Page 100 of Red Flag, Green Light

I know that.

I’m better equipped now not to be hurt by it.

“No,” I say and swallow hard. “Just… How are you? How’s dad? I…” Am trying to mend a rift? Am trying to see if it might be safe to.

Mom sighs, heavily, and takes a tone I am all too familiar with. “Your father and I are…separated, honey. We’re in mediation for divorce right now. He’s already living with another woman, even before the paperwork’s gone through.” Disgust tinges her voice, but I recognize more than just it now. Beneath it, or perhaps lacing it, is pain. “Can you believe it? Didn’t take him long. After you left, we argued more. I think we held on for a year, then he walked out.” She loses some of the harshness, forcibly softens her tone, and says, “I’m sorry. That’s probably not what you wanted to hear.”

It’s what I would have loved to hear a decade sooner. Instead of feeling compelled to be the mediator between them, reminding them how they loved each other when they’d stopped putting effort into their own relationship ages ago. “Are you happier?” I ask, voice breaking.

My mother pauses, then sniffles, and whispers, “Yeah. Afterhe left, I thought I’d grieve more. But I was just relieved it was over. And then…then the only thing missing was you.” Fragile wisps of hope light in my mother’s voice as she asks, “Is this a chance to fix things? Are you calling because you miss home? Are you coming back to the city?”

The very idea of that tightens every muscle in my body. “No. No, I’m not coming back. I like it here.”

“You like it there in that tiny town?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Something that sounds close to disapproval hums through the line, but it might be my imagination, a projection of my own constant fear that something I’ve done is wrong. Because then what am I? Imperfect.

And worthless because of it.

I don’t know. At this point, I don’t know what part my fears play and what part my parents’ negativity crafted inside me.

Mom says, “Why did you choose to call now, after so long?”

Why?

My throat closes.Why?My reasoning is irrationally emotional and confusing. I have a friend who lost his mother and another friend who just left a home that felt more like a prison than mine ever did, and so I started thinking about mortality and regrets and the possibility that I might be strong enough to rebuild a healthier relationship with my parents…as though I am even strong enough to leave my house by myself without weeks of mental prep and breakdowns if something goes wrong…

Mars squeezes me, for reassurance, to remind me I’m safe and he’s here. So I take a deep breath, and forge on.

“Why?” I echo, hoarse. “B-because…” Iwanta relationship with you. I want to heal. I want to overcome this fear that chases me everywhere, even into tiny towns like this. I wantpeace. Instead of any of that, I say, “I’m getting married.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Silly little reluctant wife-to-be.

Mars

“Why did I say that?” Ceres, possibly, hyperventilates in my arms.

I run my fingers through her silken hair. “I need to get you a ring. Unless your necklace counts as one.”

“I can’t believe I told my mother I was getting married! Toyou. I—” she chokes on her words while I reminisce over the way she stumbled through telling her mother about her fiancé. She said I wassweet. Really sweet. An excellent listener. Kind. A great cook.

She sang my praises for ages. It was glorious.

“You need a wedding dress.” I hum, trailing a finger down the bumps of her spine. “I need a tux. And sunglasses.” Any public event one might shed a tear at requires sunglasses, for a Rogue simply does not cry in front of just anyone.

“Mars,” Ceres snaps, lifting her face to implore me.

I am unable to be implored. Pinching her chin, I smile. “Where should we go on our honeymoon, my dearest love? Somewhere quiet? Somewhere exotic? Simply the bookstore?”

Her damp eyes widen. “I…haven’t been inside a bookstore for years.”

“I know, precious.” I kiss her forehead. “That will change. My wife will enjoy bookstores again, to her heart’s content. Perhaps we can make our visits a weekly affair. Date night.”

“Bookstores every Friday…” she whispers, awed, then—unfortunately—she comes to her senses and snaps, “Mars. I’m not marrying you! I can’t be your wife. I can’t even talk to my mother without being an idiot. You need to stop being delusional; I need to wake up from this nightmare.”

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