Chapter Sixteen
Well, that escalated quickly.
Ceres
Sara : I’m just saying what if homeboy stops watching his neighbor on security cameras to gather information about how to not make a fool of himself in front of her like a desperate little mouse, and what if he stops obsessing over pushups to make his shoulders an adequate size (very funny; you will need to delete this before you publish; the humor is off genre), and what if he starts kissing her senseless instead?
Rouge : You want him to break into her house, push her into her couch, and demand she pay attention to him?
Twisting in my chair, I stare at Mars, who broke into my house, flopped onto my couch, and started playing on his phone some—oh—odd few hours ago. He marched on in, held up a lock pick kit, and said he’d coordinated things with Dream Cycles, so I could start on my next task.
He said: You’re just lucky Tristan doesn’t hate me as much as some others. Anyway.
He’s been on the couch ever since.
I face my computer.
Sara : What if he researches how to pick locks and just barges in one day to push her into her couch and kiss her?
Rouge : Would you enjoy that?
I glance at Mars. Dark hair. Tall. Broad. Confidently insecure. Kind. Insane.
I like his smile. Can’t say I’ve thought about what it tastes like before, though.
If, however, he barged in one day, twisted my desk chair, leaned over it, and took my face in his hand, I am not certain I’d object.
For research and curiosity’s sake, at least. The only guys I’ve ever dated have been… boring. And liars.
I’d greatly prefer a bad boy who tells me what he wants over a nice guy trying to beat around the bush as though what men want is any secret.
Sara : I’d like it if he brought ropes, dragged her to her bedroom, and you know. Forced her to listen to him obsess over her. In detail. At length. While kissing every revealed scrap of her flesh until her mind is so boggled with wanting him, she can’t help but whisper his name as a plea.
Sara : That’s what I’d enjoy.
Sara : Please write that.
Rouge sends me a curse.
Rouge : No.
Sara : Good men are in such short supply these days.
Rouge : I’m positive you just described the most crimson flag possible.
Sara : Red flags are pretty.
I would know. I’m planning a festival around them, dang it.
Rouge : In fiction , red flags are pretty. You’d pepper spray someone who did what you just described in real life.
Sara : Depends on who’s doing it.
Rouge : In the context of this story, the characters are practical strangers. Please tell me you’d pepper spray an actual stranger trying to do anything like that to you.
My lip juts.
Sara : The fun thing about editing for you, Rouge, is that I don’t have to be the voice of reason in the relationship.
Rouge : It just feels like you’ve forgotten that our dear male lead is a short king with modest shoulders.
Sara : He’s working on the shoulders.
Rouge : He can’t work on the height.
“Mars.”
Mars curses and drops his phone on his face. Wincing, he meets my eyes. “Yes…?”
“How tall are you?”
His lips part. “Six-foot-one…and a quarter.”
“Stand up.”
He does, and I follow, approaching him.
Laying my palm flat against my head, I measure out to the tip of his nose. “Hm.”
His throat bobs. “What…is happening?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I tilt my head back, slightly, and discover that it’s not really hard to look up at him, but he also is clearly not my height. I splay my fingers in the air before me. “Palm.”
His throat bobs again, but he obliges, pressing his hand to mine Tarzan style. Warmth melts into my skin as I stare. His hands are bigger. Significantly so. His fingers are long, slender, the sort of fingers that make everyone with a pulse bring up piano.
I’d prefer these fingers playing guitar or violin, or pinching a lit match…
“Huh,” I murmur.
“What is happening?” he repeats softly.
“Work stuff. Don’t worry about it.” Pulling my hand back, I return to my desk.
Sara : Any chance you can make him six-foot-one…and a quarter?
Moments pass; Rouge’s message bubbles appear and disappear, but Mars speaks before she replies.
“Ceres?”
I turn. “Yeah?”
Still standing, he says, “You…like Jove, right?”
I arch a brow. Against his wild black hair, his skin normally looks paler.
Right now, though, it’s not. “Why is it so important to you that I like your brother? I like both of you. You’re good neighbors.
Quiet. Comfortable. Unobtrusive…even when you literally walk into my living room.
I appreciate knowing that if anything were to happen, people like you two are next door. ”
Mars’s spring green eyes widen and catch sunlight before he blinks. “Wait.” His hand lifts, trembling, before it plunges into his hair. “I thought… I was asking if you liked Jove.”
I stare at him, wondering if I should encourage him to sit back down. He seems a little…sick. Unstable. Red in the face. “Yes? I do like Jove.”
His tongue flicks out and wets his lips. “No, Ceres. I mean romantically .”
Accidentally, I snort. “Um.”
The hues in Mars’s face deepen.
“Are you trying to set me up with your brother?”
“Absolutely not,” he blurts.
Leaning back in my chair, I consider it. “Fabulous shoulders on the man.”
Mars cusses, and his fist has clenched when I glance his way again.
“No, Mars, I don’t like- like your brother. I don’t know him well enough, but I don’t think he’s the right archetype for me. He seems a little…” My attention drifts across my ceiling. “Unaware? I’m more a mastermind girlie. I want the full self-awareness and schemes and power plays. Jupiter—”
“ Jove ,” Mars chokes out.
“—yeah, Jove seems too sweet. I completely want a toxic relationship. Amp up the manipulation to Mach nine thousand. Just think of the most unhealthy thing you can imagine, and that’s my type.
Which…obviously…is why I’m single. My tastes collided with my working brain cell, and my working brain cell sent them straight to jail. ” I mutter, “Stupid thing.”
Silence penetrates my living room, so I peer back at my uninvited guest. He sinks into the couch, deflating there, eyes fixated on the coffee table covered in plants before him, where his lock pick set rests among the ferns.
Normally—or, well, for the past few hours, anyway, since I’m unprepared to suggest that having Mars in my living room while I work is normal —it doesn’t feel like he’s here.
I’m just as comfortable with the lunatic hanging around as I am when I’m alone.
In this moment, however, something heavy lingers in the air, constricting in my lungs, so I do what I usually do.
I say something stupid.
Which will inevitably result in my learning deep dark secrets and unasked-for trauma.
“What’s your type?” I say. “You are…single, right? I don’t suspect that any significant other would appreciate you breaking into the home of another single woman around your age.
Assuming, of course, you’re into women.” For all I know, he’s in a long-distance relationship with Brian, which is why that man never fell for Amelia.
Would make sense. She is…not subtle. And no doubt neither were the million other women that Brian never went out with in high school according to her.
Wow.
It makes so much sense.
They’re gay and together. A man everyone seems to avoid and a mailman. It’s a story. It’s even poetic. Brian’s not just into mail ; he’s into males .
That’s not unadorable at all. I’m obsessed with the wordplay. It’s a everyone hates him but you sort of take on the trope.
“Please stop creating a fanfiction about my love life in your head.” Mars covers half his burning face with a hand. “I’m single. I’m straight.”
“Pity. I had a whole speculation about you and Brian.”
“ Brian? ” he spouts. “Why, pray tell, would you put me with Brian of all people?”
“I don’t know many people, and I know even fewer people who also know you. This conversation has devolved some, though. What’s your type if not short, blond, and obsessed with mail?”
He refuses to meet my eyes. “I like tall girls.”
“With broad shoulders?”
A fragile smile wobbles to his lips. “Sorry, no. We don’t have the same type in opposing genders.”
“Would have been funny if we did.” I smile.
His gaze catches on my face, and tension pours out of him. Starstruck, he stares. Soft, he says, “Yeah…funny.” Coming to his senses, he shakes his head and continues, “I like girls with long hair.”
“Physical traits are boring. Give me some character stuff.”
“Character stuff, huh?” He blows out a breath.
My nose scrunches. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who doesn’t care about anything beyond looks.”
“What else is there?” he asks.
“ The Swan Princess reference. Cute.” I face my computer again and find that Rouge still hasn’t responded.
Clearly, I’ve insulted her and now she hates me.
So much for professionalism. This is what happens when I get too close to clients.
I start acting like an idiot. Although, I’ve been acting like an idiot with her for about four years…
It took the first one for me to get comfortable, and it was all downhill from there.
“I think…probably…” Mars says, “…my type is absolutely insane.”
“It’s nice that you know your standards are unattainable.”
“Not insane like unattainable . I mean insane like… mental . I like girls that are crazy.”
“Mars,” I state, “that narrows down nothing. I’ve never once met a sane woman in my life.”
His throat clears. “I do mean, on some level, it has to be…clinical.”
“Clinically insane?”
“Yep.” He’s gone back to lying across all my cushions, one leg thrown over the armrest, phone in hand, face still blazing red. “I want someone who needs me and can’t judge me because they’re just as mentally unstable. I’m interested in a codependent relationship laced with desperation.”