Chapter Twenty-Seven
Puppy dog eyes should be illegal.
Lyra
“Sticking up to a terrible person is kind of invigorating,” I declare, dragging Jove into my house. “Did you see me? I did so good! Tell me I did so good.”
“You did so good,” he says. “I’m going to cover her lawn in bleach the first chance I get anyway, though. Just in case she doesn’t quite get how good you did.”
I jerk to a stop, spin, and stare at him. “But…” I blink. “I blackmailed her?”
He smiles, soft and fleeting, then digs a hand into my hair and drags it through. “You did, and quite beautifully. Still. Lawn, meet bleach.”
Um. “Do you think that has more to do with your own personal satisfaction than with her getting what she deserves? If she leaves us alone, then I think her crummy, horrible life with her crummy, horrible attitude is pretty much punishment enough.”
“Disagree,” he replies, hand coming up again to make another journey through my hair. “Hard disagree, actually. She’s getting bleached.”
I tip my head to ask the ceiling, “Do my efforts count for nothing?”
Jove uses his hand in my hair to tilt my head back toward him.
“Your efforts mean everything,” he says.
“I’m so proud of you, I could burst. You should have seen her while you were gone, pouting on the sidewalk like a little kid who’s been told no for the first time ever.
It was glorious, the way you shut her down.
But, Lyra-love, people like that? They go home to their little coward caves, and they recover.
A hit like that is nothing compared to what they usually dole out.
You cow them, and they’re embarrassed for a little while, but then?
They get angry. They remember how crappy of a person they are, and they come back, swinging their hardest.” He pauses, the calluses of his hand pressing into my cheek as it rests there.
“Unless, of course, you destroy all their worldly possessions and remind them, often and harsh, that you’re the bigger baddie.
That starts with ruining her pristine grass.
Then continues as I do a little more research and find out just what will hit her the hardest. Car troubles?
House troubles? Job troubles?” He shrugs.
“I’ll figure it out and I’ll make it happen, and the result will be that she never messes with you again.
That she never even so much as looks at you again. ”
His forehead hits mine.
“You protected me out there, Ly. I saw it, and I’m grateful.
Won’t even protect yourself but me? Big, scary me?
You jumped right in. No hesitation. No thought.
” His breath shudders in, then out, hitting my face in a mix of peppermint and gratefulness.
“I treasure that, Lyra. Forever I treasure you loving me enough to stick up to one of your living nightmares for me. It means the world to me. So now I’m going to love you right back by making sure you never have to be in that situation again. ”
Ah. Right.
Right.
I sniffle. “Oh. ”
“Yeah,” he whispers, lips tipping up. “Oh.”
Clearing my throat, I step away, out of his embrace and into the cold, empty space behind me. I wipe the wetness from my eyes and decide that he can bleach Chrissy’s lawn if he wants to. I guess. Who am I to argue? Maybe he can do my mom’s lawn while he’s at it.
He chuckles when I tell him so, drawing my attention away from my dress sleeves and back to him.
I wince.
I’d forgotten I had a days’ worth of dirt on me, some of which is now smudged on Jove’s forehead. And hands. And arms. And shirt.
He’s a very tactile man, I’ve learned, and it shows right now more than ever.
“Um,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry, but I seem to have gotten you dirty.”
He glances down, then shrugs. “It’ll wash.” His eyes dart to me. “Then you will, too. I’ll take the bathroom first, then you can shower.”
I nod. An excellent plan.
That is, until Jove gets out of the bathroom, and I find out that part of the plan involved him losing his shirt.
“You’re naked!” I squawk, looking away before the flash of exposed skin and ink can imprint itself on my mind. “What are you doing?”
“My shirt is wet,” he says. “I got the dirt out before it could stain, but the shirt is soaking now. I hung it up over your shower rod. I’d throw it in the dryer, but I don’t want to dry in any spots I might have missed and set the stains.”
I gulp, flicking my eyes in his direction, then away. “That makes sense,” I squeak.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks. “I don’t have another shirt with me, or I’d throw one on, and I don’t think even the oversized ones you’ve said you like to sleep in would fit me?”
No, they most certainly would not. I buy oversized, not gargantuan sized.
“It’s okay!” I lie. “You’re a guy. Guys sometimes don’t wear shirts. Totally normal in our culture – even in public! Which this isn’t. So definitely very, very fine.”
“Ly-”
“I’m going to shower now! Make yourself at home!”
As if he hasn’t already.
I scurry past him, eyes averted, and lock myself in the bathroom.
A look in the mirror has me flinching. Note to self: blushing does not look cute under several layers of potting soil and dirt.
I hurry through a shower, poking Jove’s shirt out of the spray of water before scrubbing myself raw.
When I get out, my skin is comparative to a freshly cooked lobster’s, and I feel cleaner than I ever have in my life.
That is, until I realize that in my hurry to escape the shirtless man in my house, I forgot to grab clothes for after my escape.
Ha.
Cool.
Um…
“Jove!” I yell, twisting the knob to open the door the itsy bitsy-est amount possible.
“Need something?” he asks, footsteps heading toward me quick on my hardwood floors.
“No!” I yelp. “Just. Um. I forgot to grab clothes? So I’m going to need you to not look this direction while I make a run for it to my room.”
A pause, followed by a choked, “You don’t have clothes?”
“Please, Jove. Go to the kitchen? And don’t come out until I tell you it’s all clear? ”
“Is this payback?” he asks. “I take my shirt off, and you flounce around the house naked?”
My jaw drops. “I’m not flouncing anywhere! And I have a towel on! And I’m telling you to go away while I quickly zip to my room to get clothes on! More than you are doing, by the way, mister doesn’t-have-an-extra-shirt.”
“I’m going to the kitchen,” he groans. “Please do not take your streaking in there.”
Streaking! As if this is fun for me?
“Once I’m dressed, I’m going to strangle you,” I promise. “You obnoxious boy .”
He makes an unintelligible noise and backs away from the bathroom door. “You keep your hands to yourself, temptress.”
Several moments later he rumbles through the house the news that he is safely tucked away in the kitchen. “Maintaining my dignity!”
I roll my eyes and make a run for it down the hall, slamming my bedroom door behind me, then locking it.
“Safe!” I holler, then book it to my closet. I dress quickly, throwing on the first dress I find and hoping it isn’t the sort to become see-through with my hair dripping water on it.
Thankfully, when I take the time to look at it, I find myself wearing a forest-green cotton midi dress. It matches Jove’s eyes almost perfectly, and is blessedly opaque, even under the torrential downpour coming from my head.
I find a t-shirt to wrap my hair in, solving the water down my neck issue, take a deep breath, and exit my room.
I find Jove still in the kitchen, hands over his eyes which are pointed firmly up.
“I’m completely decent,” I sniff, pointedly not looking at his chest. Or stomach. Or strong, tattooed arms. “Which is more than we can say for you. ”
His head falls as his fingers spread, allowing him to take a cautious peek at me.
He groans. “I thought you said you were decent!”
I panic, wondering if the dark green of my dress wasn’t a match for my wet hair after all, but I find nothing scandalous when I look down.
I mean, okay, my dress could probably stand to be a little higher cut, but I don’t think it’s that bad.
“What’s wrong with my outfit?” I ask, twisting to check the back. “It seems fine to me.”
“You look utterly radiant! Incandescent! Not fit for human eyes to see!”
I blink.
“Were you always this dramatic? I could’ve sworn you used to be scary.”
“I was never scary,” he comments, ink-covered arms dropping. “Not for you.”
I’d respond, but…
Well, a girl can only last so long, you know?
My gaze drops, snags on his chest – where a copy of my own necklace rests above his beating heart, thumping the metal ever-so-slightly in time with its rhythm – then roves over to an arm.
Here, what would be sharp lines of muscle are softened by the flow of ink, a cascade of colors starkly contrasted by the black-and-gray on his other arm.
I squint, head tilting at a cluster of colors that look familiar.
I step closer to see, then my jaw drops.
“That’s the butterfly I drew for you in sixth grade,” I say, as if he does not know.
“I spent hours trying to get the wings perfectly symmetrical. I used rulers and everything, but it still turned out wonky. You got that tattooed?”
He hums an affirmative and the butterfly twitches as his muscles contract, then relax. “I got more than that. Look.” He lifts his arm in offering.
So I do. I take the permission to run my eyes along his artwork, which, upon inspection, is actually my artwork.
Doodles I’ve sent him. Words I’ve written.
My signature, heart nestled beside it, over and over, filling in the space between depictions of stickers I’ve gifted and drawings I’ve made.
I’m everywhere, covering every space between his wrist and shoulder, then bleeding out onto his chest and, when I walk around to check, his back.
My inhale stumbles its way into my lungs, burning.
“Jupie, this is…” Wow. “When did you get all these?”
He peeks at me over his shoulder, gaze soft. “Whenever I wanted,” he answers.
Blood rushes loud in my ears. “You must have wanted pretty often,” I whisper, tracing a shooting star with my finger. “Some of these are from before it was legal for you to get tattooed.”
“I got my first two at fifteen,” he says.
“One for you.” He turns, pointing to a fern frond sketch I don’t remember drawing, mostly because I used to draw them on everything .
“And one for Mars.” He points to a Joker card on his other arm, surrounded by just as many if not more seemingly random things as the arm he’s dedicated to me.
“Are those all for Mars?” I ask, poking at a slice of carrot cake on his forearm. “How come these are in black and gray?”
“Because I have always gotten to experience Mars’ colors in person, vibrant and explosive. To bleed some into my skin felt redundant when I see it every day.”
I glance at the arm reserved for me, a riot of rainbow hues.
“Yours could only ever be in color,” he murmurs. “To dull you is to harm you, and I would never do that.”
I blink back a surge of wetness in my eyes. “Only brothers get dulled, huh?” I ask, an attempt at levity in a moment that feels heavy. Beautiful, soul-wrenching, heart- moving – but heavy.
“Do you think Mars would let something so small as ink dull him?” He shakes his head. “When I had this conversation with him, he said, and I quote, ‘Whatever you say, brother mine, but a couple of black lines aren’t going to dull my shine.’”
I snort, and Jove chuckles.
“Do you like them?” he asks, twisting his colorful arm at me. “I think Brandi did them justice quite well.”
My eyes widen. “Brandi did these?”
He nods. “Of course. Who else would I go to?”
A million moments race through my head of Brandi – friendly Brandi, with her ready smiles and not-so-quick chats. The way she’s never once treated me as a stranger, even when I was one.
Except, apparently, I wasn’t quite.
“She’s very talented,” I say. “It can’t be easy purposefully tattooing the wobbly lines of a pre-teen artist.”
He shrugs. “Seemed easy enough for her.”
So. Talented.
“Enough of this, though,” he says. “We have important business to get to.”
Ah. Right. “We can’t go out in public with you shirtless,” I tell him. “I don’t care how little you care for laws. Public indecency is not an act I will help you commit.”
“That’s fine,” he replies. “What I had in mind doesn’t require leaving the house.”
“Oh?”
He grins, and my nerves spark. That can’t be good.
“You’re going to write me a love letter tonight, Lyra-love.”
Um.
What ?
“I can’t write you a love letter,” I squeak. “Are you crazy?”
The question is rhetorical. He is, of course, crazy. I know that.
“No,” he lies, the lying liar. “It’s for research, Ly.
I was writing last night, getting a trillion words thanks to you, but then I came up on a love note I need to write and I just. Couldn’t?
” He winces. “I’ve written thousands of letters, maybe even hundreds of thousands, but this one has me…
Well, I spent four hours attempting it and I have two lines. And those two lines are trash.”
“Have you tried searching them up online?” I ask, feeling for his plight but also really quite desperate to not write this man a love letter. One does not write their best friend a love letter. It’s in the code or something.
“The ones online are stupid,” he says. “And stinky. I need an expert’s touch.” He gestures at me. “As a professional letter writer and life-long romantic, who could be more expert than you?” His eyes widen, and thick, dark lashes flutter over them. “Please, Ly? Won’t you help me?”
He clasps his hands, bringing them up with his plea.
“Are you doing puppy dog eyes?” I groan. “That can’t be a legal maneuver. Where’d you even learn those?”
“From Mars,” he says. “He has a one hundred percent success rate with them.”
Yeah, I bet he does.
His brother is about to, also.
I sigh, and Jove smiles, pulling me in for a hug that nearly breaks my ribs. “Thank you, Ly-Ly. You’re a hero.”
Somehow, I doubt it.