Chapter Seven
Bad boys drink milk with their carrot cake.
Jove
This is flagging garbage .
I highlight a section of my current work-in-progress and smash the delete button.
Then I do it again for good measure. I resist the urge to trash the entire document, even though I know that’s where it belongs.
In the dumpster. In an incinerator. In the middle of the Atlantic ocean, eaten up by sharks.
I do all of this research , even going so far as to buy an ax to cut down a tree because I saw lumberjacks were trending in romance, and I wanted to see how much damage it would do to Mrs. Beverly’s shed roof so that I’d know how much damage to inflict on my main female character’s home when her dark, broody, possessive love interest plays lumberjack to remind her that no, actually, she cannot let another man sleep in her bed. That’s his and his alone.
Unfortunately, ruining Mrs. Beverly’s shed was driven by a need to right a wrong, not by the fiery passion of a jealous lover protecting his space in his dear love’s bed.
So instead of getting passionate romantic fodder to use for my story, I watched dis passionately as the tree fell, a sense of balance settling in my gut as the branches tore through her shingles, much like she tore through Mars’ garden path on her ATV last spring.
His carrots were ruined . Just like my career when my deadline hits and I have nothing to give Mars to edit.
Speaking of Mars…
“I’m fine,” I mutter, sliding my laptop back on my desk and spinning toward the door to my office.
Mars is there, leaning against the door frame holding a small dessert plate while an elementary school-style box of milk dangles beneath it from his pinky. His other hand seemingly holds his attention as he flips a playing card over his fingers.
Seemingly.
“Seriously,” I say, louder. “I’m fine. You don’t have to check in on me.”
His eyes flick to me before returning to his card. “You’re sounding pretty defensive for someone who’s fine , Jovey. ‘Fine’ people don’t lock themselves in their offices for days on end, last I checked, which was recent. Excellent fact checker, me.”
I groan. “I’m writing. You know, that thing that authors do? I’m trying out the recluse-lock-yourself-in-a-room author archetype. Much better than my usual slop-things-on-a-page-and-leave-my-brother-to-deal-with-the-mess archetype. Ten out of ten, probably recommend.”
My stomach grumbles, calling me a liar. Not eating for three days in the name of method acting the idea of a successful author – as if I am not already a successful author – has not exactly done me well. I’m a big guy. I need calories.
Like, for instance, the calories in the carrot cake that Mars is approaching my desk with, card now tucked away. I eye the plate, salivating, then whimper as he holds it just out of my reaching hands’ range .
Eyes firm on mine, he says, “Take a break. Eat something. It’s a real problem for me that all the people I love seem averse to basic self-care, you know?”
My lower lip sneaks out, pouting.
“I know. Wild that I want you to stay alive. Here.” Somehow, a deep, blood-red envelope appears between his fingers.
“Cake. Card. Alliteration. Authors love that.” I reach for it.
Mine, mine, mine, but he moves it away. Mean.
Rude. Hates me. “Promise me you’ll take a break?
We can’t both be out of commission right now.
One of us must maintain minimal levels of mental stability, ’kay? ”
I sniff, then regret it as the tempting aroma of carrot goodness finds a home in my lungs. My stomach speaks before I can stop it, ruining my author alter ego attempts. “I promise I’ll take a break.”
Mars smiles, somewhat gently, and deposits my breaktime supplies on the desk in front of me, casually closing my laptop as he does.
“That wasn’t saved,” I grumble, reaching for my plate.
“It might alarm you to learn that closing a laptop doesn’t delete everything on it, but let’s be honest, babe, if it doesn’t save your last actions, you’ll gain words.
” He sweeps in to kiss my forehead. “Eat your cake. Drink your milk. Write your letter.” Then he’s gone, off to torture some other poor soul, I can only imagine.
I’m sure they deserve it.
Scrubbing my hand down my face, I sigh, then eye the offerings he left me. I suppose a little morale break isn’t the worst idea…
Three minutes later, I’m washing down half the slice of cake with the milk Mars left me and reaching for Lyra’s letter. I take a moment to appreciate the work she did on the envelope and try to guess the theme she went with.
It’s much darker than what she usually gravitates toward – all reds and blacks instead of the brighter colors she tends to like.
It feels off somehow, and I worry that our meeting in the hardware store influenced the harsh tone it’s giving.
This letter is dark alleys and rock concerts, not soft meadows and the scent of spring.
I don’t think I like it.
Cautious, I peel away the wax seal – black, with a dull, dried up rose petal pressed into it – to get to the inside. Which is. Just. As. Dark.
Throwing caution away and placing concern firmly in its place, I pull out the thick fold of paper and set the envelope aside.
Black on top of black. Stickers depicting dead flowers and death’s-head moths. Sharp corners. Swaths of red throughout.
I retrieve the envelope again, double checking the return address. “Lyra Gold, 333 Evergreen Drive, Bandera, West Virginia…” I trail off, brows creasing.
Okay. So. This is definitely from Lyra. Except.
It’s not.
Not from my Lyra.
What is going on?
I unfold the flipbook-style letter, skipping over pockets full of stickers, tea, and whatever other gifts Lyra’s sent me. I zero in on a piece of stationery sticking out of a fold in the back, sporting my name in her delicate, swoopy handwriting.
Dear Jupiter,
I’ve figured out the problem.
After a rather harrowing experience at the hardware store, I went home and had a nice long think about things, and I know what the issue is .
I’m too soft. Too sweet. Too focused on being a good girl, and too insecure to accept that I will never actually accomplish that.
Well, my friend, no more! From now on, I, Lyra Gold, am going to be bad and confident! I’d say big too, but my darn shoulders prevent me. Maybe I could wear those pads like football players do? And some heels?
…
Yeah, all right, we’ll workshop it. I’ll focus on bad and confident first. And I know just how to do it! It’s time for… drumroll, please… a baddie makeover! One montage to an AC/DC song, and I’ll be good to go.
As you can probably already tell, I’m rebranding. No more Mister Nice Lyra. Who cares if I have no friends and my life is in shambles? Not me! Because I am bad and carefree .
This is going to be so good for me. I can tell.
I hope you like the bad and unbothered vibe I put into this letter, but if you don’t? Who cares! I am bad! And unbothered! Which is my response to your letter, by the way. Am I okay? Yes! Because bad and unbothered people are always okay!
Insert baddie sign off here,
Lyra ★
P.S. How did your Valentine launch go ?
Baddie sign off…
I reread the letter. Then, I reread it again.
On my fourth read, I can’t get past the second line, mentioning our run-in at the hardware store.
Harrowing , she called it. Harrowing enough that she went home after running away from me at Brotherhood Hardware, clearly had some sort of a breakdown, then decided to overhaul her entire personality.
I broke her.
I disrespected her boundaries, and I broke her.
Can I not do one single thing right?
I clear space on my desk, then grab the nearest bit of stationery I can find – a purple and green sheet of thick letter paper. Snatching a pen out of the cup on my desk, I start writing my apology.
I explain that I didn’t mean to freak her out.
I write the word sorry seven times. I tell her about the last three days, how I clearly have no clue how to even talk to women, as evidenced by my struggle with writing romantic scenes and by our hardware store run in.
I tell her she’s perfect how she is, and she shouldn’t change herself, but that if she does I’ll be here, loving her through it.
I tell her the same thing I do at every book release – I have no idea how it went, but Mars handled the launch and wrote all the good stuff in the book, so it’s probably thriving.
I tell her that I love her.
Then, I fold the paper in half, shove it in an envelope, address it, stamp it, and head to the post office to drop it off.
It’s the least adorned letter I’ve sent to her since my first, but I can’t find it in me to care.
I barely resist the urge to hand-deliver it.
The only thing that stops me is the knowledge that I’ve already upturned her week enough after the harrowing experience at the hardware store.
I can’t begin to imagine what might happen if I actually show up at her house.
She’d probably move on from baddie to worstie, landing herself in jail.
My Lyra does not know how to avoid the law like I do.
So. Best not to spook her any more than I already have. For the sake of her freedom.
Instead, I spook Brianna when I storm into the post office, demanding she gets my letter delivered immediately , and cutting her off when she starts to spout nonsense about The proper procedures! and You can’t just barge in here, making demands!
“Immediately, Brianna. She gets this letter immediately . You understand?”
We glare at each other, then she huffs. “Fine,” she says. “But just this onc– hey!”
But I’m already out the door, stomping to my truck and going home to wait on a reply that does. Not. Flagging. Come.