Chapter Twenty-six
I’m not getting married on Flag Day . Who does that?
Ceres
I think Mars has been secretly stocking my kitchen… There’s been so much going on—with the Flag Day festival stuff, and the Amelia moving out tomorrow situation, and the maybe falling in love whatever thing—that I’ve barely realized it’s been six entire weeks since last I had a shopping day.
Yet, here I am, in a kitchen with juice .
Cutting my eyes toward the man I woke to find making breakfast in my house, I cross my arms. “Scoundrel.”
He tosses a look over his shoulder, back at me. “Scoundrel? Me?”
“Are there any other scoundrels here?”
Thoughtful, he returns his attention to the gravy he’s stirring. “No, I suppose not.” Switching off the heat, he pulls a tray of biscuits out of the oven as soon as the timer beeps. “What’s on the agenda for today, little goddess?”
“Food trucks.”
“Food trucks?”
I sigh, because why is he asking as though he wasn’t the one who made the schedule in the first place?
“We’ve connected with local establishments concerning requests that they fill the food stands, but now you want me to go around—in a single week—to every food truck in Bandera and ask them to come park at the festival during festival time. ”
“Eight whole trucks. You’re abused.” It is in this precise moment that he sets a plate of biscuits in front of me and kisses my forehead.
So, yes. I’m—clearly—being dreadfully, dreadfully abused.
Butter, jam, and gravy appear beside my orange juice glass while I pout and bemoan my terrible treatment. “Eight whole trucks, while also bracing for the inevitable emotional support Mellie’s going to need the moment it sinks in that she is moving tomorrow.”
“Has she been relying on you much since she told her parents?”
I wince and reach for the raspberry jam. “That’s the thing, Mars… She never told her parents.”
He settles heavily into the chair beside mine with his own plate of biscuits and says, “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well.” Breath fills him as he pushes his hair back. “Are they…that bad?”
“I’ve never met them, but the way Mellie acts and the stories she’s shared make me think emotional abuse and manipulation run rampant. Whether it’s intentional or not is a totally different matter. All I know is that she hasn’t felt safe enough to tell them, and that means something.”
“That means a lot.” Drenching his biscuits in the gravy, he perks. “Well, all the more reason to get started on hunting down those food trucks early. Mel will be needing us soon.”
My nose scrunches. “We don’t need to hunt down any food trucks. I looked up their schedules. We just need to…leave the house…and go to them.”
“On our bikes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You have to practice someday somehow. Why not today? Why not to-now?”
“I’m not going to wobble up to food trucks on a bike I can barely balance, fall over, pick myself up off the ground, and ask them to park at the fairgrounds on June 14th. It’s not happening.”
Mars’s eyes spark as his smile widens, and I get the most uncanny chill racing down my spine…
“You’re not doing April Fool’s Day right,” I mutter, finally getting something like the hang of being on my bike.
When I’m not falling into Mars’s pavement-obstructing arms every few minutes, it’s actually not the worst thing in the world.
But still. I’m not happy about this. Saying that we’d be biking to all of the food trucks on my list was supposed to be a joke . A super cool April Fool’s Day joke .
Alas.
Heartless, Mars zips circles around me on his brilliant copper bicycle, sun catching the shining paint and making it glimmer in the rays. “You’re doing great.”
I’m doing slow, cautious. I’m doing there’s a car, and we’re pulling off into the grass, because I will not be the bike that gives that driver anxiety about whether or not it’s safe to pass on these curving roads . I am doing not great.
“It’s hot,” I complain.
“It isn’t.”
It isn’t. It’s barely reaching seventy today, and I’m convinced that summer won’t be here until Flag Day.
“I’m tired,” I whine.
“All the more reason to keep going.”
My nose scrunches. “How do you calculate that one?”
“If you’re tired after we’ve barely been out here for ten minutes, your body desperately needs the exercise.”
I huff. “You’re going to have to carry me back home.”
“I’ll put you in my basket, then walk back for your bike.”
“You can leave my bike wherever I tumble off it, thanks.”
Riding up behind me, Mars matches my modest speed for a benevolent moment, and says, “I want to bike with you. I want you to enjoy it.”
“Is this a make-or-break the relationship sort of thing?”
It takes him a moment to think about, which tells me, yes, it is. Wild. Unnerving. Don’t like that.
I straighten myself up. “You know what? It’s probably good for me, so even if I don’t love it, I should still make an effort to do it.
I get plenty of exercise moving stuff in my garden, but there’s not a ton of walking involved.
I bet my legs are practically on their way to atrophy.
You’re saving me, Mars. What would I do without you?
Be unable to walk from my desk to my front door for my book orders, that’s what. ”
“No, it isn’t a make-or-break,” he answers, much too late for me to believe him. “I think I’m too far gone for anything to make-or-break this. You’d have to…I don’t know…stab Jove or something for me to reconsider wanting you the way I do.”
“I hope you know I would never actually flirt with your brother. I’m just obsessed with the way your eye twitches when you’re jealous.”
Soft, Mars’s brows dip as a smile pours over his face. “What in the world am I going to do with you?”
“Lock me up in your basement so I don’t have to exercise anymore?” I provide, perhaps hopeful.
Crushing all my dreams, he says, “We don’t have basements, Ceres.”
While I’m contemplating how expensive it might be to have a basement put into an already-built house, the first food truck comes into view. Thankfully, I display something akin to grace when I stop my bike and dismount at the window.
The burly man throwing together burger meat in the back lifts his chin in a coarse greeting before eyeing Mars and muttering, “Whadda ya want?”
My mind glitches, forgetting everything I’m supposed to be doing right now.
I stammer, “Uh…” and take in the menu. Burgers.
Fries. Onion rings. Classic American food.
Should I get some fries? Would that warm him up to the proposal I have to present?
Is it rude not to buy something before making a request?
Smile. Don’t forget to smile. And look invested. This is the most amazing food truck display you have ever seen, and you’re incredibly invested in this man’s workmanship.
Mars, who had been doing donuts in the lot, glides his bike toward me with the grace of an angel while balancing on a single pedal. Stepping off like a super model, he stops and braces an elbow atop my shoulder. “Hiya, Rich.”
“Mars.”
“We’ve got a proposition for you.”
Rich arches a brow.
With a flick of his wrist, Mars has one of the advertisements I put together for people folded between his fingers and offered above the counter. “Would love to have you.”
The man wipes his hands on his apron before retrieving the paper, unfolding it, and scanning the words. His steely eyes narrow. “A… Flag Day festival?” Somehow, the slits of his eyes thin further on Mars. “And you’re running it?”
Innocence never looked so guilty as Mars’s bright smile.
“What’s the angle?” Rich grunts.
“Can’t a man plan a festival in this town without being asked so many questions?”
“Not if that man is you. What orphans, puppies, or widows are you rescuing this time?”
Mars’s smile darkens, threateningly intense. “So you’ll be there?”
Rich refolds the paper and stuffs it in his apron. “Yeah. The missus would kill me if I weren’t.”
Mars’s teeth flash. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Before I can thank the man and follow Mars away, steely eyes land on me. “You his girlfriend or something?”
Leg prepped to mount his bike, Mars freezes.
Heat dances across my cheeks. Girlfriend?
Am I his girlfriend ? Girlfriend seems so official.
Like a conversation needed to happen concerning it.
We’ve never exactly put what we are into words.
I’m not even sure we’re dating when all the excursions we’ve gone on—except my birthday—are work-related.
Is it still called dating if you don’t go more than a single house and yard away from home?
What even is the difference between dating and hanging out ?
Furthermore, do I want to be his girlfriend? If I’m his girlfriend, I’ll need to start thinking about long-term plans. There’s a sense of permanency associated with officially accepting such a title, and I can’t believe I’ve not given it an ounce of thought before.
As far as my brain has processed, Mars showed up in my house one day, and I said, haha, that’s weird, anyway , then got on with my life. His love confessions have come too frequently and too quickly for me to actually put stock in them.
Except…except that night. On the trampoline. After we’d talked for hours. And he said he loved me.
In that moment, I believed him.
In that moment, I thought…maybe…
“She’s my fiancée,” Mars says. “We’re getting married on Flag Day, at the festival. Most romantic holiday of the year, you know.”
Rich’s brows lift toward his receding hairline. “Do I know that?”
“You should. Everyone should. It’s fairly common knowledge, I hear.”
“Huh,” he grunts, then he sniffs and scans me. “Well, congratulations. I’ll make sure the missus knows to bring a wedding gift.”
“Oh, no need,” Mars says. “We’re keeping it very small and on the downlow. My sweetheart’s shy.”
Rich stares at Mars. Because of course he does.
I’m staring at him, too. On account of the fact he’s making no sense and is also now, apparently, telling random people that we’re getting married in two months.
Finally, Rich shrugs. “Best I don’t try to understand your brain.
Lest I lose mine. Go on now. Get out of here before you scare off my customers. ”
So…we do.
Once we’re out of Rich’s earshot, Mars says, “What?”
“What do you mean what ?”
“I can feel your gaze burning a hole in the back of my head.” He casts a look at me. “What’s up, buttercup?”
“We are not getting married on Flag Day.”
He tuts and loops in the street to glide up beside me. “You’re right. I suppose there’s a chance we won’t, technically, get married on Flag Day. The paperwork is likely to be filed before the official procession, but our ceremony day will—”
“Mars.”
He shuts his mouth and eyes me. “Too far?”
“You can’t tell your friends that we’re getting married when we’re not.”
“Richard’s not a friend.”
“His wife is going to plan a wedding gift.”
“That doesn’t make us friends. Friends do things together. Like you and me. Unless you’re still attached to our enemies-to-lovers arc, in which case enemies also totally do things together, probably.”
I sigh. “What did you do?”
“For…Richard and his wife?”
“Yeah.”
“Saved their dog.”
If I knew how to screech to a halt, I would. Unfortunately, I would go flying over my handlebars, so I merely mosey on ahead, toward the next food truck stop, while judging Mars. “You…saved their dog?”
“Rich’s kinda gruff. Some lousy teenagers were messing around with pot near his truck.
He gave them a talking to. They didn’t like that.
They stole his wife’s pomeranian. I was riding through town and saw the whole thing happen, so I swooped in Kaitou Kid style, tossed a few cards, left a couple scars, and got the puffball back.
” As though he’s not just said anything impressive, Mars rubs his eye.
“Sucks a bit since those dang teenagers retaliated via keying my bike…but anyway. Rich and his missus couldn’t have kids, I guess, so that dog is practically their son.
I’ve never seen a woman so panicked or so grateful. She hugged me. It was awful.”
I’m very unclear on how I am supposed to respond. The man saved someone’s pomeranian. He bakes carrot cake, every other day. He bought me snacks and a stuffed animal for my birthday, after planning a scavenger hunt using my favorite flowers all over town.
Sweet does not begin to describe him.
Every last person in town should be flocking to him.
I find it personally offensive that they do not.
“You’re not a hugger?” I ask.
“Very much not.”
Could have fooled me, considering that one time not that long ago, when we hugged all night…
“You are an exception.”
“Thank you for the clarification.”
He smiles. “Anytime, darling.”
“Please don’t tell anyone else that we’re getting married at the festival.”
“Is that a boundary?”
My nose scrunches. “Don’t sound so excited.”
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for novelty, and it’s so rare you reprimand me.”
Is it? Is it really? Yeah, okay, fine. I’m not much of a reprimander. I’m an instigator at best.
I jut my lip. “I prefer a princess role.”
Mars beams. “That’s excellent news. Your arranged marriage is scheduled for June 14th. It’s to be a public execution, before all the domain’s subjects. You’ll wear what I tell you, sign where I say, and on the whole, forego complaint. Understood?”
The temptation to say yes, villain is overwhelming, but I’ve yet to lose all my sense. “No.”
“It was worth a shot.”
“Your hubris is admirable where your sanity is lacking.”
He tuts, so warmly. “For someone insisting that she’s not marrying me in a few months, you’re awful flirty.”
“Flirt; verb: behave in a manner that suggests interest or an attempt to attract, but without serious intentions.” I suck my teeth. “Marriage seems…pretty serious , don’t you think?”
“I adore when you define words. Makes me all the more eager for our wedding day. I can’t wait to hear how you define love .”
My eyes roll.
Mars stands on his pedals and coasts down a slight decline. “Come along, Merriam Webster, we’ve got a taco truck to catch.”
First of all, the taco truck isn’t going anywhere. I have never once seen it anywhere different whenever I’ve passed it on my shopping days. Second of all…show off.