Chapter Twenty-Eight
Love letters are hard.
Lyra
What am I doing?
Well, Lyra, you’re writing a love letter. Obviously. With the recipient right beside you, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye every twenty seconds even though he said he’d keep his eyes on the movie.
“Jove, I can’t do this with you watching me,” I tell him. For the fourth time.
“I’m not watching you,” he replies, also for the fourth time.
Seriously, since when is he such a liar?
“If you keep sneaking, I’m going to go do this in my room,” I warn.
He wrinkles his nose and aims his eyes at the TV. “Fine,” he pouts. “I’ll be good.”
Mmhm. I believe that.
Side eying Pinnochio, I pick up a pen. To write my love letter. To send to Jove.
I’ve spent the last two and a half hours procrastinating this moment.
First, I made a flipbook. Then, I gave that flipbook about a thousand pockets, taking my dear, sweet time finding the perfect stickers and ephemera to fill them with.
After that, I decorated it all in a maximalist’s dream style, throwing more and more on until I couldn’t see the paper beneath.
Once I’d used up as much time on the flipbook as I could, I moved on to the stationery I’d write on, adding doodles and stickers along the borders and creating cute spots to write the greeting and the salutation.
Unfortunately for me, after all that, I had nothing left to do. Except. You know. The letter itself.
A final glance at Jove to make sure he’s truly behaving, a deep breath, and a “you can do it, Lyra.” muttered under my breath, then it’s time.
Dear Jupiter,
Wait. No. That’s not right…
Dear Jupiter,
My dearest Jupiter,
Yes. Good. Perfect, even. Totally lovey.
Um. What next?
Sly and subtle, I grab my phone off the coffee table and open the internet, then type How to write a love letter into the search bar. I click on the first result I find, ignore their blatant use of the word “passion”, and find myself at the start of a perfectly followable list.
What blessings.
Step One: Tell them why you’re writing this letter.
Okay. Easy enough.
I’m writing you this letter under duress, because a big, scary man came into my house, took his clothes off, and threatened me with puppy tears should I not. It was most distressing, as you can imagine. Or, you know, remember.
Step Two: Tell them one or two qualities you admire about them.
Despite your complete lack of modesty, the secrets it’s revealed about you are quite touching.
I’ve always been jealous of your love for your brother, wishing I had someone who would love me with such a fullness, and today you’ve shown me the proof on your person that I already have someone who loves me that much – and I always have, really.
The depths at which you unashamedly care for the people you love, no matter what the outside world might think of them or of you, is beautiful, Jupie. It’s special.
You are special. The way you pay attention to people – to figure out the best revenge for an adversary or the best gift for a loved one, whichever – is incredible.
You’re intelligent and considerate. Unbelievably kind when you feel it’s deserved.
You are not a man who does things by half-measures, and I really appreciate that about you. One way or another, you’re all in.
This love letter writing stuff is not at all as hard as I thought it would be. All I have to do is compliment him? I do that anyway. He’s got loads of letters full of me gushing over him.
I frown.
So then what makes this any different from that? What constitutes a love letter versus a letter full of love?
I find out quickly upon consulting my list.
Step Three: Compliment their physical qualities.
I cough. Blush. Perhaps, die.
I don’t have to do this, right?
I mean, surely not.
Surely .
Jove knows what he looks like. He knows he’s… seriously flagging hot.
Right?
I turn my head, eyes ghosting over his broad shoulders on their way to his face.
“I’m not looking,” he grumbles.
“No, no, I know!” squeak, then laugh, an awful, awkward sound. “I have a question.”
His eyebrows raise as he faces me, pointedly not looking at the letter. “Yes?”
Ah. Well. Now that he’s ready for it.
I clear my throat. Stare at his nose. Wonder how, exactly, I’m going to get the courage to ask him this.
“Lyra?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
“Do you know how you look?” I blurt, eyes darting to the wide expanse of his chest, then back up.
He blinks. “Do I know how I look?” he asks.
I nod, pressing my lips together. “Yes.”
His head tilts. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I worry my lip, afraid of what might happen should I have to expand on the question. Then, in a stroke of genius, I wave a hand at him. “That.”
Eloquence is my middle name.
His brows furrow, and he shoots a cursory glance down at his own body.
My eyes follow his, getting further than they previously have, coasting over his belly and reaching the point where his jeans rest against strong hips before I jerk them away, my cheeks on fire.
“Ah,” Jove deadpans. “That. Very clarifying, the word that .”
I inspect his face, looking for any signs of false humility.
Sadly for me, Jove does not appear to have a single clue what I mean.
I muster up the courage to be a little more specific in the hopes of sparing me the task of immortalizing the words of his attractiveness on paper forever – then sending it to him, a true nightmare.
“That you’re hot,” I manage to say before my already burning face scorches.
My phone digs into my hand as I grip, ready to call the fire department should the situation worsen.
Jove’s face blanks. Fully, one percent blanks. “No,” he says. “Could you expand on that?”
I squawk. “No!” Not out loud, anyway. It’s bad enough I’ll have to write it. “Sorry! Go back to your movie!”
“I really don’t think I want to,” he says.
“Too bad!” I yelp, twisting back to my letter. “Very busy! Movie time!”
Slowly, reluctantly, he turns to the movie.
Slowly, reluctantly, I start writing.
It has come to my attention that you are somehow unaware of the appealing nature of your outer shell. According to a list I very expertly sourced, I must now inform you of your own looks. Because apparently a mirror has failed to do the job these past 29 years.
Ahem.
You are, to be frank, the hottest man on earth.
All the women in town talk about it. At length.
Often. Some of the men, too. And they haven’t even seen you without your shirt on.
They’d probably drop dead, honestly. You somehow manage to be the exact right blend of strong and cuddle-able that women want.
Truly, the only thing fending them off is your complete disregard for the law and your absolute disinterest in anyone who has ever braved approaching you with an offer for, if not love, then a foray into lust with them.
Beyond your height, breadth, and strength, you have that face. The jaw and the nose and those green, green eyes.
My goodness, Jupie, your face.
It’s like… it’s like a statue and a painting and a movie star got smashed together and you popped out.
Then you went and put that streak in your hair, adding a totally cool factor when you already looked totally freaking cool, and it’s just…
honestly, I’m unsure how you’re allowed to walk around unsupervised. It can’t be safe for anyone.
And here I am without the safeguard of not knowing about your care or your thoughtfulness. I look at your face, see its beauty – see the beauty beneath – and I’m helpless, really .
I see you being humble, asking for my help without an ounce of pride getting in your way, and I see you doing your best to make up for your perceived shortcomings when it comes to your work so that you can make life easier on your brother, and I see your flagging perfect face and I’m just –
Helpless.
I pause, pen hovering above the page, hesitant to put it to paper again. My heart beats fast in my chest, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
Terror hits, and I wonder why.
Why would I be scared to tell Jove, my bestest friend in the entire world, how very much I cannot help but love him?
It’s not like I’m in –
My pen drops.
Oh.
Oh no.