Chapter Twelve
Communication King
Lyra
Oh, no, we don’t.
“I disagree,” I respond, wincing at the way my voice squeaks.
Jove’s ferocious frown gets even more ferocious, and I squeak again when his hands reach out, grabbing me gently by the shoulders as he pushes in, all the way until we’re inside my house. One long, jeans-clad leg reaches behind him to shut the door.
“I disagree with your disagree,” he replies, taking quick stock of the room, eyes narrowing on his letter which may or may not still be on my coffee table, where it’s lain for the past several weeks, untouched and ignored.
“You did get my letter, then.” It’s a statement, not a question, so I say nothing. His hands are still on my shoulders.
He sighs, tearing his eyes off of the letter to look at me.
And look. And look . They travel over my face and hair before moving down, running over the loose fabric of my dress and snagging on my necklace – a comma butterfly that perfectly matches one that he has for himself – but not catching anywhere they shouldn’t despite the deep cut of my collar. I give him points for that.
“You look okay,” he mutters. “Not ill.” His eyes shoot up to mine, intense.
“Not crying.” Then, his green eyes squint, dark brows furrowing above them.
“So… what the flag, Ly? I know I messed up with the hardware store thing, but I apologized. You read my apology. I should have done it in person, and I’m here now to do that, but…
” he trails off, flicking a glance at his letter before coming back to me.
“You read it. You know I’m sorry. So sorry, my song.
” He gulps. “Do you… you won’t forgive me?
That doesn’t seem like you, but then, neither does leaving me to worry for a month .
” His head shakes, and he squeezes my shoulders, almost involuntarily.
“Communication, Ly. Please. We have to have communication.”
Um…
What?
“You think this is because of you talking to me in the hardware store?” I ask, baffled.
He blinks. “What else would it be about?”
“I- you- well. You’re a boy .”
He blinks again, slower. “What?”
“Jupiter is gender neutral, do you know that?” I respond.
More blinking. More slow. “Lyra.” He pauses, fingers contracting against my skin. “You’re not mad at me for talking to you in public? You’re mad at me for…” Another pause before he chokes out an incredulous, “Being a boy?”
I don’t think I care for his tone.
“A man,” I correct. “A large man.”
His hands slide off of my shoulders to settle on my upper arms, thumbs sweeping against the fabric of my dress. “A man now, yes. But a boy when we became friends. You’re angry with me for this? Something I have no control over?”
Angry is a strong way to put it. Disturbed, more like. “I’ve told you everything ,” I remind him. “Things I’ve never told anyone else. Things I’d never in a million years have told you if I knew you were…” My hands fist my dress at my sides as I force myself to maintain eye contact. “ You .”
His brows, already furrowed, nearly become one. “I don’t understand.”
He doesn’t… “You’re Jove Rogue,” I inform him, something he’s clearly forgotten.
“Right,” he says. “And that changes… what, exactly? I never lied to you in my letters. I was always completely me. What difference does my gender make? What difference does me being me make? I’m still your friend.”
I sputter. “It makes all the difference!”
“How?” he asks, hands dropping to cover my fists, squeezing. “How does it make a difference?”
“By… well. For instance, I know that you set fire to the courthouse when you were twelve, around the same time you were responding to letters from me discouraging my love for Brian Single. Discouraging my unrequited love? Exactly what my best friend would do. Committing felonies? Not so much.”
His jaw clenches, then loosens to reply, “That was Mars who set the courthouse on fire. And he got 500 hours of community service for it. Flagging ridiculous. The fire barely even caught.”
See, a girl would never have completely missed the point just then.
“Okay, maybe that one was Mars, but what about senior year of high school when you were talking me out of moving to Indiana while simultaneously skipping classes to slash tires in the parking lot? Or, you know, two months ago, when you poured cement into Mr. Fearling’s gas tank after sending me a hand-drawn portrait of a cabbage white butterfly.
I’ve literally never actually known you! ”
He hums. “I think what you’re talking about is referred to as the duplicity of man. And, still, I don’t see the relevance. Those people deserved those things. You deserve my unfailing love and friendship. You all get what you deserve. What’s the issue?”
I am speechless. Dumfounded. Flabbergasted.
“What’s the issue?” I repeat, wheezy.
He nods, then echoes, “What’s the issue?”
I stare at him for seconds that turn into minutes, going through every avenue of conversation I can think of in my head, trying to find the one that would get through to him. The one that would get through to Jupiter.
He waits, observing me as scenario after scenario flit through my brain, each one less helpful than the last.
This isn’t going to work.
“I think,” I take a breath, then exhale the end of my sentence, “that you should go home.”
He does not let me go, turn around, and exit my house. Because of course he doesn’t.
“You don’t know how to talk to me,” he mumbles, teeth pulling on his lower lip and eyes wandering as he thinks.
I wait, the same as he did with me, doing my very best to resist the urge to physically push him out my door.
I can give him the same allowances he’s given me.
It’s the polite thing to do. And definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that pushing him would be about the same as pushing a tree.
“Okay,” he says at last, then repeats, “Okay. You don’t have to talk to me then.”
Relief courses through me, sweet and swift, only to be ripped away when he continues.
“You’ll write me. Right now. Where’s your desk?” he asks, head swiveling. “Is it in your room?”
Before I can answer, he lets go of one of my fists and spins me by the other, lifting it over my head as I twist so that when my back is to him, our arms are crossed in front of me. He is, essentially, one-arm hugging me from behind.
“Is it this way?” His front presses into my back as he moves, aiming us toward the hallway that leads to my bedroom and bathroom.
I gurgle what could be a response, probably, if you tilt your head and squint real hard.
He takes my gurgle to be an affirmative and continues pushing us onward until we reach my bedroom door, which I oh-so-conveniently left wide open for any ole home invader to locate first try. How very hospitable of me.
Jove wastes no time finding my desk and setting me up at it before he flops onto my bed, dwarfing the full-size mattress.
“You can write. I’ll hang here until you’re done,” he says, as if he is not lounging on my peachy, princessy four-poster bed beneath my peachy, princessy artwork being lit by my peachy, princessy mood lighting.
My eyes travel from his black and white hair, down the angles of his face, across his white t-shirt, over his ripped jeans, alllllll the way to his dangling boots.
What. Is. Happening.
“You’re on my bed,” I state.
He hums. “Yes, and you’re at your desk, where you’ll be writing a letter to me so that we can get back to good communication.” He wiggles deeper into my mound of pillows, then pulls out a knife from his pocket, absentmindedly flicking it open and shut.
I do not move. “I… asked you to go home, right? Because I’m pretty sure I asked you to go home.”
“You did,” he affirms. “But if I go home, that’ll be the last I ever hear from you.
You’re freaked, and you’re not talking it out, which means you’ll get more and more freaked before you decide that your best course of action is to pretend nothing ever happened.
That nothing being our entire friendship.
I’ve already lived a month without you in my life.
I’m not willing to live a lifetime of that misery just because you don’t know how to talk to me.
” His knife clicks as he flicks it open again, then shut.
“You do know how to write me, though. So until we figure out how to do in-person communication, you’ll do that instead.
” Another flick, flick. “I’m not leaving this room until you’ve put a stamp on that envelope, Lyra. ”
I blink. I gulp. I… turn around, pull out an envelope, and get to work, the quicker to get Jove Rogue out of my house.
I firmly ignore the sound of metal on wood, because who cares if he cuts up my bed frame? He can afford to replace it. And he will, I think, adding the demand to a sticky note so I don’t forget to put it in my letter.
More sticky notes join the first one, some with notes on what I want to say, some with ideas for how I want it to look. I lose myself in the task, moving on to other supplies and other parts of the process until, eventually, I find myself at the end, a fully formed letter in my hand.
Bless.
Goodbye, Jove.