Chapter Thirty
My future husband isn’t allowed to die on me.
Ceres
“And that is why—” Mars finishes explaining, over the phone, congested, “—I am dying and cannot attend our counseling session today.” He blows his nose. “I’ve already let Braden know.”
I find myself staring at the latest addition to my very favorite Rouge book ever and blinking ever so slightly out-of-sync.
I’m supposed to be at my third pre-marriage counseling session in a few hours, then Mars and I are supposed to bike over to Party Plaza and arrange to have bouncy castles for the festival.
But, instead, he’s calling me as though we don’t live next to each other and the mosey on into my house is actually an impossible trek. I say, “You’re…sick?”
“Oh good. I am lucid enough to communicate what I thought I was trying to. Yes, I’m sick. I’ll let you know if I survive. Love you, bye.”
The call drops, and I pull my phone away from my ear to stare at it. Mars is sick.
Mars is sick.
And I’m his…fiancée?
Yes, fiancée. That’s the correct term. We’re getting married, officially. We’re in counseling for it. So that means I’m his fiancée. And, also, I think that means we skipped being girlfriend and boyfriend, but…surely that doesn’t matter. What matters is…
Soup.
Soup and tea and fire honey. Essential oils.
I have…no soup, no honey, and no essential oils. All I have is tea. So much tea. I forgot I had tea. I haven’t had tea for…a while. I think I went through a minor stroke one blustery winter shopping day and added a bunch of teas to my order as my treat.
I was cold.
Then, promptly upon unloading my groceries, I think I realized I could never be quite this cold.
“Wellness tea,” I mutter at a box with a bear on it. This will surely heal him, right? But what if he’s hungry? And if I don’t have honey, am I just going to bring him plain tea? I can’t give a sick person processed white sugar…
Why don’t I have honey or soup? What kind of person has neither honey nor soup?
“Well, Ceres…the kind of person who has been living off whatever their next-door neighbor has deigned to bring by, I think.”
Mars takes such incredible care of me, and I don’t even have a premade can of chicken noodle soup for him.
Is this the kind of wife I’m going to be?
A spoiled little princess wife, who neither mans the home nor brings in the most money, at least judging by the sound of his job, which…
may be exaggerated given the non-specific way he told me about it.
He might be a bottom-rung employee, working remotely for one of any number of million-dollar enterprises.
He may have enough savings to build a library, since he doesn’t really seem to live excessively or even need to buy gas often, but that doesn’t mean he’s bringing in constant big bucks.
Maybe I will be the bread winner, after all?
But maybe that does absolutely nothing to help Mars right now when he needs soup, not money.
In a fit of delusional confidence, as prompted by blatant frustration, I grab my purse, get in my car and…go to the store.
All by myself.
Armed with nothing but a thermos of soup and a thermos of tea—both spiked with essential oils—and a fresh-made jar of fire honey, I wait—lingering—by Mar’s bedroom window while Jove tucks in his little brother and kisses his forehead.
Feebly, Mars says, “Germs,” but Jove does not seem to care.
He replies, “ Lyra germs,” and exits.
I wait a minute or so to see if he’s coming back, then I take a deep breath, find even more nerve, and pull the screen out of Mars’s cracked window.
When it creaks as I open it wider, Mars fixes his bleary eyes on me. Silent, he watches my graceful infiltration, which does not involve my skirt catching on the sill and nearly sending me careening to the floor at all.
Once I’m upright and somewhat steady, I blow out a breath and face my pathetic fiancé, who is meant to be man-fluing in a pile of tissues, awaiting death, and overjoyed to see someone come to his rescue.
Instead, his tissues have neatly collected themselves in a trashcan by his bed, he appears to have a laptop open to a document likely for work beside him, and it might be my imagination, but he seems to have paled further upon seeing me.
Hyper-discreet, without tearing his eyes off me, Mars sets a singular finger above his laptop camera and ever-so-gently pushes the lid down to close it.
Odd. Must be hiding those million-dollar secrets.
Approaching with my sick-healing supplies, I say, “If we’re going to be married soon, I should probably know more about your job.
We’ll have to address house finances and how we’ll handle the money with Braden soon, and I don’t love the idea of not knowing in more detail what exactly it is you do before he’s talking to us about it.
” I hand him the tea thermos first. “Husbands and wives shouldn’t have secrets like that, and you know I’ll support you in pretty much anything, especially if you’re the consigliere for a mafia. ”
“I’m…not the consigliere for a mafia,” he says, hoarse.
“You sound terrible.”
“I’m ill.”
I hand him the thermos of soup, freeing up my hands well enough to open the jar of fire honey and set the lid on his nightstand. Procuring a napkin-wrapped spoon from my skirt pocket, I dish out a serving. “Open up.”
“What is that?”
“The cure for illness.”
Wary but obedient, Mars opens his mouth, and I shove the helping down his throat. I smile as his face contorts and he croaks, “ Why is it spicy? ”
“Because that’s how you know it’s working.”
Gagging, he grips a thermos in each hand. “What evil potions are these?”
“Wellness tea and chicken noodle soup.” I will not tell him about the essential oils unless he specifically asks what’s wrong with either thing.
Nose wrinkled, he untwists the cap for the tea first and sniffs. Then he sips. Then he relaxes, momentarily. He’s tense again in a moment, as though recalling that he’s not supposed to be relaxed right now. “Ceres, you shouldn’t be here. You’ll catch my cold.”
“I bought immune-boosters and took a few like vodka shots before coming over, don’t worry.”
Tension escapes him once more, and he stares at me. “You… bought ? It’s been about twenty minutes since I called. Walmart shoppers don’t shop that fast.”
I tangle my fingers together. “I did the shopping. Ran in. Dodged people. Self-checked. Ran out. Brandi almost got me. Appeared out of nowhere, like a wraith, and just barely got a question about how our relationship is going out of her mouth before I said I was in a hurry and bolted by.” Brandi probably hates me now.
But also. “How does Brandi know about our relationship?”
“She saw us together at the store once and made her own assumptions, I presume.”
“Why is she always at the store? She’s like a freaky extroverted jumpscare, lying in wait to…to…”
“Be kind and uplifting and genuinely a sweet person?”
“ Talk to you.” I plop myself down on the foot of Mars’s bed.
He sips his tea. “Ah.” His expression softens. “I’m so proud of you.”
“It was terrifying.”
“But you did it.”
“I almost threw up.”
“But you did it.”
“I just kept calling myself a useless idiot who couldn’t even do the simplest thing for you and let spite propel my footsteps. Fear was not a powerful enough adversary against shame.”
He sighs. “We’ll work on that.”
I clench my fists against my skirt. “I’m sorry I’m like this. I’m sorry I’ll be relying on you so much.”
“As though your dependency isn’t a blessing that soothes my own insecurities? Come now, little goddess…don’t act like I’m not in love with your mere existence alone.”
Lying back, I stretch my arms above my head and stare at the ceiling fan. “Marriage is hard work. Some days, you won’t love me. We’re going to frustrate each other. There needs to be a strong foundation. I need to do better.”
“You need to understand that there will never be a day I don’t love you.
I scarcely can imagine a minute I won’t like you.
You fit perfectly inside my chest. Your behaviors scratch an itch inside my skull.
To me, you are a reason for life given flesh…
and I’m far too brain-fogged to continue my odes.
I’m likely to say something concerningly intimate, which we are saving for marriage. ”
“You’re such a good boy,” I murmur.
He frees a congested laugh and lowers his gaze to his tea. “At…heart, at any rate.”
“You are exactly what I’ve always wanted, Mars. Exactly. It’s like you were written for me.”
“Maybe I was. Maybe that’s what soulmates are.”
I laugh. “Now we’re soulmates?”
“Yes. Always have been.”
Who am I to argue with ill delusion?
Beneath the blankets, Mars toes me in the side. “You should really get out of here before you get sick, too.”
“Mars germs,” I reply, because that seems to be an acceptable answer in this Rogue family.
He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and sets his tea down in order to break into his chicken noodle soup.
“Is your brother feeding you well?” I ask.
“He brought me some carrot cake earlier.”
“So, no?”
Mars scrunches his nose. “Slander.”
“You shouldn’t have cake while you’re sick. You need fruits and veggies.”
“Carrots are veggies.”
“You may have raw carrots.”
“You may keep your sickness rules and beliefs to yourself. Also, I know you put essential oils in this.”
I let my lips part in a perfect circle. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Chicken noodle soup…should not smell like mint.”
Point taken. I mixed up the bottles.
Yet, I continue smiling as I enjoy the atmosphere in Mars’s room. So neat and tidy and twisted. Plucked straight from the demented mind of the kinds of characters I love. It shouldn’t bring me as much peace as it does, yet here I am, ready to fall asleep in the cocoon of madness.
After the horrors of going to the store by myself this morning, this is a reprieve.
I hope that recreating this in what is presently my guest room fabricates half this much joy after we’re married.