Chapter Thirty-One
Ew, emotions.
Lyra
Friday evening, Jove shows up at my house as the sun is just starting to set, the same as he has for the past several weeks. Punctual. Exactly what I love in a boyfriend.
The difference this week, however, is that I’m actually ready for him. I am not covered in dirt. I am not being confronted with my ex-best friend. I am not ill.
Instead, I’m in my living room, sitting on the edge of my couch in the dress I wore to go-karts – the one Jove liked – anxiously tapping my fingers against my knees as I wait for him.
When he does not knock, but walks right into my house, I jump, skirt billowing as I spin toward his frowning frame.
“Jove!” I exclaim, fisting my skirt in my hands. “You’re here!”
He nudges the door shut, then drops a peachy-pink duffel bag on the floor next to it. “Your door was unlocked again,” he grumps, flipping the lock himself. “I can’t protect you if I’m not here, which means when I’m not around you have to take precautions, Lyra-love. You’ve got to lock your doors.”
I nod, quick jerks of my head that sway my hair against my neck. “I have been,” I promise. “But I knew you were coming.”
He runs a hand through his hair, then approaches me. “Even still,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “I can wait outside for you to unlock it.”
Right. Sure. Lock my door. Impede the love of my life in his mission to get to me. I’ll get right on that.
“I think I’m overdressed,” I mutter into the soft cotton of his sage-green t-shirt. I slide my hands from his back to his sides then down until they hit the bulky waistband of black sweatpants. “Are we not going out?”
His sigh ruffles my hair before he steps back to take me in.
Like the last time he saw me in this dress, his eyes darken, lids lowering over deep green irises as he takes his time perusing me, particularly my hips and waist, where 3D butterflies dance along the fabric.
“You’re dressed perfectly,” he says. “You should never wear anything else, actually.”
He tears his eyes from my hips when I blush, and his pupils dilate as they zero in on my warming cheeks.
Besties forever, huh?
Yeah, right.
“Are we staying in?” I ask, surveying his outfit. I pause when I get to his feet, rubbing my eyes. This does nothing to erase the hallucination in front of me. “You have carrots on your feet.” Carrot shaped slippers, to be exact.
“Yes,” he says. “We’re testing a new trope today.”
“They make carrot slippers in size gargantuan?”
“I had them special ordered. Do you want to hear the trope?”
“Rich people special order carrot slippers?”
“ I special order carrot slippers for Mars and me,” he answers. “They’re comfortable. I’ll get you a pair. Now, please, honey, focus. Trope testing. ”
“Sure,” I mutter, eyes locked on his carrots. “Trope testing.”
Wait.
No.
I have a mission.
My head jerks up, almost colliding with his chin. “Not trope testing!” I exclaim. “I need to talk to you first.”
His brows pull together as he frowns, body tense. “Are you fake breaking up with me?”
“No,” I say, and he relaxes. “Because we aren’t fake dating.”
He tenses again. “That sounds like fake breaking up,” he accuses.
“Jove,” I start. “Do you remember what I said in my love letter?”
He nods slowly, lips getting poutier by the minute. “Yes.”
“And you know that I would never lie to you?”
“Yes.”
“Which means everything I said in that letter is true.”
He nods. “Of course.”
Okay… Deep breath. Courage, Lyra, courage. You’ve already told him once. You just have to tell him again. Easy peasy.
I drag air into my lungs, then release it as Jove watches. “Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Including when I said I love you,” I proclaim, making a concentrated effort to maintain eye contact.
“Of course,” he says. “I love you, too.”
My head jerks side to side. “No, Jupie. I love you.”
“Yes,” he replies, firm. “And I love you.”
I step forward, grabbing his face in my hands, grateful when he lets me drag him down to my level. “No, Jupie,” I repeat. “ I love you . I’m in love with you. ”
He freezes. Blinks.
Grins.
“You are?” he asks. “Really?”
“I am. Really.”
His hands cover mine on his face, and he squishes them. “That’s great news!”
Uh… “It is?” I ask.
I mean, I know it is. But why does he think it is?
“Of course,” he says. “I told you you should fall in love with me. I’m tall, rich, and handsome.
A total catch, and we know I’ll never mistreat you or take you for granted.
This is the best outcome we could’ve hoped for.
Mars will be so happy. It’s right on trope!
” He gasps, hands sliding to my wrists and shaking.
“We won’t have to worry about you locking your doors, because you’ll live with me. And I always lock my doors.”
As if anyone would try breaking into Jove Rogue’s house.
“Jupiter,” I cut into his excitement, “That’s not all I wanted to say.”
His hands drop, and he sweeps me into a hug, laughing. “Okay. Talk away, Lyra-love.”
I breathe in the scent of him – autumn leaves and rainwater – bolstering myself for the harder part of this conversation. “The thing is,” I hedge, then rip the bandaid off. “You’re in love with me too.”
His laughter stops, and he leans away from me, keeping me in the circle of his arms, but no longer pressed tight. His eyes are kind as he looks at me, his mouth soft. “Lyra, I’m so sorry, but I’m not.”
I thought he might say that.
I twist out of his arms so that I can go to the coffee table and snatch the peach envelope on top of it, then turn to present it to him. Exhibit A. “Am I wrong in thinking that everything in this letter is true?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “It’s all true. You know it is. I do love you, my song. I’m just not in love with you.” His tone flows gentle and exceedingly oblivious.
“ You are beauty, grace, kindness, thoughtfulness, peace, joy, and soul-deep contentment all in one. If you are helpless, Lyra, then you must know that I am powerless. To do anything less than love you is outside of me, an unreachable goal, should I even want it. Which, to be clear, I do not. ” I quote.
“These are not the words of a man who simply loves his friend. These, along with every other word in this letter, are the words of a man in love.”
I approach him much in the way one might approach a scared, cornered animal, even though Jove does not look scared.
His arms are loose at his sides, fingers relaxed.
The line of his shoulders tenses for barely a second before settling back down, and his brows, though furrowed, do not lean toward anxiety.
Not for him, anyway. He looks plenty concerned for me.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, reaching for me when I get close. He drags me in, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other goes up to stroke my hair.
“But it makes sense that the love letter would read as in love when the whole point of our scheme was to get me better at writing romantically. As you can see, it’s working. A little too well, maybe.”
“Jove, even the way you’re holding me right now is romantic, and that has nothing at all to do with writing.”
“I’m a tactile man,” he replies. “I like physical touch. This isn’t any different than how I’ve ever interacted with you over the past couple of months.”
“You are tactile,” I concede. “However, a couple of months ago you could go without touching me for more than a few minutes. Since you’ve been in my house, the only time you haven’t been holding me is when I pulled away.
And last week, when I was working on your letter, you had our legs tangled together the entire time and pouted at me any time I lessened the contact in any way.
You hold my hand when we walk. You sit close when you can.
You hold me at every opportunity. These aren’t just tactile touches for a touch-starved man.
I doubt you’d interact with Mars in the same way. ”
“Mars is touch averse,” he says. “Which is why I’m so touch starved.”
“If Mars wasn’t touch averse,” I propose, “would you hold him in your arms, hand buried in his hair, lips pressed against his head?”
He freezes, hand in my hair flexing. “No,” he says. “But that’s different.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Because you’re in love with me.”
“No,” he counters. “Because you’re Lyra.”
I groan, fisting his shirt in my hands. “And what do you think that sentence means?” You clueless, clueless boy.
“It means you’re Lyra,” he says.
I would pound my head against the wall if he weren’t holding it so closely to his chest.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats. “But also… does it matter? I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m willing to stay with you.
To care for you in any and all ways you’ll let me.
If you want marriage? I’ll give you marriage.
If you want it to be a real marriage? Well, we’ve already established that we’re attracted to each other, so we can do that too.
I’ll give you everything you want – kids, money, security.
And none of it requires me to be in love with you.
Good ole regular friend love is strong enough. ”
“I do not think you have any idea what good ole regular friend love feels like,” I tell him. “Because good ole regular friends do not offer to marry each other. ”
“One could posit that other people are bad at good ole regular friend love,” he says. “On account of most people being selfish idiots.”
He is, possibly, not wrong.
Time for a new approach.
I put pressure on his hand, and he oh-so-graciously allows me to move my head half a foot away from him. I use that space to look up up up into his eyes, which stare down down down back at me, so full of sweetness.
Gazing. He is gazing lovingly at me.
When does cluelessness turn into stupidity? I thought we were in a friends-to-lovers situation, but maybe it’s actually idiots-to-lovers. We’ll be one of those couples people say Took them long enough. or Weren’t they always together? about.