Chapter Twenty
Illegal is illegal… unless it’s Ted.
Jove
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do anything questionable in the eyes of the law when we’re on our dates,” Lyra comments, standing above me as I stab my pocketknife into stupid Ted’s tire.
“This isn’t questionable,” I inform her, rising to move to the next tire, where I resume my squat. “They know exactly how they feel about this. Illegal, through and through.”
The hiss of air leaving Ted’s tire sparks much joy in my heart. “Do you want to do the next one?” I ask. “This is Ted’s new car.”
Lyra’s frown transforms into pure disgust. “Ted? This is Ted’s?”
“Mmhm. His last one mysteriously disappeared. Wild, that.”
“So wild,” she murmurs, walking around to the other side of the small sedan. “Can I have that knife?”
I grin.
After taking care of Ted’s other tires – and his spare… and his spare’s spare – Lyra and I make our way across the street to the actual reason we’re parked in Bandera’s town square .
Mini-golf.
“I’ve planned a series of flag themed dates,” I tell the adorable lemon drop beside me. “To compound the research. The girlies love Flag Day, and I cannot let them down. Mostly because letting them down means letting Mars down, which is unacceptable.”
“Which girlies love Flag Day again?” she asks, brows furrowed.
“All of them,” I assure her. “ All .”
“Right… and mini-golf has… what? To do with Flag Day?”
“Golf holes have flags,” I educate. “Red ones, even. It’s perfectly on brand!”
She trips stepping up on the curb and grabs my arm to steady herself. “Um. Jove–”
“You’re kind of clumsy,” I remark, settling her on the sidewalk. “Have you always been clumsy?”
She blinks. “Yes. Listen, before we go in there, I want to prepare you.”
“No worries,” I wave away her concern. “I know I’ve never been on a date before, but I did a little bit of research for the research. You’ll see once we get into the contract. It’s going to be all good.”
She bites her lip, shoulders hunched, then visibly lets it go. A deep breath. A relaxed posture. “Okay, Jupiter,” she says. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Good,” I correct. “It’s going to be good.”
She takes my hand, but doesn’t reply.
“What do you mean there are no flags here?” I growl through the plexiglass ticket window inside the mini-golf’s office building. “We’ve been out there for thirty minutes and I haven’t seen a single one. Not even as decoration! What sort of golf course is this?”
“A mini one?” the teenager behind the window replies.
Lyra groans. “Jove, you’re taking it up with the wrong person. This kid is not in charge of the flag content here. He’s just trying to make enough money to take his girlfriend to the movies this weekend. You’ll have to talk to the owner if you want flags.”
Hmph. “Who’s the owner?” I ask the kid.
He points to a full-to-bursting business card holder, and I snatch one, fully intending to have talks with whoever is in charge of this sham.
“Did you need anything else, sir?”
I glare. “No.”
“Okay. Have a tee-utiful day!”
Lyra grabs my hand, pulling me out of the office before I can tell him where I’d like to shove his tee-utiful day.
“Jove,” she grumbles when we reach the sidewalk outside. “You can’t talk to service workers like that.”
I scowl. “Why?”
“Because it’s rude?” she suggests.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I ask.
Sigh. Big, big sigh. “It’s got to do with human decency,” she says. “With being kind to people who are just trying to do their jobs. With having the self-control to not take out our anger on the undeserving.”
“I never take out my anger on the undeserving,” I counter. “That kid sucks.”
“Because he didn’t produce flags from some magical back room for our mini-golf?” Incredulity laces her voice.
“No, because six months ago he and his group of friends keyed Mars’ bike at the grocery store.
Mars was devastated. We needed to get it repainted and they couldn’t color match in town so we had to special order the paint online, then Mars had to clean, sand, and repaint it himself.
It took ages for the paint to come in, then ages for him to go through the whole process.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t ride his bike. He was angry and sad, and it could’ve all been avoided if that little twerp hadn’t acted like a little twerp. ”
She blinks, so adorable, then replies, “I think he drives that black pickup truck parked out back.”
“I’m not messing with a minor’s car,” I reply, heart warming at her quick defense of my brother. “I will, however, be as rude as I like to his stupid, idiot face.”
“As you should,” she declares, glaring through the office’s glass door.
A flick of my eyes shows the boy sitting at the desk on his phone, popping a gum bubble, not a care in the world. “He turns 18 in July,” I tell Lyra. “Four months. We can figure out our revenge then.”
“Oh,” she peeps. “If the revenge is anything more than keying his car back, count me out.”
I sniff. “An equal reaction does not a lesson teach,” I say. “In my experience.”
“Is that why you totalled Chrissy’s grandpa’s truck? He did something small, so you did something bigger?”
Chrissy’s grandfather did not do something small.
Chrissy’s grandfather believed his moron of a granddaughter when she said it was Lyra’s fault that he never got any visits from his beloved descendant, so he went to the town’s social page online and called Lyra a slew of nasty, horrific curse words not even one of the mafia men in my books would repeat.
Lyra isn’t online outside of her business pages, so she didn’t see it before it got taken down, but I did.
Chrissy’s grandfather is not done receiving revenge.
Neither is Chrissy, for that matter.
“Something like that,” I hedge, not wanting to upset Lyra with further proof that her ex-best friend is The Worst Person on Earth.
She frowns, bottom lip sticking out just enough to make it tip more toward cutesy than the disapproving she’s going for.
“I think mini-golf is a bust,” I say, absolutely not blatantly changing the subject or anything. “Dinner?”
She squints, letting me know she does not find me slick. “Dinner,” she agrees after a moment.
Not slick, but excused. I’ll take it.
We walk two storefronts over to Sweet & Salty, a tiny offshoot of a café duo in the city in Indiana where Brian Single lives.
He blew into town one summer talking about “the best café in America!” By the end of the season he’d somehow finagled a tiny version of the place into existence in Bandera. The townies loved it so much it stuck.
Much as I hate to admit anything positive about Brian, he was right about this place.
It’s the best café I’ve ever been to, and when it was on the verge of shutting down because the building owner developed cancer and couldn’t afford the building upkeep on top of his medical bills, I funneled my own funds into the efforts to keep it going – the café and Mr. Harrold, the owner.
A quarter of a million dollars, anonymously given.
I earned it back within a few book launches, unfortunately.
The bell rings above our heads as we enter, and we’re immediately blasted with the warm, homey scent of apple tarts and blueberry scones.
“Hey, Ly!” Vivian Rosinheld, a willowy red-head who was two years ahead of us in school, greets from behind the counter as we approach, smiling huge at my date. “Hello-” she chokes as her eyes hit me, looming behind Lyra. “Jove!” she squeaks .
“Hi, Vivi,” Lyra greets, then stops, turning abruptly toward me, hand slamming over my mouth as it opens to return my own greeting. “Before you talk,” she whispers, putting her body directly between mine and Vivian’s. “Has she ever done anything that negatively impacted Mars?”
My head shakes under her hand in a negative, and she removes it.
“Just checking,” she mutters. “Carry on.”
I do, bidding hello to a shell-shocked Vivian and starting our order. I have to repeat it twice before Vivian pulls herself together enough to input it into the system, twisting her pad around for me to choose a tip option.
Five hundred seems appropriate.
“I must have mentioned this place more than I thought,” Lyra comments while Vivian gets to work prepping our tarts and teas. “For you to know exactly what I want like that.”
“Once or twice.” Or every single letter for an entire year after the grand opening, but who’s counting. “I also have Brian’s order memorized.”
She blushes, looking away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Uh huh. I’m so sure.
“You did fail to mention where you like to sit,” I say, looking around at the sparse options. “By the window or by the toilet?” A guess I could surely not make.
She rolls her eyes, and we sit by the window.
Which is great. Until she realizes everyone outside can see us.
“Oh, goodness,” she mumbles, head ducking after Old Man Norman nearly crashes his car trying to stick his head out the window for a double take.
Lester Halloway runs into a street light while walking her cat in an attempt to act casual as she breaks her neck for a look.
George Lore, who works at the community theater, desperately needs to work on his acting if the way he’s been tying his shoe while sneaking peeks for the last five minutes is anything to go by. His shoe isn’t even untied.
“Your tarts!” Vivian chirps, setting our plates in front of us. “And tea!”
“Thanks,” Lyra whispers, hunching into herself.
“Thanks,” I echo, glaring out the window. George pales, then shoots up, scuttling away. Lester jolts, following him.
Idiots.
“It’s fine,” Lyra says, about as convincing as a death row inmate declaring their innocence.
“It’s not because I’m with you. I mean. That’s why they’re looking, of course, but that’s not why I’m…
It’s just the attention, you know? It makes me nervous.
I feel like I’m standing on a stage when all I’m actually doing is getting dinner with my friend.
Well, boyfriend, I guess. To-may-to to-mah-to at this point.
” Her hand waves as my heart rate increases.
Boyfriend.
She called me her boyfriend.
That’s… that’s book fodder for sure .
“My point is,” she continues. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not used to being so noticed, you know?”
I nod, even though I distinctly do not know. I’m a tall guy. My shoulders span an ocean, practically. I’ve never not been noticed.
Lyra, though, has spent her entire life learning how not to be noticed.
Her mother had a baby she didn’t want, then treated that baby like a burden until she believed she was one, then she spent every moment after that point reinforcing it, digging terrible thoughts into the soil of Lyra’s mind, which grew more weeds that other people, like Chrissy, watered .
My jaw clenches, and I move us to other subjects, lest I stand, exit the building, and commit a great many crimes against my date’s – my girlfriend’s – mother.
Murder comes to mind.
“Would you like a distraction?” I ask. “Perhaps an expertly crafted contract we could read, discuss, and dissect at length?”
Her shoulders relax, and she straightens in her seat. “Right,” she says. “Sorry. I forgot we’re here for a reason.” She reaches into her dress pocket, pulling out her phone, house keys, chapstick, some sort of makeup stick, a tiny pack of tissues, and, finally, the contract.
“Do you have a void bag in there?” I ask. Not even my pockets are that deep.
She laughs, sprinkling my soul with sparks of her joy, then answers, “No, I had most of my dresses tailored to have bigger pockets. I wanted to be able to fit my gardening gloves in them whenever I forgot my apron.”
My brows rise. “You have an apron?” I haven’t seen her in it either of the times I’ve caught her in her work attire.
“Somewhere,” she admits, grinning sheepishly. “Hence the pockets.”
I snort. “Right.”
“The contract?” she redirects, disappearing the rest of her objects back into her pocket.
I nod. “The contract.”
Then, over apple tarts and herbal teas, we discuss the terms of our relationship.
And we ignore half the town gathering outside to watch.