Chapter Fourteen
Don’t consume tears. It’s probably illegal.
Lyra
Jove is at my house… again.
Is my home a magnet for Rogue brothers now?
A visit from Jove where he strongarms me into writing him back has now turned into three – three!
– Rogue visits, including this one. First, it was Jove, carving up my bed posts and demanding communication.
Then, a few days later, Mars shows up “to buy flowers”.
At my front door. After working hours, despite them being clearly listed on the sign he passed to reach my door.
Unfortunately for me, a sale is a sale, and a scary maniac is a scary maniac. So I led him to the nursery and sold him some flowers through my horrified anxiety over the possibility of him mentioning his brother or my connection to him. Or, even scarier, spying for his brother.
Spying on what , I couldn’t say, especially when all he did was purchase a slew of potted orchids and leave, balancing them in his bike basket with such skill that I nearly forgot he was a scary maniac and asked him to show me how to do it myself.
Still.
Spooky.
Almost as spooky as Jove being on my doorstep for the second time in as many weeks.
“I wrote you your letter!” I protest through the little window on my front door. “You’re supposed to stay away now!”
His lips compress, and wrinkles appear beside his eyes. “I wrote you back,” he says, holding up a huge, irregularly shaped… something.
I squint at it. That’s not an envelope. It’s way too big to be an envelope. It’s…
Oh.
Oh. My. Goodness.
I scramble, stuttering over the lock in my haste to flip it free, then rip the door open to the deep rumble of Jove’s laughter, grabbing for my pretty, shimmery, giant comma butterfly.
He holds it above his head, out of my reach.
“Jupiter!” I whine, stretch stretch stretching in vein as I jump for my letter. “I want!”
In my hopping, his feet end up under mine, knocking me off balance until I’m falling, landing against his chest.
He hums, teasing, and an arm hooks around my waist to pull me tightly against him. “I’ll give it to you inside,” he says.
I have, once again, found myself in a dangerous situation due to my letter-induced tunnel vision excitement. First I’m almost run over by old man Norman, then I’m pressed up against the town Scary on my porch. What’s next? I follow a trail of ephemera straight off a cliff?
My goodness, I’m like a little crow.
“Crows are cute,” Jove says, possibly reading my mind, possibly responding to words I did not mean to say out loud. Who could say?
“This is bribery,” I inform him, pushing backward to get away from his really flagging solid chest. Does criminal behavior usually make a person so fit?
“Yes,” he answers, body following mine until we’re past my door frame and standing firmly in my living room, chest no farther from me than it was outside. “Blatant bribery, in fact. Can’t forget our adjectives.”
“I do love adjectives,” I tell him. “So why don’t you unwrap your sturdy, uninvited arms from around me, hand me that incredible, splendiferous butterfly, then walk your long, well-working legs back to your old, perfectly-running truck before you head to your cozy, safe home?”
“You’re acting uncharacteristically sassy today,” he replies. “Maybe you need your best friend here to put you in a better mood, hm?”
“You’re not my best friend.” I wiggle out of his arm and take a nice big step back, then wince. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he assures me. “Because I know you’re lying.”
I’m really not. Jupiter is my best friend. Jove is… scary. And scary is not my best friend. Surely.
I move to the living room, putting some distance between me and my not-so-welcome guest. “Do you need something? Besides dropping that off?” I ask, deluding myself into thinking I could possibly understand the machinations of Jove Rogue.
“Yes, actually, but we can talk about it after you read my letter,” he replies, dropping his arm now that I’m further away.
Um.
“I was thinking you could leave that with me, then I could write you back, then you could write me back, then we could repeat that several hundred more times.” Or zero times, since I won’t be writing him back. I will be playing crow with my butterfly and never answering my door again .
“Let’s start with you reading the letter, then we can talk about how we’ll handle things going forward. Okay?”
A jolt goes through me, sharp and uncomfortable. I couldn’t talk to him last time. Why does he think I’m going to be able to this time? Nothing has changed.
“Here,” he says, holding the butterfly out to me. “Read. The letter is tucked into the top of the right wing when you open her up.”
He approaches, gently passing her to me before skirting around me to make himself at home on my couch.
I look at him, then I look at my shiny new present, which he appears to have made out of recycled cardboard, painting it to resemble a comma butterfly, except in peach. Lyra’s Lovelies is scrawled across one wing above an intricate bit of lace ribbon, which holds the wings shut.
I run my finger along the lace, then over the classic comma shape on the butterfly’s lower wing that gives the species its name.
I suppose it couldn’t hurt anything to have a look. You know. To be polite. It’s common courtesy, really, and everyone deserves common courtesy, even criminals.
Keeping every civil rule I’ve ever learned in mind, I untie my butterfly to reveal the inside and nearly expire on the spot. I was not ready. It’s gorgeous .
Everything is peach. Butterflies litter the space, 3D wings flashing as they reach off the page.
A row of hand-drawn ants march the scallop-edged perimeter of the wing edge, then disappear into a paper pocket labelled Momentos .
A soft pink origami heart peeks out, as familiar to me as the freckles on my skin.
I know that heart. I made that heart after many, many trials and errors to send to Jupiter for our first Valentine’s Day as friends.
Dried blood stains one of the folds, a leftover from the papercuts I gave myself trying to fold the paper just right , convinced that if I gave the best Valentine, I could prove myself worthy of friendship.
Or at least con Jupiter into thinking I was.
More scraps stick up behind the heart, the nostalgia of them tugging at my soul and constricting my throat.
“Top right wing,” Jove repeats softly. “You can look at the rest later. A gift for you.”
I blink.
Right.
Letter. Read. Common Decency.
Ignoring the rest of the butterfly’s insides – including fern fronds made of paper fringe and stars scattered into constellations of caterpillars – I direct my gaze to the top right wing, where I do indeed find a letter. Folded. Into a leaf.
“What’s the theme here?” I ask. “Nature but in peach?”
Jove hums. Always with the humming. Goodness. “The theme is you, Ly. All your favorite things, and all my favorite things about you.”
“Oh,” I wheeze.
Just.
Run me over with an eighteen-wheeler, please.
In the absence of any conveniently timed semis, I gently take off the washi tape holding my leaf-letter shut, then set the giant butterfly on the coffee table so that I can unfold it.
A glance at Jove, a fortifying breath, and then I read.
My song,
I’m sorry. Not for coming to your house or holding you hostage, because without that, we wouldn’t be here, communicating now.
You’d be at your house pretending I never existed, and I’d be at mine, gutted and unaware of what I did wrong.
My hostage situation is saving us a whole lot of heartbreak, I believe.
I am sorry, though, that you seem to be under the absolutely insane notion that we won’t be continuing our friendship.
I did not spend an entire summer learning about the best plants to put into a butterfly garden for nothing.
I certainly didn’t spend a month tearing myself apart at the mere thought of losing you just for you to give me a “Welp, that was nice, goodbye forever!”
Sorry, my darling, it’s simply not happening.
I’m here and I’m not leaving. I need you.
I need your sweetness and your jokes and your kindness.
I need your thoughtfulness. I need those little moments where the beauty of your soul shines so bright, I wonder if it could be lightening the darkness within my own.
I want to be here for you. I want to love you and protect you in whatever capacity you let me, just the way I’ve always been.
Well… maybe not exactly the way I’ve always been, because if you haven’t been avoiding me for the reasons I thought, then I can love and protect you even better now – not from afar, but up close, where I can see more, say more, do more.
I love you just as dearly as I ever have. Me, Jove. Your friend.
Because, lovely, as much as you’d like to separate the Jupiter of your letters from the Jove in your living room, the reality is that I am and always have been both.
I’ve never lied to you. I’ve never purposefully misled you or manipulated you.
I’ve given you the inner parts of me that no one else, outside of my brother, has ever seen, the same as you’ve given me those parts of yourself.
I’ve told you about my mom. About how much I loved her.
About how much I miss her. I’ve told you about my dad and how lost he is without her.
I’ve told you about dumber things too, like when I had that weird mole that I was convinced and terrified was cancer.
You were with me every step of the way to finding out it wasn’t, and you were with me again when I had kidney stones and thought I was dying.
For every embarrassing moment you’ve had, I’ve matched you. For every secret you’ve told, I’ve told one too. For every bit of yourself you’ve gifted me, I’ve torn off chunks of myself to gift back, praying to the heavens that it would only be enough for you to keep loving me.
You’re my Lyra.
I’m your Jupiter.
And we always, always will be.
To the soaring skies and back,
Jupiter
P.S. I’ll write you as many checks as you like. You know this.
An eighteen-wheeler is too good for me. I deserve a much slower death.
Wet spots smatter the pale green paper when I finish, and a new one emerges as a tear falls from my nose to land on Jupiter’s name at the bottom of the page.
This is… wow. Okay. Wow.
If I didn’t already know I’m a terrible person, I certainly would now.
I’m here rejecting Jove to his face on the basis of…
what? The stuff he’s done to other people?
It’s never bothered me much before, but now it does?
Why? I’ve let people do much worse things to me than he’s ever done to anyone else, and he’s not done anything at all to me , except for exactly what he’s written here – love me, support me, and protect me.
Meanwhile, I’ve been throwing a fit and acting like a judgemental baby because my beloved pen pal wasn’t what I expected them to be in real life.
“I’m horrible,” I mumble, daring to peek at Jove.
His feet rest on the coffee table as he lounges on the couch, head tilted back and eyes aimed at the ceiling. At my words he jolts, feet hitting the floor with a clunk as he stands.
“Honey, no,” he soothes, stepping over the coffee table to get to me and wrap me in his arms. “You’re wonderful. And beautiful. And the best friend I’ve ever had.”
I hiccup, and the leaf-letter floats to the floor as my hands move to fist his shirt.
“No, you’re right. You’ve been nothing but good to me for the entire time I’ve known you, then one thing doesn’t go the way I think it should, and I throw a tantrum?
” I shake my head. “That’s awful. Even if you are big and scary to everyone else, I’ve only ever seen you be big and scary in defense of your brother, and you’ve never once been big and scary at me.
Except for that time with the ax, but I don’t think you meant to be that time.
I don’t think you realize that axes are scary.
You’ve always been a little bit oblivious.
” A breath staggers into my lungs, and he seizes the opportunity to interrupt.
“I’m not scary,” he says. “Unless you’re someone who deserves it. You don’t deserve it, and you never will, so you don’t have to worry about me.”
I nod. “I know. I know . Which is why it’s so stupid how I’ve been acting. I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
His chin rests on the top of my head as he shushes me. “You’re fine,” he murmurs. “Forgiven. Always. All I want is a life with you. I don’t care if I have to work for it sometimes, so long as this is where we end up. Together.”
Gut me, why don’t you.
“Together,” I repeat. “If you’re sure.”
He scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m sure. You think I strong arm my way into just anybody’s house?”
Um… “Yes?”
He chuckles, pulling back to find my face. “Well, I don’t,” he says, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. His eyes lock, considering, on the wetness dusting his thumb before he puts it in his mouth, sucking the salty liquid off his skin.
My jaw drops.
“Are we good?” he asks, as if he did not just drink my tears .
“Uh,” I answer, intelligent as ever.
His brows furrow. “We’re not good? You wrote me a letter. I replied.” He points at the butterfly on the table. “Communication. Apology. Forgiveness.” He gestures between us. “Hugging.” He frowns. “What’s not good?”
Oh, I don’t know, the way you just drank my flagging tears???
I don’t say that though. Looking at his face, the genuine concern on it – the intense way he is so determined for us to be good – I can only say one thing.
“We’re good, Jupiter.”