Page 29 of Red Flag, Green Light

As my monitors fill with security footage, I free a tight breath.

“Ceres, Ceres, Ceres,” I mumble, “you have not moved a muscle, have you?”

She remains exactly where she was a few hours ago when I went through my Sunday morning routine—wake up, morning pushups, check on my little goddess, answer emails, respond to social media comments.

Whenever Ceres has a meal, she brings her dishes to her desk and leaves them there for a minimum of five hours. Presently, there are no dirty dishes to be found, which means she has not eaten today, and I’m almost positive all she ate yesterday was her frozen hot chocolate.

“We have got to do something about your self-care priorities, beautiful. You’re worrying your future husband…” Glancing at my own desk, I find the dirty dish leftover from what was meant to be Jove’s carrot cake yesterday and recognize I haven’t eaten anything since, either. I clear my throat. “Okay, so we were made for each other, but I need to do better for the both of us.”

With a sigh, I stand, cut my fingers through my hair, and march the stupid plate to the dishwasher. Upon the counter, untouched, sits the remainder of yesterday’s carrot cake. Since carrot cake always tastes best fresh, I make a point of only making small cakes. And I make those small cakes a perfectly reasonable number of times. Which equates to roughly one cake every other day.

I have been doing this for years.

And, for years, Jovey has his slice with his milk while I have my slice with my chocolate milk.

“What in the world did you do to the poor guy, Ly-Ly?” I murmur, clear my throat, and call, “Babe?”

No response.

“Babe, do you want to have carrot cake breakfast together?” At half-past two….but ignore that.

Silence.

I cock a hip against the marble counter and fold my arms. “I know it’s a super, super rare event, us having carrot cake breakfast together.” Still nothing. Although this time it makes sense, seeing as we have carrot cake breakfast together so often it’s ridiculous to reply to my suggestion of otherwise. “Maybe we can shake things up, though?” Maybe I’ll even havenormalmilk.

Maybe my tendency to never, ever, drink normal milk is why my shoulders did not grow properly. Chocolate milk stunts them.

What an absolutely reasonable and logical thought to have. I’m certain scientific studies have been done that would back my hypothesis tenfold.

Pity that normal milk is disgusting.

Despondent and neglected, I jut my lip, cast off my reasons for not being clingy and bothering Ceres three days in a row, then pack up the remaining cake before grabbing my half-full carton of chocolate milk and heading next door. Ceres, intelligent as ever, moved her spare house key from the potted plant to a more secure location after I invaded the other day. Pity for her, I watched her do it. It was so cute, I even replayed the footage about seventeen times.

And I absolutely wasn’t having a breakdown while I studied her expression, searching for any sign that it was a joke, either. What gives you that idea?

Swinging her front door open, I drawl, “Honey, I’m home.”

A sweet little cuss explodes from the living room, and Ceres wheels her chair back so she can look down the long, straight hall toward where I’m standing in her foyer.

Her brows knit. Her gaze cuts toward her kitchen.

I wonder, absently, if she’s considering offering me lemonade again, so I lift my chocolate milk carton. “I brought my own drink this time.”

Her attention fits itself back on me. “Oh.” She blinks. “That’s…great.”

I stalk up the hall, plop the carrot cake onto her coffee table, and fall into her sofa. It’s the kind of sofa that swallows you up and makes you never want to leave. Perfectly cozy and warm, her sofa is the shade of damp earth, which ties her home’s main area together and complements the many plants she has swarming among her bookshelves. Blooming ivies crawl along the back, washing over the armrest on my left in a lush waterfall as I twist off the cap of my chocolate milk.

Ceres looks at the document on her computer, then at me. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I thought we started working together tomorrow.”

“We do.”

Two priceless moments pass, then Ceres—my dear, dear Ceres—pushes back a perfect lock of her red hair and scoots back into her desk. “Thank goodness. I’m not done with this yet.”

She then proceeds to ignore me. For fifteen minutes.

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