Page 104 of Red Flag, Green Light

He replies, “Lyragerms,” and exits.

I wait a minute or so to see if he’s coming back, then I take a deep breath, find even more nerve, and pull the screen out of Mars’s cracked window.

When it creaks as I open it wider, Mars fixes his bleary eyes on me. Silent, he watches my graceful infiltration, which does not involve my skirt catching on the sill and nearly sending me careening to the floor at all.

Once I’m upright and somewhat steady, I blow out a breath and face my pathetic fiancé, who is meant to be man-fluing in a pile of tissues, awaiting death, and overjoyed to see someone come to his rescue.

Instead, his tissues have neatly collected themselves in a trashcan by his bed, he appears to have a laptop open to a document likely for work beside him, and it might be my imagination, but he seems to have paled further upon seeing me. Hyper-discreet, without tearing his eyes off me, Mars sets a singular finger above his laptop camera and ever-so-gently pushes the lid down to close it.

Odd. Must be hiding those million-dollar secrets. Approaching with my sick-healing supplies, I say, “If we’re going to be married soon, I should probably know more about your job. We’ll have to address house finances and how we’llhandle the money with Braden soon, and I don’t love the idea of not knowing in more detail what exactly it is you do before he’s talking to us about it.” I hand him the tea thermos first. “Husbands and wives shouldn’t have secrets like that, and you know I’ll support you in pretty much anything, especially if you’re the consigliere for a mafia.”

“I’m…not the consigliere for a mafia,” he says, hoarse.

“You sound terrible.”

“I’m ill.”

I hand him the thermos of soup, freeing up my hands well enough to open the jar of fire honey and set the lid on his nightstand. Procuring a napkin-wrapped spoon from my skirt pocket, I dish out a serving. “Open up.”

“What is that?”

“The cure for illness.”

Wary but obedient, Mars opens his mouth, and I shove the helping down his throat. I smile as his face contorts and he croaks, “Why is it spicy?”

“Because that’s how you know it’s working.”

Gagging, he grips a thermos in each hand. “What evil potions are these?”

“Wellness tea and chicken noodle soup.” I will not tell him about the essential oils unless he specifically asks what’s wrong with either thing.

Nose wrinkled, he untwists the cap for the tea first and sniffs. Then he sips. Then he relaxes, momentarily. He’s tense again in a moment, as though recalling that he’s not supposed to be relaxed right now. “Ceres, you shouldn’t be here. You’ll catch my cold.”

“I bought immune-boosters and took a few like vodka shots before coming over, don’t worry.”

Tension escapes him once more, and he stares at me. “You…bought? It’s been about twenty minutes since I called. Walmartshoppers don’t shop that fast.”

I tangle my fingers together. “I did the shopping. Ran in. Dodged people. Self-checked. Ran out. Brandialmostgot me. Appeared out of nowhere, like a wraith, and just barely got a question about how our relationship is going out of her mouth before I said I was in a hurry and bolted by.” Brandi probably hates me now. But also. “How does Brandi know about our relationship?”

“She saw us together at the store once and made her own assumptions, I presume.”

“Why is shealwaysat the store? She’s like a freaky extroverted jumpscare, lying in wait to…to…”

“Be kind and uplifting and genuinely a sweet person?”

“Talkto you.” I plop myself down on the foot of Mars’s bed.

He sips his tea. “Ah.” His expression softens. “I’m so proud of you.”

“It was terrifying.”

“But you did it.”

“I almost threw up.”

“But you did it.”

“I just kept calling myself a useless idiot who couldn’t even do the simplest thing for you and let spite propel my footsteps. Fear was not a powerful enough adversary against shame.”

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