Chapter Twenty-one
Just call me insecurity.
Mars
My brother’s dear Ly-Ly is a tense ball of nerves, but I do appreciate that she didn’t scream and slam her door in my face, even though I am here egregiously after the hours her fine plant nursery operates.
Behind me, apparently a safe distance away, Lyra squeaks, “I— Can I help you find anything in particular?”
I turn, spinning a card between my fingers, then tuck it seamlessly away from view. “How many different kinds of orchids do you have?”
She blinks, faces her orchids, and provides me with a confident, “Uh…”
“I’ll take one of each.”
While she rings up my order, I wonder if there are any discounts reserved for me considering she put my brother in a comatose state after not writing him a letter for roughly three million days.
“That’ll be—” she begins.
“You used to like Brian, didn’t you?”
Red flares to life in her cheeks, and her mouth opens, if only to close again a moment later.
“Man, that guy and his mail.” I lean against the dark wood counter.
“Even I sometimes send letters, just to make Brian proud. Letters are great, and even if we absolutely do not like-like Brian anymore , we should still glean excellent behaviors from men like him.” Sniffing, I kick off the counter.
“Anyway. Three hundred dollars, was it?”
Lyra’s gaze flicks down to her register, then back up to me. “No?”
I hand her three hundred dollars, even though the action physically makes me shudder. Seriously, I’m not the one allergic to money; that’s Jovey. But, still, supporting small businesses who will join the family one day feels like an investment…
Besides, it’s what Jovey would want. Until he realizes that married couples share funds, anyway. Then this poor lass is up the creek.
But, hey, maybe the guilt that I overpaid today will propel her to never ever, ever stop writing Jove his letters.
I don’t know. I’m not a master manipulator or anything.
I just can’t bear to see him as upset as he was before he stopped by here yesterday.
The man came home last night looking more alive than I felt. Which is saying something incredible.
While my bedding tumbled through the washing machine, he actually was cognitively aware enough to stop and ask why I was doing laundry on not laundry day.
Do you understand what I’m saying, Lyra? I beam into the woman’s eyes. You alone hold together the scraps of my brother’s sanity. I’m gonna need you to be responsible with this great power.
Swallowing hard, Lyra shudders and tucks the money into her pocket before helping me bring my orchids to my bike. After I set them all up in my basket, I wave amicably at a woman who better become my sister within the calendar year, then I set off to proceed with my marvelous scheme.
A few trips to Walmart’s holiday section later, and I’m nearly prepped for Ceres’s birthday.
All that’s left is for me to make her carrot cake tomorrow evening, so it’ll be as fresh as possible.
But, for now…I must wait.
And “work.”
If sharing snippets of my diary is considered “work,” anyway. If it keeps my future wife fed, maybe it counts. Who knows?
Rouge : Treat for you.
Sara : I require a meal.
Rouge : You’ll take what I give you.
Sara : Like a good girl?
I sigh and turn toward my bed. Ceres’s birthday basket and other birthday prep stretches across my comforter and onto the flooring in a pastel collection that does nothing to hide the memories of what happened in that very spot just two days ago.
It took everything in me to stop myself from trying everything, and if she hadn’t stopped me first, I don’t know if I would have been able to.
Like a very good girl, Ceres. The best, perhaps, to ever live.
I love her so dearly. Even though she’s…like this.
My eye twitches as I get an email notification that alerts me someone is commenting in my document. Already. Two seconds after I told her more was ready. At a mere glance, it’s clear she does not approve of the story’s current progression.
Which happens to have my shy boy male lead knocking on his love’s door, getting scared, and running away before she can answer.
Rouge : Why are you already commenting obscenities?
Sara : Why isn’t your MMC waltzing into her house like he owns the place? What is this nonsense?
Rouge : He’s not going to barge in and tie her up. Sorry to disappoint you.
Sara : He could and should.
Rouge : *shouldn’t
Sara : I typed what I typed.
Defeated, I delete the several paragraphs of snack I managed to throw together and begin again. This time, my male lead appears to have a plan. He doesn’t, though, and neither do I.
Rouge : What if I write a book without crimes this time?
Rouge : Wouldn’t that be fresh and fun and new?
Sara : What if it’s the middle of the night, and he kisses her awake, before kidnapping her?
…
Rouge : Girl.
Rouge : Would you like that?
Sara : Yes.
Sara : 100%
Bet.
I find myself sighing again, but this time I’m smiling through it. That is, until she messages again.
Sara : Are we going to talk about how this book has been so difficult for you to write?
Ha. As if.
Sara : And how it’s not quite what you normally write, by roughly a landslide?
Ha ha. Wild, that. To think, my drafting style doesn’t match my brother’s. I am well out of my depth. This is significantly above my paygrade.
Rouge : What do I normally write?
Sara : Confident male leads who charge in with alpha complexes, convinced their opinions are correct and their ladies should fall into line, before finding their woman’s petulance and refusal to abide endearing to the point of adoration.
Sara : You know, genre standard.
This woman has got to stop coming for my self-esteem.
Rouge : My MMC is not like other boys. That’s a very common trope.
Sara : In YA. With girls.
Rouge : Breaking gender roles is very popular these days.
Sara : And, yet, people prove with their money that, actually, they do not much care for what the media implies is popular these days. Show me a not like other boys dark romance in the top one hundred of the Amazon store, and I’ll stop commenting on how your slow burn is killing me.
Rouge : Slow burn. People love slow burn.
Sara : Their eyes have yet to meet for a prolonged period. It has been ten thousand words. This burn is slower than the enemies-to-lovers historical romances written a century ago.
Excuse me for trying to maintain my sanity and also respect the woman I’m writing a book about. Lifting my hands to the keyboard, I type out: I’m Mars.
Then I delete that message, because insecurity tells me about thirteen things that could go wrong.
Ceres likes me. That doesn’t mean she is irrationally in love with me and willing to accept news like this without batting an eye.
That doesn’t mean she won’t consider that I’ve kept a huge secret from her when one of the most important things in the world to her is security and honesty.
That doesn’t mean I know how to explain myself, or how deeply the opposite of confident male lead with an alpha complex I am.
All I want is to be loved.
That’s it.
I am desperate for someone to love me .
In spite of my many flaws. In spite of my… me-ness .
I want to be right.
Correct.
Wanted.
By someone other than my brother.
I want to be the reason the world ends, not just a pawn caught in the crossfire, forced to crawl across the board and become someone strong enough to take care of the remaining, near helpless pieces.
It terrifies me to think what Ceres might think of me if she learns that we’ve been chitchatting as girlies for the past five years.
I mean, really, aren’t I emasculated enough?
Sara : I’m here for you if you need to talk, Rouge.
I sigh. Once again.
Rouge : I appreciate you. Don’t worry. I’ll get some content to you before bed. And it might even be a hair’s breadth above half-decent.
Sara : I believe in you.
That makes one of us.
Pushing back from my computer, I drop to the ground in the center of my room and begin doing pushups until I can’t feel my arms anymore.