Chapter Twenty-One
Sorry, I can just… what? How do I do that?
Lyra
“This seems fine to me,” I mutter, flipping to the last page of the contract. “Was there anything specific you wanted to discuss? Most of it is common sense and being decent to each other. I can do that.” I will do that. I will be a good, decent friend if it kills me.
Jove shrugs. “Not really, no. Mars came up with most of that, and if you approve, then I’m good. I trust you two.”
Oh. Ah. No pressure there or anything.
“Perfect!” I squeak, taking a sip of my now cold tea. “We’ll just… get on with it, then?”
He nods, chill as could be. As if we are not doing anything out of the ordinary. As if everyone fake dates their best friend for research purposes. A casual Tuesday.
“We’re already on with it, I believe,” he says, cool cool cool. “All that’s left to do is continue.” And then he shoves his third apple tart into his mouth, eating the entire thing in one bite.
Jupiter Unbothered Rogue, everybody.
“What’s your middle name?” I ask, not convinced I’m wrong.
“Caelum,” he replies, possibly lying. “Why?”
“No reason!” I chirp, lifting my tea cup to my mouth and finishing off the tepid liquid.
“Yours is Eranthe, yes?”
I blink.
Yes, my middle name is Eranthe. However. I am positive I only mentioned that one singular time, somewhere around the sixth grade when I was going through my call-me-by-my-middle name phase – a phase that only lasted a week, hence me mentioning it the one time and never again.
“Lyra Eranthe Gold,” he mutters. “You know, if we made this into a marriage of convenience trope, you could be Lyra Eranthe Rogue .”
Is my face on fire? My face feels on fire.
“We’re not doing that,” I squawk.
He snorts. “But you could get half my assets in the divorce!”
Ew. Gross. No. “I do not want half your assets,” I tell him. “I can’t be trusted with that much money. I’d probably blow it all on stickers.”
“There aren’t enough stickers in the world,” he grumbles, lower lip sneaking out in a much-too-adorable-for- Jove-Rogue pout.
I have a feeling someone tried to blow it all on stickers.
“I’ve already gotten more than my fair share of spoiling from you with my bike and my greenhouse.” I pause. “And my incoming new bedframe and dining table.”
“Considering your ‘fair share’ of me spoiling you is actually me giving you everything I own and more, I have to disagree.”
“What if instead of me, you give half your assets to the truly needy: men who think they might have the flu. You could raise some real awareness.”
He hums, head tilting back in thought. “I could start a non-profit. ”
Yes, please focus on fictionally helping over-privileged men get more privilege and less on Lyra Eranthe Rogue .
“You could fund an entire facility. Like a hospital but it’s just full of couches for them to lay on while they moan. You could staff it with legitimately sick women so that the men don’t miss out on the full experience.”
“Definitely,” his head drops, eyes meeting mine. “I’ll pay them minimum wage, too, to really immerse them.”
Dark green irises sparkle at me, and the hint of a smile teases his lips.
An answering smile teases mine.
“Do you guys want anything else?” Vivi asks, popping into existence beside our table.
I start, my mouth abandoning its budding smile to form an o.
“Where did you come from?” Jove’s voice echoes my surprise, adding a displeasured edge.
“Um. Over there?” Vivi asks, pointing toward the counter.
Jove scowls at her, vengeful schemes in his eyes.
“Hasn’t done anything to Mars,” I remind him.
His scowl transfers to me, turning into a pout. “Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m not happy.”
Oh boy. “Have you tried not being not happy?” I ask.
His pout twitches. “No.”
“Consider it,” I suggest.
His mouth opens, but Vivi speaks, drawing our attention back to her. “So, um,” she hesitates. “Anything else?”
“No,” Jove grits. “We do not want anything from you.”
“Okay!” she squeaks. “Then, um. I’m so sorry, but we’re closing? If that’s okay?”
I think Jove’s eye twitches. I can’t be sure, though, because my eyes are locked on Vivi, who once did beauty pageants as a kid, put herself in every talent show the town has ever hosted, and insists on leading the summer parade every year. She has confidence in spades.
And she’s asking Jove if she can close down the café at the appointed closing time.
I know people are wary of him, but this is just silly.
“Of course you can close up,” I tell her, scooting my chair out so that I can stand. “Sorry, Vivi. We didn’t mean to keep you. Right, Jove?”
He doesn’t answer, but does rise pretty immediate-like, which I take to be an affirmation.
“That’s okay!” Vivi exclaims, stumbling back as Jove stands. “It’s really no problem at all!”
“Problem or not, we’re going now,” Jove tells her, opening his wallet to throw another tip onto the table.
Vivi gawks.
Jove shoves his wallet in his back pocket, grabs my hand, and heads for the door.
“Have a good night!” I call behind us, looking back in time to see Vivi poking at the multiple bills left on our table.
Outside, Jove steers us to his truck, face thoughtful as his thumb taps against the skin of my hand where he holds it.
Is he upset? Thoughtful isn’t upset, right?
I mean, he didn’t seem thrilled to be leaving Sweet & Salty, and our time at mini-golf was cut short, too, and we haven’t really done anything research-worthy on this research date.
As the designated romantic, I haven’t exactly curated any romantic moments for him.
I’m supposed to be helping, not just hanging out, going along on the ride.
My goodness, I haven’t initiated a single couple-like moment this entire time.
Jove picked me up. Jove paid for everything. Jove put his arm around me as we walked from hole to hole at mini-golf. Jove has been leading this thing from the beginning. All I’ve been doing is letting him.
Even right now, we’re holding hands because Jove grabbed my hand, not because of me.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask, then wince. What a stupid question. Of course he’s mad at you, idiot. You aren’t doing your job.
Jove’s eyes shoot to me, and his brows slam together. “Mad at you?” he asks. “Why would I be mad at you?”
I hate that question. There are too many answers, and I don’t want to tell him the ones he’s not already thinking of.
At my hesitation, he stops, shifting us until I’m stood in front of him, his arms around me.
My lip, unbidden, finds its way between my teeth.
“Of course I’m not mad at you, Ly,” he says softly, one of his hands traveling up my back to my neck and around, tilting my head up by my chin. “Why would you think such a silly thing?”
Avoiding eye contact this close is difficult, but not impossible. I lock onto the white strip of hair hanging over his forehead, conveniently located for my focusing purposes. “I don’t know,” I hedge. “Reasons.”
He groans, and I lose my focus point when his forehead taps mine. “No miscommunication,” he reminds me. “Only fake dating. One trope at a time, remember?”
With nowhere else to aim them, my eyes hit his, green on green.
His are the kind of green that’s green through and through.
Not like mine, which are more of a speckled amalgamation of greens and yellows.
His are green like the forest at night, like the grass after the sun sets.
Deep and wild and fresh, like you could breathe them in forever and never get enough .
Dark lashes lower, hiding some of the forest from my view. “Lyra-love,” he whispers. “Talk to me.”
As if that isn’t the scariest thing in the world.
I gulp, squeeze my own eyes shut, and blurt, “I haven’t done anything to help you with your research at all, and you’ve been holding my hand and complimenting me and doing all the date things, and all I’ve done is exist in your vicinity, and you’re never going to be able to write your book this way, and then you’ll lose your job and all your money, and you’ll live in the streets and it’ll be all my fault. ”
A long, long pause follows. Then, “Breathe, my song.”
I do – a big, gasping thing that drags against my throat and burns through my capillaries, painful.
“Again,” he orders.
I obey.
“Again.”
Over and over until my breaths come easy. Until I realize that he’s moved, straightening so that he could shove my face into his neck and my breaths are all the woodsy scent of him. I dig in further, feeling the scrape of evening stubble against my skin.
His arms, already holding me tightly to him, squeeze.
“All I need from you is your existence, Ly. Your very presence is inspiration enough for a thousand novels. You don’t have to do anything special because you are special.
All that is you – your beauty, your humor, your wit, your care and consideration for others.
The way your eyes get big when you think I’m going to insult someone.
The way you defend others with a vehemence I wish you’d defend yourself with as well.
The way that defense shatters when given a reason to shatter it, like defending my brother, which you didn’t hesitate to do.
Do you think just anyone cares enough about people to care about Mars?
I love him. I love him more than anything in this world, but I’m not blind.
I know that he isn’t easy for others to love, too.
He’s intensity and chaos, and not everyone can handle that.
But you? You can handle it. You can handle anything, my brave, sweet Lyra. ”
He sighs, nose nuzzling my hair. “My brave, sweet, silly Lyra. Thinking you aren’t helping me when simply breathing the same air as you is all I need for inspiration to strike.”
No, those are not tears running down my cheeks. What a ridiculous thing to ask.
“I don’t know what to say,” I sniffle.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he returns. “That’s the thing. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to strain yourself trying to fit into some mold you think I want you in. You can just be .”
I can just be.
As if it’s ever been that easy.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t think I’m capable of that.”
“With me, Ly,” he says. “You can do it with me.”
Right. With him.
Easy peasy, that.
“Okay, Jupiter,” I say, taking a shaky breath in. “I’ll try. With you.”
He hums his approval, the vibration of it reverberating through my chest against his.
“With me,” he echoes. Then he takes me home, where I discover a letter from him waiting for me in my mailbox.
I hold it in my hands, running a finger over my name written in Jove’s sharp handwriting, hearing his words in my head. You can just be.
Something settles within me, filtering through my body until I can, just a little bit, believe him. Until I can, just a little bit, just be .