Chapter Nineteen
Butterfly! Blessed!
Lyra
“Lyra.”
I scream, throwing potting soil and succulents everywhere as I spin to present my gardening trowel as a weapon. Seeing Jove’s shadow in the open doorway to the nursery deflates me, and I drop the trowel to my side.
“You scared me,” I huff as my racing heart calms.
He moves out of the doorway then, his towering form quickly making the greenhouse feel five sizes too small, and doesn’t reply.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as he weaves through shelves of plants, soil, and gardening tools on his way to where I stand at my work bench in the very back of the nursery.
“It’s Friday,” he answers, as if that is supposed to mean something to me. His brows draw together as he gets closer, stepping into the light while he inspects my dirt-dusted frame. “You’re not ready.”
Soil and compost cover the skirt of my dress, marring the green butterfly pattern where I’ve rubbed my hands against it after forgetting to don my apron.
A twig is tucked behind my ear, holding a blooming bluebell in place against my hair.
A glance at my reflection in the greenhouse walls shows my skin freckled with dirt and sweat, a streak of mud gracing my cheek.
I am most definitely not ready. For what, though, I do not know.
“Am I supposed to be ready?” I ask, returning his inspection.
He’s dressed… well, how he normally does, but cleaner.
Sharper. Crisper. Not that he’s usually dirty, exactly, but his jeans are free of holes, his shirt is one of his less worn-in ones, and his boots look like they’ve been cleaned sometime this century.
I think he might even have gel in his hair, slicking back the white streak in a way that is…
Well, let’s just not think about that.
“You look nice,” I tell him, wincing. “Am I supposed to look nice?”
“You always look nice,” he replies, no hesitation. “You are supposed to be dirt-free, though. I think. I’ve never been on a date before, so possibly I’m wrong.”
“Date?” I squeak. “Right now?”
“Yes?” he asks. “It’s Friday, right?”
“Today is Friday,” I confirm. “But I don’t remember us making plans. Did you mention it in a letter? Because I haven’t gotten your letter yet.”
He shakes his head. “You agreed to help me research,” he says.
I nod. “Correct.”
“And dates are research.”
Mmhm. “Correct again.”
“And Fridays are date nights.”
Ah. “We didn’t discuss Fridays as date nights,” I tell him.
“We had to discuss it?” he asks.
I blink. “Yes, Jove, generally two people discuss when date night will be when they’re dating, fake or not.”
“But… Fridays are date nights,” he repeats, somehow managing to look adorably confused despite the height and breadth of him.
“I know we agreed to research,” I say. “But I’m not researching the miscommunication trope with you. I fear we’ve done enough of that. We’re all researched up.”
“We’re not doing the miscommunication trope,” he says.
“Because everyone knows that Fridays are date nights. It’s in all of the movies and books and various other media sources.
Your lack of basic knowledge does not a miscommunication trope make.
Besides, we’re doing the fake dating trope with very clear communication.
” He reaches behind him and pulls a thick wad of paper out of his back pocket, then holds it out to me.
“Here,” he offers. “See? Communication. Clear.”
I wipe my dirty hands on my dress before taking the packet of paper from him, unfolding it to reveal Lyra and Jove’s Ultimate Dating Research Contract in bold, italicized font on the front page. Written by Jove and Mars Rogue sits below the title.
“What is this?” I ask, flipping to the first page. “‘Rules and expectations’?”
“It’s our contract,” he says. “It’s common in the trope.
Mars thought it would be a good idea for us to have our own.
He was pretty insistent on starting it off with the no falling in love rule.
He was laughing a little maniacally as he did, saying how if we’re going to do the trope, we better do it right.
” He shrugs. “Feel free to fall in love with me if you like, though. I’m tall, rich, and handsome.
You could do much worse.” He scowls. “Like Brian Single.”
“Brian Single is a magnificent being of beauty and wonder,” I counter automatically, the veracity of Brian’s goodness pouring forth in the face of such horrific slander. “ And this is…” Insane. “A lot.”
“Brian is an idiot,” Jove grunts. “And that’s only ten pages.”
Ten? “How long are we researching for?” I wheeze.
“I think that’s on page two,” he replies. “Under Expectations .”
He comes beside me, shoulder bumping mine as I flip to page two, which does indeed hold the expectations for this agreement.
“Do we need all this?” I ask, skimming the page-long list. “Can’t we just… talk to each other?”
Jove’s shoulder lifts against mine, then falls back down. “Yes, but having it in writing is better for us both. We’ll know exactly what to expect.” He bumps my shoulder again. “We can go over it during our date.”
Right. Because nothing screams romance like contractual obligations.
“Speaking of date…” he trails off.
My eyes flick from a concerning Jove will not be riding a bicycle to or from any of these dates. to the man himself. He looks so… sincere. We can go over the rules and expectations on our date, he says, as if it really is that simple, and to him, it is.
I need a game plan here. Jove, apparently, thinks that some combination of clear rules and winging it is appropriate. He’s a mad lad.
“Right,” I say, flipping the contract close and rolling it up into a telescope. “I’m going to go change.” And make myself a plan for surviving the evening with my nerves intact. “You can hang out in here while you wait, or you can hang out in the house. Which would you prefer?”
One of his eyebrows rises, meeting a loose strand of white hair on his forehead.
“Do I want to wait in your cozy, comfortable house, or do I want to wait in a mystical fairytale land of butterflies, twinkle lights, and nature? An admittedly wonderful couch, or a bench beneath a shedding willow tree as commas and monarchs flutter by?” He tsks.
“Lyra, I know you’re smarter than this.”
Something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle finds its way out of my mouth, shocking us both and causing my cheeks to flame poppy red.
“Wow,” he whispers, a small smile blooming across his face. “The song of my heart indeed.”
“I’ll just be inside!” I squeak, then clear my throat. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
He nods, lips tipped and eyes soft. “I’ll be under the willow tree.”
I nod, too, then we each head off in… the same direction. Because the willow tree is along the path I have to take to get inside my house. Which is totally not at all awkward. Obviously.
Jove walks next to me, limbs loose with the unbothered confidence he always has. Next to him, I resemble something of a nervous little mouse, dirty from a day of pilfering through people’s walls, fingers twisting painfully together with every step we take.
Thank all, the willow tree approaches, and Jove bids me a temporary farewell before finding a space on the cushioned bench beneath it. I scurry, shuffling down the mosaic pathway until I find myself at my front door, deep breathing as I unlock it.
“He’s Jupiter,” I remind myself. “Jupiter, your best friend. It’s going to be fine.”
I repeat that mantra through washing my face and arms. Through exchanging my dirty, butterfly-printed dress for a clean, lemon-yellow sundress, ignoring my mother’s voice in my head saying how attention hungry I must be to wear something so bright.
Through hiding my not-so-neat hair with a bandana covered in lemons and vines, also to the tune of my mother’s internalized disapproval, which I fight fight fight for the sake of looking good when Jove has taken care to look so nice himself.
Through putting mascara on and choosing to wear my cute green heels, even if this isn’t a real date.
And through the trek back to where Jove sits, head tilted back as a cabbage white butterfly rests on his nose.
“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, pulling my phone out of my pocket – the dress has pockets! – to get a picture. The shutter sound clicks, and Jove’s jewel-green eyes leave his friend to land on me, crinkling at the edges.
“A dream come true,” he replies, startling the butterfly into flight.
“Oh my gosh!” I repeat, louder, darting forward to show Jove the picture. “Look!”
He stands, catching me as I tumble on a loose stepping stone, then turns me in his arms so that we can both look at my phone screen.
“Magic!” I exclaim, lifting the phone so he can get a better look.
On screen, he’s relaxed into the bench, arms resting casually on his stomach. His legs stretch out in front of him, crossing at the ankle, one boot over the other on the garden path, just out of frame. On his nose sits the cabbage white, blessing him with her presence.
And blessed he looks, eyes half-lidded as he observes her.
Behind them, flowers tumble down from the willow tree, cascading into a backdrop fit for a dream come to life.
My hand lands on Jove’s arm, which remains wrapped around me. “It’s magic , Jupie. Magic!”
He squishes me into him, then snatches my phone. “You always give me magic,” he says. “I’m sending this to myself.”
My head pitches back to watch as he types his number into the device, zipping the picture off into wherever pictures go as they travel from phone to phone. “Butterfly blessed!” I buzz.
His head turns, green eyes hitting my own.
“Blessed,” he confirms. Then he bends, scoops me up into his arms, and marches toward the front of my house.
“Time for our date,” he declares, ignoring my assurances that I do, in fact, know how to walk , opting instead to carry me the entire way to his truck, and only setting me down once he can set me firmly in its embrace.
He buckles me, kisses my forehead, then slams the door shut before rounding to his side.
Okay. Well.
I guess the research has begun.