts my usual after-launch stalking tendencies. Rouge just had her Valentine’s Day book explode onto the charts, taking the universe by storm, and all I really want to do is refresh the Amazon sale page every few hours.

But, alas, life had other plans.

Dragging my attention off my phone—even as I hit the refresh button again—I stare at my unwelcome, yet persistent, guest. And, well, as of today,boss. He has set up a corkboard in my living room. He has brought tiny red flags, an array of pictures, and yarn.

I don’t know what I’m looking at, because I stopped paying attention roughly three seconds afterwhateverhe was creating began to look like a chaotic dumpster fire. I ask, “Why are the flags red?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“This festival is for Flag Day, a holiday celebrating the adoption of the American flag. Shouldn’t there be…” I scan the display of criss-crossing yarn, pictures, and tiny red tacks. “…a single American flag up there?”

“Red ones are my favorite.”

Wow. I guess we have something in common.

“Also, we’re not focusing on the patriotic side of Flag Day.”

I’m sorry. What? We’re not focusing on theonlyside of Flag Day? It’s a patriotic holiday. That’s the beginning and end of the holiday.

He faces his mess of a corkboard and steeples his fingers. “We’re focusing on theromance.”

“The…romance?”

“Yes.”

“Of Flag Day?”

“Correct.”

I glance at my phone, just to make sure that Rouge’s book rank hasn’t changed within the past five seconds, then I lock it and set it beside me on the couch. “I do not understand.”

Mars fixes me with a chillingly sharp smile. “That is because you haven’t been paying attention, or listening, to me, at all.” Heaving a sigh, he slaps his hand to the board like a deranged character in a cartoon, and declares, “Flag Day! Most romantic holiday of the year.” He murmurs, “Allegedly.”

“Allegedly?” I ask.

“Hush. I’m educating you.”

I can actively feel myself losing brain cells.

I hope I still know how to fix a dangling participle after this.

He plows on, little regard for me or my career. “Valentine’s Day occurs in two days, on thefourteenth, doesn’t it?”

I lace my fingers together against my skirt. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call mesir.” He stabs a reprimanding finger my way. “Now, what date isFlag Day?”

My attention drifts, and it occurs to me I do not know. I put negative effort into this, probably because I have negative clue what it even means tohavea Flag Day festival. No one celebrates Flag Day except, possibly, Sheldon Cooper.

I had expected this morning’s orientation to be of the clarifying sort—not more proof that my next-door neighbor isnuts.

Mars’s body deflates. “Seriously, Ceres? You don’t know when Flag Day is?”

“Hold on.” I retrieve my phone.

“You aren’t Googling this. Please tell me you aren’t Googling this.”

“I’m not Googling this.”

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