Page 99 of Red Flag, Green Light

Chuckling, he reveals the tiny key inches in front of my phone, pinched between his fingers. “Sorry to disappoint. I keep it on me at all times. I like to pretend I’m the only one with a key to your heart.”

My phone screen darkens, so I lower the stressy thing in favor of looking at Mars. In the dimming light, his profile maintains an edge of ethereal beauty that feels altogether both comforting and surreal.

Nothing except him seems tangible right now.

Only he could bring me to this point, this precipice, this moment when what once was impossible becomes conceivable.

Only he could take me from panic attacks at bike shops to biking all over town and talking to several groups of strangers in a single day.

“What are you most afraid of?” he asks, tucking the key out of sight.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what I’m trying to obtain. I just can’t shake this feeling that my parents didn’t treat me the way Amelia’s treat her. I can’t shake this feeling that while they didn’t give me what I needed, they did try to love me in their own way. I spent a lot of time being the emotionally mature one. I adapted to fill shoes too big for me as a child. I learned to solve problems for other people and give my energy for the sake of peace on every front. I was raised to ignore my boundaries and needs for the sake of others’ wants. But…noneof that was intentional ontheir part. They were coping with their own experiences.” I free a breath, draw my legs up, and hold them. “I knew something was wrong. I knew I had to get away. So I ran. Here. And I wasn’t strong enough to look back. I never knew how to put any of the pain into words. Until now. And I just… I can’t stop thinking that maybe things would have been different if I’d known how to communicate how I was being hurt. I don’t want to regret not trying. I don’t want to regret giving up the time we could have when…when not everyone gets to choose the time they get.”

Softly, Mars says, “You don’t have to do this because I lost my mom.”

“I know. It’s not guilt propelling me. It’s…” Closing my eyes, I dwell on the sensation of a teardrop skating down my cheek, and say “…hope.”

Mars’s breath fans across my neck as he bundles me up, ever closer, and murmurs, “I am here. You are not alone. You will never be alone again. No matter where you go, I will find you. And no matter how many doors you put between us, I will open them.” He kisses my flesh. “You are mine. And I am yours. And your future, little goddess? It is full of love. Regardless of what happens. Regardless of whatever choices you make.It is full of love.”

Resting my head against his broad shoulder, I fight back the swells of emotion creating storms inside my heart. “I love the way you threaten me, villain.”

“Good.” His hand slips around mine, lifting my phone into view again. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I may never be, which is why I wake up my phone and press call now.

The first ring echoes in my chest for the longest moments of my life. My racing heart fills my body with so much heat I can barely breathe.Please pick upbattles withplease, please don’t pick up. My mind fights against itself, each thundering soundchoking oxygen from my very cells.

Mars holds me together, arms so tight around my body I’m likely to wake to bruises, but I don’t care. It’s the only thing keeping me from ending the call and throwing my phone at the netting ahead. Or maybe over it. Into the bushes. Where I will never again be able to find it.

The line clicks, and my stomach plummets.

“Ceres?” my mother questions, cautious,hopeful.

My heartthuds.

Tears fill my eyes, and I bite down so hard on my lip, I taste blood.

A shaking breath pours into my ear, and my mother—my mother—repeats, “Ceres? Is that you, baby?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I croak, “Yeah.”

“Honey, is everything okay?” Desperation hardens her voice, pricking my mind with memories of howafraidthat tone would always make me. I always had tofix it. It meant she was upset. Usually at my father, but I always felt like it was atme. “Are you safe? Do you need me to come get you?”

“I’m—” It hurts to speak. Every word suffocates me. “—fine.”

“Fine?” Incredulous, broken, wet. “Baby, it sounds like you’re crying. That’s notfine.”

“You’re crying, too,” I whisper.

A fragile, agonizing laugh. “Of course I am. I haven’t heard your voice in three years.”

“I’m sorry. I…” Didn’t know how to talk to you. Didn’t want to keep hurting. Didn’t want you to think I was blaming you. Didn’t know how to ask for help without becoming a burden when all my worth came from being the easy, good child who never caused problems, never brought drama, never needed…anything. “I’m sorry. I miss you. I—” My voice cracks. “—love you. I don’t know what to say. I don’t think you’ve ever been very proud of what I decided to do with my life, but I’m…I’m doingwell.”

“Not proud?” Mom whispers. “Honey…I’m beyond proud. I don’t understand the particular genre you chose to get into, if you’re still in it, but I’ve always been proud of you. You started your own business and you bought ahousewhen you were twenty-three. Of course I’m proud.”

Sagging in on myself, I plunge my fingers into my hair and whisper an intelligent, “Oh.”

“Did you need something?” Mom asks, because for as long as I can remember, relationships to my mother have always been transactional. Clear give and take. And giving more to a child, even if it was hers, never quite sat well with her worldview.

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