Chapter Three
WTF
Jove
“Teach you how to fall in love?” Mars echoes, a singular eyebrow creeping up on his forehead.
I nod. “Yes. Teach me how to fall in love.”
His stare penetrates, clover green, and… judgy . “This isn’t Alabama, babe, and you already know my heart belongs to our cold hard cash.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” I sigh. “It’s just… Okay, I’m writing this book, right?”
“I have perhaps heard tales of this book , yes. It’s the mystery book shrouded in mystery, which you won’t tell me anything about because it is mysterious.
” A humored tilt lifts his lips. “Not that I’m curious, or anything.
And not that our dear, sweet editor will be curious when I’m supposed to book her for it. Or anything.”
I fall into one of the sturdy wooden chairs surrounding the table and groan. “Sit down.” I gesture to his usual seat. “I’ll tell you about it.”
“Well, will wonders never cease?” He sits, draws out a deck of cards, and begins aimlessly shuffling them, which basically means I have one hundred percent of his attention.
“The book itself isn’t the problem. It’s another holiday romcom, because I figure that we’ve already done one romantic holiday this year, we might as well do the most romantic holiday, too, you know?
Ride the wave of whatever success the Valentine book gets.
And I thought if I chose something inherently romantic but maybe not so overdone as Valentine’s Day, then it would help me get into some sort of romance-centered flow state wherein I am able to write some of the stuff I normally hoist off on you.
The ooey gooey bits. The romance portion of the romance books we’re trying to sell.
” I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
“The problem is that it’s just not working.
I haven’t got the first clue about how to create chemistry between two people or make them fall in love.
He sees her and thinks, ‘I would like to stab her with this flag handle.’ She sees him and ponders how many red flags it would take to create a suitable gag for him.
There is no love, only animosity, and I have no idea how to get them past it and into fuzzier feelings.
If you hate someone, you hate them. That’s that.
You get your revenge and you move on until they do something that necessitates another revenge. ”
I lean forward, unashamed in my desperation. “How do I make them fall in love, Mars? How do I take them from enemies into lovers in a way that feels genuine and the readers will enjoy?”
“Generally, in our genre, the sexual tension is what overcomes the whole enemies deal. They hate each other, but each other is just so hot . Hard to hate a hottie. Even when they’ve committed atrocities beyond reasonable belief.
Romance, as a genre, isn’t realistic at all.
You sneak in an emotional connection one time, and – suddenly – the expectation shifts to love.
” His cards fly between his hands. “Heck, our readers root for side characters that make eye contact one time with a desperation that results in hate mail when we don’t write their stories.
You just have moments and then make them momentier as you proceed through the book.
” Cards stop moving. Mars pauses. His eyes find mine.
“Wait. I’m sorry. Did you say we’re going from Valentine’s Day to Flag Day in a manner that suggests a natural, and even exponential, romantic growth between the two? ”
“Yes,” I confirm. “I read about it online. Flag Day’s the most romantic holiday there is. All that fabric, waving in the wind. I’m not a girlie, so I can’t explain the intricacies of how it appeals to them, but I trust my sources. And my sources confirm: the girlies love Flag Day.”
Mars does not return to shuffling his cards. “Jovey… what the flag?”
I blink, green eyes wide as they meet his incredulous ones. “What the… flag?” I ask.
His gaze holds mine, then skims upward. Thoughts flit between his eyes, calculations devolving into solutions.
Once the moment dissolves, he’s shuffling again.
“Okay. Right. Yes. Flag Day. I can see that, especially when I remember I’m also not a girlie.
The girlies have spoken, and who am I to challenge them?
Unworthy. I can, however, challenge you.
Because it seems like you’re trying to plunge me into endless ages of boredom by stealing my job. ”
“I’m not trying to steal your job,” I reply, rubbing a hand down my face. “But I make it unduly difficult when I could, with a little effort, make it easier on you. You do so much, Mars. So unbelievably much. It isn’t right and it isn’t fair, and I really, really want it to be right and fair.”
“All’s fair in love and war, babe. You handle the parts that are hard for me. I handle the parts that are hard for you. We could argue about who gives more or less, but in the end it doesn’t matter. We’re giving, because we love each other, and this is how we take care of each other.”
“Okay,” I say. “Then let me take care of you how I feel I need to, if it’s all the same.”
He’s staring at me again. With those scheming eyes. Once they close, he sighs, and smiles, and stands. “If torturing yourself makes you happy, far be it from me to stop you. I’ll just give up something else so it all stays balanced in my brain.”
I frown, not loving the idea of that. “What are you giving up now?”
Flicking the ace of hearts out between his fingers, Mars sets it before me, rustles my hair, and says, “Control.”
…know you don’t like Chrissy, so you’ll be thrilled to hear that after this letter, you’ll no longer have to hear – read? – about her. She’s finally realized, as I’m sure you will eventually, that I actually do quite suck as a person. So. That’s what that is .
Sorry for the wet spots on this letter. They’re on account of my tears, you see, because even knowing that I deserve this, it still hurts. Feelings are pesky like that, you know?
Unrelated, surely… I hope you don’t feel like I’m trapping you in this friendship.
I hope you know that you don’t have to keep writing me if you don’t want to.
I’d never want to obligate you into doing something you don’t want.
I love you far too much for that. I’d much rather you be happy.
Even if that happiness is without me. I don’t want to ever make you feel stuck.
I’m sorry for the short letter. I’ll add some extra goodies to make up for it – I found a whole section of comma butterflies at the craft store last time I was there.
The owner, Margaret, said she ordered them special for someone, but I convinced her to let me buy them all.
Well, bribed her, more like. I paid triple what she was asking.
Worth it, though. So worth it, especially if you love them as much as I do.
Love you as big as Lester Halloway’s cat,
Lyra ?
I’d like to throw Lester Halloway’s enormously fat cat at Chrissy’s stupid, ugly head. Right after I shake some sense into my sweet, adorable, lovely little idiot of a friend.
I forgo my usual letter-making process – a process which involves creating a multi-pocketed flipbook covered in stickers and scrapbook-esque other decorations to hold all of the letters, stickers, papers, and random other bits I’ve collected to send to her – and head straight to my stationery drawer to pull out a pale peach sheet of paper to write my response.
Typically, the letter is the very last thing I do before sealing and sending off my correspondence to Lyra.
Typically, Lyra isn’t implying that I’d be happier without her in my life.
Without prepping the paper – not a sticker or ripped piece of ephemera to be found – I put pen to paper.
My dearest Lyra, the music of my soul, the beating of my heart,
What. The. Flag?