Chapter Seventeen
Chapter titles are hard, and I don’t want to.
Jove
“And here you can see that these ones have a more ovular end, right? Compared to the classic flag, it’s much more homey, much less sharp. The people who have this flag aren’t rule followers. They’re loose. They’re fun. They’re carefree!”
I nod, captivated – for possibly the first time ever – by a Brianna mail rant.
She does this occasionally. Some new stamp gets released or mailbox height standards in rural areas change and she has opinions .
Opinions that I am forced to listen to if I want to get my mail, which, of course, I do.
She once locked one of Lyra’s letters in the cash register until I listened to her full monologue on the overabundance of floral stamps.
Usually, I’m uninterested.
Usually, she’s not talking about flags – red flags to be exact.
This though… this is research .
“What would you say people typically gravitate toward?” I ask, eyes roving the catalog laid out on the mail counter. “And which shade of red?”
A wild townie appears with five hundred questions about how to ship a package, and I have to wait before Brianna can answer. My thumb taps the counter.
How difficult is shipping a package, really?
You slap a shipping label on it and give it to Brianna.
Brianna waves her magic mail wand, and it gets where it needs to go.
Problem solved. Easy. Why would anyone need to know whether or not their box is going to be “scanned by those freaky red lasers” in the process?
“They’re going to scan it,” I interrupt Brianna’s fourth reiteration of the importance of proper mail tracking to Bill Rugby, the local tire guy.
“Ship it or scram. We’ve got more important things to do.
” Like pinpoint which shade of red the public likes best so I can forward the information to Mars to give to Frank, our beloved cover artist.
Bill clears his throat, which does nothing to rid his voice of squeak when he replies, asking Brianna to do whatever she has to.
She assures him she will, bids him a good day, then takes approximately five hundred business days in the backroom waving her magic wand before getting back to me.
“The preferred flag color, actually, is fluorescent orange,” she informs me.
I scowl. Absolutely not. “What’s the preferred shade of red , I asked.”
“Well, it really depends on the color of the mailbox,” she does not answer me.
I revisit my plan to sabotage her mail truck.
“Brianna,” I grit. “Answer the question.”
She hems. She haws. She flirts with swift, unrepentant tire slashing.
A growl rips out of me, threatening to take the entire post office down with her.
“Oh, chill out,” she says, eyes rolling. “Bright red. Usually. But, seriously, it depends on the mai–”
“I’m leaving,” I tell her, snapping the catalog closed. “Give me my mail.”
She sniffs. “I don’t care for your tone.”
I grunt. “I don’t care for your… you.”
“Is there a reason that Mars doesn’t come to get the mail?” she asks. “He’s a lot more pleasant to be around.”
“Because Mars rides a bike,” I reply, the duh loud and clear. “What, he’s going to lug around twenty pounds of mail in his basket? Don’t be stupid.”
Brianna, unfortunately, does not know how not to be stupid. “How about you not be bossy and rude when you’re in here? It says a lot about a person how they treat service workers, you know.”
My brows slam together. “You’re not a service worker,” I refute. “You’re Brianna .”
She stares at me.
I stare back.
This goes on until the bell above the door rings, heralding more townies with more tedious questions for her to answer.
“I have service work to do,” she tells me, saccharine, before snatching my box of fan mail – and Lyra’s letter – and plonking it on the counter. “Sign the machine, sir, then you can have a wonderful day.”
Ignoring her tone, I sign, then grab the box. My middle finger may or may not be prominent from her point of view. “Until next time,” I say, all congeniality.
At home, I drop off our fan mail in Mars’ room before wandering to the kitchen with Lyra’s letter – an adorably purple thing that was nearly impossible not to sneak peeks at while she was making it.
Her table has way more than a couple of planets adorning it now, all thanks to my dedication to maintaining the sanctity of the letter-making process.
I’m sure the frown Lyra bid me farewell with was a frown of gratefulness for my extreme self-control as well as my contributions to her household decorating. I am, as ever, at her service.
In the kitchen, a freshly iced carrot cake calls my name. I cut a perfectly proportional piece, pour myself a glass of milk, and settle in at the table to read Lyra’s letter.
Dear Jupiter,
I’m sure you noticed, but I’m going to say it anyway. I love the butterfly. Love love love it. I know I asked if you planned to take it back, but you have to know that I would have fought you to the death if you had said yes.
It is, by far, the most beautiful, most thoughtful, most soul-moving gift I have ever gotten. I’m going to treasure it forever. I’m already running through ways I can display her and still have access to the goodness inside. I think mayb-
…
Jupiter. I’ve just glanced up, and you appear to be carving the entire milky way into my table. And is that the Starship Enterprise? I make one Star Trek reference and it’s immortalized into my table forever?
You know what. No. Nevermind. You do you. I’m not going to sass a man with a knife. Especially when he can afford to replace the table, and it’ll feel about the same to him as buying a pack of gum does to me.
You know, somehow, even with the blatant destruction of property, I’m glad you came over tonight.
You feel both foreign and familiar at the same time, which is a little petrifying, but it’s nice, too.
I’ve spent so much time focusing on you being Jove, I’ve forgotten to marinate on the fact that you’re also Jupiter.
My Jupiter, from the letters, finally here in person. I could touch you! You exist!
I really hope I can get past my change-is-bad-and-I-hate-it scaredness to fall into the comfortable friendship you’re offering me.
Quickly, preferably. I just don’t really know how?
I hate asking you to be patient with me when you already have been so…
well, not exactly patient. Understanding is a better word.
Steadfast. Stubbornly set on keeping this friendship no matter the work it takes to make it happen.
I mean, goodness, I’ve never felt so sure that someone is going to stick around – whether I’m inviting them to or not.
I know it might not seem like it, what with the fact that you terrify me and all, but I’m grateful you keep showing up.
You were right in your letter – you are still my friend, the same one you’ve always been.
The one who knows me better than anyone else, including my faults and embarrassing moments, and still chooses to love me enough to fight for this friendship when I’m being… well, me.
Thank you, Jupiter, for fighting for us. I’m sorry that I haven’t been doing the same.
I want to make it up to you. This dating thing is even more scary than the you being a man thing, but I promise you I will do everything that I can to make it work for you. I’m all in. Helping. Being a good friend. Proving to you that I am not totally sucky and all your efforts are worth it.
Ah, you’ve moved from the table to the chair with your carvings. I believe that means it’s time to wrap this up.
Please stop ruining my furniture,
Lyra ?
I finish the letter frowning.
That’s an improvement, I suppose, but I’d love to get us to the point where I am no longer terrifying to her. Top priority, that. Then, we’ll work on how much she apologizes. Sweet, perfect Lyra uttering sorrys , as if she has ever been anything but perfect?
I shake my head as I shove a bite of cake into my mouth.
We’ll work on it. Maybe even while we’re researching. It can be a two birds, one stone kind of situation.
I can get knowledge and inspiration for my book, and Lyra can experience the kind of obsession one of my male leads has – an all-encompassing, intense, burn-down-the-world-for-you sort.
As a result, she will see that she is worthy of all love and devotion because she is the best this world has to offer. Birds, meet stone.
Humming my satisfaction at a plan well laid, I deposit my empty plate and cup in the dishwasher, replenish Ginger the hamster’s water, and make my way to my room .
At my desk, words flow like water, flooding the pages of my manuscript with the sort of magic only Lyra can provide. I get lost in them, squeezing every last drop of inspiration out of my evening with Ly until I’m left depleted, empty, dehydrated in the desert.
I check my word count.
Five thousand added. Five thousand in… four hours.
Wild. Absolutely wild.
My arms lift above my head in a stretch, shoulders rolling, and my neck cracks. I should probably take a break from my desk. Get up. Move my body.
My eyes snag on Lyra’s letter, and I know I will not be doing any such thing. Instead, I push my laptop aside, trading it for an assortment of stickers, pens, highlighters, tapes, and papers.
“My darling Lyra,” I murmur, copying the words onto a piece of sage green stationery. “You’re welcome for the one of a kind, exclusive wood carvings…”