Chapter Eight
I’m sorry, wut?
Lyra
Being a baddie is harder than you’d think. Shopping to be a baddie? Proven impossible.
Dropping my way-too-many bags inside after parking Rhonda back in her crypt, I walk to the mailbox to see if Jupiter’s written me back.
It’s going to be embarrassing telling her about my failed baddie shopping trip, and I find myself, for the first time ever, hoping I won’t find a response when I flip open the mailbox door.
A hope that is fulfilled, I see, when I open the door to a thin, sad looking white envelope. Nothing like the chonky, wondrous things Jupiter sends me. I snag it, curious. I’ve never gotten a letter from someone else before. Maybe it’s a bill?
The letter is smooth in my hand, save for a bump where the sender got hasty securing the envelope’s flap down. I flip it to find no return address, then quickly realize I don’t need one. I recognize that handwriting. I know the return address by heart.
Jupiter has sent me… this?
It’s sad. The stamp is crooked, and the numbers on my zip code have been scrawled so quickly it’s a wonder it even made it to me. Brianna, our postal system queen, must have recognized it was meant for me. Bless her.
Frowning down at the reason Brianna had to work extra hard today, I pivot and make my way to my porch. Halfway up the walkway, I carefully rip open the envelope and pull out the singular piece of paper. My stomach falls.
Something’s happened.
Worry for Jupiter, for her brother, and for her family courses through me as I stop, unfolding the paper quickly to get to the bad news. My worry skyrockets when the top line is empty. She’s gone straight into the body of the letter, wasting no time addressing it to me.
I’m so sorry, Ly. So unbelievably sorry.
I knew you wouldn’t want me to approach you, but I was so worried about what happened with Chrissy and you were right there and nobody else was around except for Oliver, but he couldn’t see us and I just…
I thought it would be okay, you know? I promise, I only wanted to check on you. I didn’t mean to freak you out.
Ly, I’m so sorry. Sorry can’t even cover it. I feel awful that I worried you so much. Clearly, as evidenced by our interaction and foreshadowed by my inability to write a single romantic scene, I have no clue how to have a conversation with a woman.
I am so sorry, my song. SO sorry.
Please don’t feel like you need to change yourself, especially not in any part because of me.
You’re perfect. Exactly as you are. So perfect.
If you do want to rebrand, though, know that I’ll be here loving you through it, the same way that I always have.
You’ll always be my dearest Lyra, my bestie, pen pal 4 evah, no matter what you wear or how you style yourself.
You’re exactly the girl I’ve always loved. My best friend.
Flag, I’m sorry for scaring you at the store.
Please, please forgive me,
Jupiter
P.S. I don’t know how the Valentine launch is going. My brother handles the launches, and he writes all of the stuff that requires an author who actually knows how men and women should interact, so I’m sure it’s thriving. He’s never done us wrong before.
As Jupiter – sorry, Jove flagging Rogue – would say: What. The. Flag.