Page 56 of Red Flag, Green Light

“What’s your type?” I say. “You are…single, right? I don’t suspect that any significant other would appreciate you breaking into the home of another single woman around your age. Assuming, of course, you’re into women.” For all I know, he’s in a long-distance relationship with Brian, which is why that man never fell for Amelia. Would make sense. She is…not subtle. And no doubt neither were the million other women that Brian never went out with in high school according to her.

Wow.

It makes so much sense.

They’re gay and together. A man everyone seems to avoidand a mailman. It’s a story. It’s even poetic. Brian’s not just intomail; he’s intomales.

That’s not unadorable at all. I’m obsessed with the wordplay. It’s aeveryone hates him but yousort of take on the trope.

“Please stop creating a fanfiction about my love life in your head.” Mars covers half his burning face with a hand. “I’m single. I’m straight.”

“Pity. I had a whole speculation about you and Brian.”

“Brian?” he spouts. “Why, pray tell, would you put me withBrianof all people?”

“I don’t know many people, and I know even fewer people who also know you. This conversation has devolved some, though. What’s your type if not short, blond, and obsessed with mail?”

He refuses to meet my eyes. “I like tall girls.”

“With broad shoulders?”

A fragile smile wobbles to his lips. “Sorry, no. We don’t have the same type in opposing genders.”

“Would have been funny if we did.” I smile.

His gaze catches on my face, and tension pours out of him. Starstruck, he stares. Soft, he says, “Yeah…funny.” Coming to his senses, he shakes his head and continues, “I like girls with long hair.”

“Physical traits are boring. Give me some character stuff.”

“Character stuff, huh?” He blows out a breath.

My nose scrunches. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who doesn’t care about anything beyond looks.”

“What else is there?” he asks.

“The Swan Princessreference. Cute.” I face my computer again and find that Rouge still hasn’t responded. Clearly, I’ve insulted her and now she hates me. So much for professionalism. This is what happens when I get too close to clients. I start acting like an idiot. Although, I’ve been acting likean idiot with her for about four years… It took the first one for me to get comfortable, and it was all downhill from there.

“I think…probably…” Mars says, “…my type is absolutely insane.”

“It’s nice that you know your standards are unattainable.”

“Not insane likeunattainable. I mean insane like…mental. I like girls that are crazy.”

“Mars,” I state, “that narrows down nothing. I’ve never once met a sane woman in my life.”

His throat clears. “I do mean, on some level, it has to be…clinical.”

“Clinically insane?”

“Yep.” He’s gone back to lying across all my cushions, one leg thrown over the armrest, phone in hand, face still blazing red. “I want someone who needs me and can’t judge me because they’re just as mentally unstable. I’m interested in a codependent relationship laced with desperation.”

What I’m hearing is that we’re both single because we’re smart enough to know our twisted wishes aren’t healthy to pursue. It’s nice to learn I’m not alone. “Are you a caretaker?”

“Veritably.”

“Me too.”

“I know.” His eyes pull off his phone for a second and linger on mine.

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