Page 93 of Red Flag, Green Light

Alas.

Heartless, Mars zips circles around me on his brilliant copper bicycle, sun catching the shining paint and making it glimmer in the rays. “You’re doing great.”

I’m doing slow, cautious. I’m doingthere’s a car, and we’re pulling off into the grass, because I will not be the bike that gives that driver anxiety about whether or not it’s safe to pass on these curving roads. I am doingnotgreat.

“It’s hot,” I complain.

“It isn’t.”

It isn’t. It’s barely reaching seventy today, and I’m convinced that summer won’t be here until Flag Day.

“I’m tired,” I whine.

“All the more reason to keep going.”

My nose scrunches. “How do you calculate that one?”

“If you’re tired after we’ve barely been out here for ten minutes, your body desperately needs the exercise.”

I huff. “You’re going to have to carry me back home.”

“I’ll put you in my basket, then walk back for your bike.”

“You can leave my bike wherever I tumble off it, thanks.”

Riding up behind me, Mars matches my modest speed for a benevolent moment, and says, “I want to bike with you. I want you to enjoy it.”

“Is this a make-or-break the relationship sort of thing?”

It takes him a moment to think about, which tells me, yes, it is. Wild. Unnerving. Don’t like that.

I straighten myself up. “You know what? It’s probably good for me, so even if I don’tloveit, I should still make an effort todoit. I get plenty of exercise moving stuff in my garden, but there’s not a ton of walking involved. I bet my legs are practically on their way to atrophy. You’re saving me, Mars. What would I do without you? Be unable to walk from my desk to my front door for my book orders, that’s what.”

“No, it isn’t a make-or-break,” he answers, much too late for me to believe him. “I think I’m too far gone for anything to make-or-break this. You’d have to…I don’t know…stab Jove or something for me to reconsider wanting you the way I do.”

“I hope you know I would neveractuallyflirt with your brother. I’m just obsessed with the way your eye twitches when you’re jealous.”

Soft, Mars’s brows dip as a smile pours over his face. “What in the world am I going to do with you?”

“Lock me up in your basement so I don’t have to exercise anymore?” I provide, perhaps hopeful.

Crushing all my dreams, he says, “We don’t have basements, Ceres.”

While I’m contemplating how expensive it might be to have a basement put into an already-built house, the first food truck comes into view. Thankfully, I display something akin to grace when I stop my bike and dismount at the window.

The burly man throwing together burger meat in the backlifts his chin in a coarse greeting before eyeing Mars and muttering, “Whadda ya want?”

My mind glitches, forgetting everything I’m supposed to be doing right now. I stammer, “Uh…” and take in the menu. Burgers. Fries. Onion rings. Classic American food. Should I get some fries? Would that warm him up to the proposal I have to present? Is it rude not to buy something before making a request?

Smile. Don’t forget to smile. And look invested. This is the most amazing food truck display you have ever seen, and you’re incredibly invested in this man’s workmanship.

Mars, who had been doing donuts in the lot, glides his bike toward me with the grace of an angel while balancing on a single pedal. Stepping off like a super model, he stops and braces an elbow atop my shoulder. “Hiya, Rich.”

“Mars.”

“We’ve got a proposition for you.”

Rich arches a brow.

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