Chapter Sixteen
Girlfriends are fishy.
Jove
“A girlfriend,” I repeat.
Lyra’s mouth opens. Shuts. Opens. Shuts. She looks like a cute little fish.
“So you’ll help?” I ask, reaching up to squish her cheeks. Blub, blub. Fishy, fishy.
She makes a noise somewhat reminiscent of a balloon deflating.
I squish her once more before dropping my hand.
“Not for real, of course,” I say, letting her off the hook, fun as it was to dangle her.
“Dating for fake to help me research for my Flag Day book. I’m trying to take on some of the more romantic bits to take pressure off of Mars and to contribute equally for probably the first time ever, but I’m truly abysmal at human relationships.
The only decent ones I have are with you and Mars, and he told me in no uncertain terms that he would not be helping me with this.
Partially because he doesn’t think I need to pull more weight and partially because fake dating your brother is frowned upon. ”
“Frowned upon, huh?” she mutters, still somewhat blubby.
“Mm,” I confirm. “Frowned upon. And so, as you can see, you’re my only hope.”
Blub, blub. Then, “Could you… hope a little further?”
I frown. “You don’t want to date me?”
“Fake,” she adds weakly. “Fake date you.”
“You don’t want to fake date me?”
“Is there- Can you- I mean to say… can’t you just watch a couple of romcoms or something? What do you need me for?”
“Ah,” I sigh, plucking her cardboard sleeve of chicken nuggets out of her lap and setting it on the table.
My body twists until my back is to the couch and my head is hovering over the space the nuggets previously occupied.
No hesitation, I plop my head in her lap.
“The thing is,” I start, looking up her nose.
“I tried that, and it didn’t work. The only time I’ve had any sort of a decent writing day recently is after the last time we hung out.
You’re inspiration, Ly. I’ve never met anyone more romantic than you.
It permeates everything around you – your home, your air, your presence.
A few hours in your bedroom, surrounded by your world, and I had enough fuel to get me through several thousand words.
And we weren’t even trying! Imagine how many words I could get down after a date ?
I’ll have the book finished in a month.”
Her nose hairs leave my sight somewhere around me calling her an inspiration, replaced by incredulous grass-green eyes, which grow ever wider the longer I speak.
“ Date ?” she squeaks, blinking rapidly.
My brows furrow. “You’re right. Just one probably isn’t enough for proper research. Multiple would be much better, and probably reduce my estimated timeline by weeks .”
Blub. Blub. Blink.
“Jove, people don’t go on research dates in real life,” she tells me, as if I give one flag about what people do . She hesitates then, like she wants to say more, but doesn’t.
Hm. I don’t like that. “And what else?”
Her eyes dart away from mine, then return, and she gulps. Visibly, she bolsters. “And I’m unsure I want to end up in prison, which is where I’m pretty sure a date with you would land me. Do you have any legal pastimes? Outside of letters?”
Well. She might have a point there.
“What if I promise not to have you do anything questionable as far as the law is concerned?”
“And not to do anything questionable yourself, thus making me an accessory to whatever crimes you commit?”
I scowl. “What if they really deserve it?”
“Who would ‘deserve it’ enough that you’d need to exact revenge in the middle of a date? How is that supposed to help with research ?”
Uh… “I write dark romance,” I remind her. “As far as I’m aware, the crime and revenge are half of what the girlies love.”
“Crime and revenge aren’t what you’re struggling to write, though, are they? It’s the…” She coughs. “Romance?”
Another fair point.
It takes some effort, but I manage to rearrange my face in such a way that I’m no longer scowling. I am, instead, pouting. “Fine,” I grunt. “No crimes on our dates. Strictly romance.”
She freezes, eyes darting again. “Are you sure there isn’t some other girl you could, I don’t know, real date?”
Ew. Gross. Vehemently no.
I say as much, and her shoulders sag.
“Dearheart,” I murmur, “I must reiterate. I care only for my brother and for you. If you can’t help me, I’ll be back to what I was doing before – butchering romance dialogue and slogging through every character interaction attempting and failing to give them chemistry instead of a horrible, dry awkwardness between them.
I can do it, and Mars can fix it, and everything will probably be fine, but…
I’ll hate it. Every moment of it.” I remove myself from Lyra’s lap, but don’t decrease our proximity.
My hands land on her shoulder as I sit close enough for one of my legs to dig under hers, half positioning her in my own lap.
“I don’t like feeling like a burden, whether Mars thinks I am or not.
It’s enough that I think I am. That I know exactly how much work he puts into fixing my mistakes and making up for my pitfalls.
I hear him in his room when he edits, muttering curses and complaints and a thousand why, Jovey s.
I make things hard for him.” I inhale through my nose, deep, before letting it out through my mouth, ignoring the sting in my eyes as I go on.
“I don’t want to make things hard for him.
My Mars deserves the world, Ly. I can’t give it to him, try as I might, but I can give him this.
I can get good so that he doesn’t have to experience so much frustration and annoyance.
I just…” My hands squeeze, compulsive, on her shoulders.
“I need help. If you’re willing. If you can.
” Green on green, our eyes grapple. “Please,” I whisper.
She blinks hard, sniffing, then her hands slide over my skin, thumbs wiping wayward wetness off my cheeks. “Okay, Jupiter,” she says softly. So softly. “I’ll help you.”
Relief floods me. “Thank you, my song. You won’t regret it.”
Her bottom lip pulls in, snagged by anxious teeth. “I’m not sure about that,” she says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
I smile, grateful, and pull her in for a hug, squeezing until she puffs, reminding me she needs to breathe.
“Okay,” I say, letting her go. “Extreme friendship schemes laid. Now we can focus on what matters most.” I snag her nuggets, giving them back to her. “Food.”
She huffs a not-quite-laugh and grabs her remote off the coffee table. “Do you want to watch something while we eat?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for my answer, queuing up The Iron Giant – my all time favorite movie – with a few quick button mashes.
I practically purr. “Absolutely I do,” I answer, knocking my shoulder into hers as I relax into the couch, her legs still half on mine. My hand falls to rest on her thigh as the other transports a deliciously spicy nugget from her carton to my mouth.
She eyes my hand, and her nugget, but says nothing, lips smooshing together until they turn a pale, pinkish white.
Man, real life Lyra is nowhere near as mouthy as pen pal Lyra.
Stealing another nugget, I consider how fun it will be to pull the mouthy out of her.
And then I grin.
“One more thing,” I say, gathering our food trash into the empty Wendy’s bag as the movie credits roll.
Lyra’s eyes dart to me, and she freezes, breath halting mid-inhale.
I sigh. “Relax, my song. Would I ever hurt you?”
Golden hair swishes as she shakes her head, making a point to finish her breath. “Sorry,” she says. “You’re just so…” She gestures at me, and I nod.
“That I am. However, all of that just so happens to be in your corner. You know that.”
She winces, and an endearingly pink blush steals over her face. “I do. I’m sorry. I think it’ll just take some time before I can fully reconcile you being Jupiter and you being Jove. I’ll try harder to make that happen quick, though. I don’t mean to make you feel bad.”
I frown. “You’re not making me feel bad.
The issue is that you feel uncomfortable when you don’t need to, and I don’t like you feeling any negative thing.
I want you happy. Comfortable. Content. The opposite of on edge.
Sassy like in your letters. Sweet like in your blood. Every good thing. You know?”
She blubs, adorable, then blurts, “Maybe don’t give we need to talk energy if you don’t want me to be uncomfortable?”
Ah, mouthy Lyra. Bless all.
My heart rate kicks up, adrenaline rushing through my blood. “Time for play,” I mumble. Then, louder, “I said ‘one more thing’. In what world does that give we need to talk energy?”
My breath stalls in my lungs as she hesitates, and I bite my cheek. Come on, Lyra love. Play with me.
“Every world?” she replies finally, and a pleased smile stretches across my face.
“Name three,” I order, all things obnoxious.
“Name three worlds?” she huffs. “Are you serious?”
“Dead,” I confirm. “Go ahead, name them.”
“Earth, Vulcan, and Andoria,” she counters.
I snort. “Are those Star Trek worlds?”
“Maybe,” she hedges. “Does that make a difference?”
“No,” I laugh. “It’s just adorable.”
Another blush washes over her cheeks. “What was your one more thing?” she asks.
Ah. “Right,” I say. “One more thing.” My brows furrow as I frown. “The letter.”
Her fingers twist together, and she glances at her butterfly, lower lip caught between her teeth. “The letter? You’re not taking it back, are you?”
What am I, a monster? “Of course I’m not taking it back. That’s yours to keep forever. I’m talking about the letter you’re going to write to me.”
She blinks, oh so innocent. “What about the letter I’m going to write you?”
“Mainly that I want it to actually happen, and I don’t trust that you’ll write it if I leave.”
Her mouth forms a cute little o, convincing exactly no one of her intention to write me back.
“You’re not fooling me,” I tell her. “You’re more likely to close the door on me and immediately start freaking out about me, our friendship, our movie night, our schemes, and our nugget sharing than you are to sit down and create a reply.
Or, if you do sit down to reply to me, you’ll work yourself up about trying to match energies.
As if I need a huge papier-maché insect to be happy when I am, and always have been, content with your scraps. ”
Blub, then, “You’re rather verbose.”
I snort. “Did you think the man who wrote you page-long letters and weaves words together for a living wouldn’t be verbose?”
Her eyes wander to the side, considering, then meander back. “That does make sense. I haven’t ever seen you talk much in person, I guess. At school? Or around town. You usually let your actions speak for you.”
“Show don’t tell,” I respond. “The first rule you learn when you start writing.” My hand lifts, fingers trailing a loose strand of soft blonde hair before tucking it behind her ear.
“Some people, though, deserve the thoughts behind the action.” I smile, tapping her nose. “Now, about you replying to my letter?”
She sighs. “I’m going to reply to your letter, Jupe. I promise. ”
“Excellent. Could I get that in writing? While I watch, perhaps?”
“Jove, seriously, I promise,” she says.
“Lyra, seriously, I heard you,” I counter.
“Fine,” she capitulates after a long, long pause. “But I’m doing it at the table. You’ve brought down the value of my bedframe by about 500%. I’m not letting you do any more damage.”
“No worries,” I say, rising from the couch with the trash. I head toward her kitchen to throw it away, glancing at the table as I pass it. “Your table’s looking a little bare. I’m thinking a planet or two might liven it up.”
“That’s antique, you know,” she calls from behind me.
I hum. “You got it for five bucks at an estate sale. If you don’t want it when I’m done, I’ll get you a better one that hasn’t been sullied by the ghost of Granny Past.”
She doesn’t reply as I settle into one of the dark oak, spindly chairs at her haunted table, only eying me as she hovers on the edge of the living room.
“I’ll be right back,” she says eventually, squinting at the flash of my pocketknife in my hand. “I have to get my stuff.”
I nod, and the knife spins its approval. “I’ll be here.”
As long as she’ll let me.
And, possibly, even if she won’t.
Always and forever, I’ll be here for my Lyra.