Chapter Twenty-Six
We call this character growth.
Lyra
In my feverish state last week, I made the mistake of giving Jove my cell phone number, which he – in proof of our best friend compatibility – had also not saved.
“In case I have to cancel again,” I had said, as if the kidnapping lunatic had shown any sign at all that he would let me cancel.
Even near death, he dragged me to his house to languish in his bed.
So what if it was restorative? And comfortable.
And actually incredibly nice. It was all of those things under a big, flying banner of red.
Jupiter: Have you written me back yet?
Lyra: You can’t rush perfection.
Jupiter: So you haven’t even started, then?
Lyra: . Mind your business.
Jupiter: Don’t you know by now? You are my business.
Why did I give him my number? And why do I keep responding to his text messages?
Because you’re a chronic people pleaser, Lyra, that’s why.
What an idiot.
Jupiter: If you don’t have it done tonight, you can write it during our date. I’ll bring my laptop and get some words in. Work date!
Work date… does he think that’s a thing?
Lyra: Work date is an oxymoron.
Jupiter: Not in an office romance.
Lyra: Are you writing an office romance?
Jupiter: …
Jupiter: Mind your business.
Ah. Right.
I snort.
Lyra: We can have the work date so long as you leave your knife at home.
Jupiter: D: But what if some poor woman’s furniture needs an artisan touch? I’m supposed to leave her in her deprivation?
Lyra: Yes. No knife or no date. You choose.
Jupiter: You’re a cruel, cruel girlfriend .
Jupiter: I’ll leave the knife under Mars’ care.
Bless. My furniture is safe for another night.
I confirm the time of our date with Jove, then spend the next hour repotting plants for customers.
Just me, the butterflies, and the soil. It’s not my favorite service I offer, but it’s not my least favorite either.
Half the hour is spent tackling a monstera with extensive root rot, which ends up looking more like a twig than a houseplant by the time I’m done with it.
I wince and hope the owner understands. She just needed some…
trimming. She’ll come back bigger and better for it.
In a few months.
And you know customers. Real good at seeing the big picture and being super patient waiting to see the results. So good at it. Always.
I scratch my nose, then remember that my hands are covered in fertilizer and dirt. Yikes.
Wiping my nose with the hem of my dress instead – because I’ve once again forgotten to put on my apron, I decide that now is as good a time as any to call it a day.
I give my workbench a quick organization, then jump as I’m snuck up on in my greenhouse for the second time in as many weeks.
“I’m here for my stuff,” a familiar, not entirely welcome voice snips from the doorway.
I turn, squinting against the afternoon light to see Chrissy standing there, arms crossed tight against her chest. “Chrissy?”
“My stuff, Lyra. I want my stuff. I can’t believe I’ve even had to come all the way out here to get it. The least you could do is not play a bumbling idiot when I show up.”
I blink, appalled. Then I wonder why I’m so surprised. This is how Chrissy talks to me. This is always how Chrissy’s talked to me. Why should I expect any different?
“The least you could do,” Jove’s voice rumbles behind her, “is not show up at someone’s house making demands and hurling insults when you’re asking for a favor.”
Chrissy spins, arms falling as she comes face to face with Jove.
I move through the rows of plants scattered amidst my greenhouse until I’m feet away from them and Jove’s looming figure is clear.
“I’m not asking for a favor,” Chrissy blusters. “She has my stuff and I want it back. She’s lucky I’m not asking for more. She owes me after the way she’s treated me. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Seems my business when someone is speaking that way to and about my girlfriend, who’s never been anything but kind and respectful to you despite your constant attitude and horrific behavior.”
Chrissy scoffs. “Like you’re one to talk about ‘horrific behavior’. You ruined my grandpa’s truck.”
“He deserved it,” Jove replies, nose scrunching as he takes Chrissy in.
Her hands hit her hips, and I instinctively take a step back.
Jove’s head whips toward me, eyes narrowing. “Love?” he asks, holding his arm out for me.
No hesitation, I scurry over to him, squeezing as far from Chrissy as I can get in the doorway, barely clearing an outstretched elbow.
Jove’s arm lands on my shoulders when I reach him, pulling me into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mimicking his casual, I wrap my own arms around his waist and lean my head against his chest.
“Is she paying you or something?” Chrissy asks, drawing Jove’s eyes away from me. “Is that what this is?” She sneers. “Or is it charity work?”
Oof.
“What stuff does Lyra have of yours?” Jove asks, ignoring her questions.
She sniffs. “My favorite lip gloss is here, and she has one of my sweaters.”
Silence meets her.
She’s acting like this over… lip gloss?
“It’s discontinued,” she defends. “And I want it back.”
Right. “Okay,” I mutter, ducking out of Jove’s hold. “Give me a minute.”
“I’ll come with you,” she clucks. “I don’t trust you not to ruin it before you bring it out here.”
“You’ll go to the sidewalk out front, and you’ll wait there,” Jove rumbles. “You’re not stepping foot in Lyra’s house, and once you hit sidewalk, you’re not stepping foot on her property ever again either.”
“I know you think you’re big and bad and can do whatever you want,” she hisses. “But you’re not in charge here. It’s my stuff. I’ll make sure it’s retrieved without issue.”
Jove’s eyes darken, and he steps forward. “You’ll stay on the sidewalk, or the least of your concerns will be a missing lipgloss.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me?”
“Yes,” he answers. “And you’d do well to heed it.”
Chrissy does not like that. Not. One. Bit.
“You don’t scare me, Jove Rogue,” she spits, leaning forward with murder in her eyes.
I lean back as far as Jove’s arm allows, avoiding spit and malice.
Jove does not like that. Not. One. Bit.
Hostilities rise, and I squeak. “I’ll be right back with her stuff!”
I book it down the mosaic path that leads to my front door, grateful when I hear Jove’s heavy footfalls behind me, squishing on wet leaves and separating me from a huffing Chrissy following in the rear.
At the front of the house, Jove blocks her way as I ascend the porch, standing wide legged in front of my steps with a simple, “No.”
Chrissy tries to step past him.
Jove’s arm whips out, hooks around her waist, lifts her, and deposits her back in front of him.
She tries again, glaring.
Effortlessly, he moves her back to her spot on the sidewalk.
“This is abuse!” she screams. “You can’t touch me like that!”
I blink.
She did not just say that, in that tone, implying that Jove is in the wrong here – that he’s doing harm to her by oh-so-gently keeping her back from my property, a place where she is not invited or welcome?
When he, by all accounts, has been handling her as respectfully as possible while also keeping me safe?
Absolutely no, she did not.
She did not.
Except. She did.
“Chrissy,” I call over the porch railing.
She transfers her venom to me. “Call your freaking dog off, Lyra. Or I’ll have him put in a cage.”
“If you don’t do what he says, and be polite to him while doing it,” I respond.
“I’ll have you put in a cage. I know how you got that lipgloss, Chrissy, and I know it wasn’t legal.
I also know how you got those shoes you’re wearing.
And the dress you wore to graduation. And your purse, and your jeans, and about half of the things you own.
And I saved every message I’ve ever gotten from you.
I have you admitting to all of that borrowing you did, with time stamps.
I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations isn’t up on, oh, half of the things you’ve stolen? ”
Her jaw clenches and her hands fist at her sides, but she doesn’t say anything – to me or to Jove.
I wait a beat to make sure we are fully on the same page, then head inside, beelining for my bedroom.
Under my bed is a small cardboard box filled with random items of Chrissy’s I found around my house in the immediate aftermath of her dropping our friendship, when I was crying more than I was breathing and my chest still ached when I saw reminders of her.
Now, looking at this box, all I can wonder is… why?
Why did I give her so much of my care, time, and energy when she’s so… Chrissy.
Am I really that much of a doormat?
Do you even have to ask?
Even now, I would have let her treat me like that – mean, dismissive, ugly. I would’ve let her walk all over me, invade my home, get her stuff, and taken whatever verbal beating she wanted to give me all the while.
If it weren’t for Jove.
He protected me, physically and emotionally getting between me and the threat to my well-being. He bolstered me, my love for him driving me to stick up for him and forcing me to, in a way, stick up for myself too. To show Chrissy that actually, you can’t treat him or me like that. I won’t allow it.
I won’t allow myself to be trod on. Not when it means allowing my friend – a true, genuine friend – to be trod on with me .
I will be brave. I will have courage.
I am brave. I have courage.
A weight that has been forever tethered to my chest lifts, butterfly light, and takes off. The burden of being me twists in the back of my mind, light shining through the tangle of my thoughts until it looks more like a blessing through the vines.
I am a garden, thriving and beautiful.
And Chrissy is a weed I’ve just stomped out.
I smile, snatching the box and walking outside with more confidence than I’ve ever been able to pretend I have.
“Here’s your stuff,” I say, dropping it on the sidewalk behind Jove and pushing it toward her with my foot. I ignore the way her nose wrinkles and the nasty look on her face as she reaches down for her things. “Now, if you don’t mind, we have a date to get to.”