Lainey: Pale lavender.
Remington: Favorite food?
Lainey: How will that help you pick a journal?
Remington: Absolutely vital! What if they have food-themed journals? All this info is a must—Journal Picking 101
Lainey: French toast.
Ismile at my phone as I walk down the block toward my sister’s shop. I knew that I would be able to find just the right thing there. I also knew I would not be picking an ugly-as-fuck journal that Lainey would hate, so I at least wanted to know her favorite color. Which gave me the perfect excuse to text her—and keep texting her under the guise of Journal Picking 101. I also learned that her favorite coffee order is a flat white, but at home she likes to drink tea. Her favorite season is summer. Her favorite hobby is reading. She has one best friend that lives in town, and they like to share a bottle of wine together once a week.
I like to keep my group of friends small, but it made me sad to think that Lainey only has one good friend here, and I wonder why that is. My sister would probably embrace her into her fold of loud, wild friends in two seconds with or without her permission. Not that either of them needed it.Shit. I was already feeling protective over this woman, and she wasn’t even mine. Getting close to the storefront, I fired off one more softball question.
Remington: Favorite flower?
Text bubbles appeared and disappeared three times beforea response finally came back to me, one that left me feeling confused.
Lainey: I don’t have a favorite flower.
Remington : How is that possible?
Lainey: . . .
Lainey: It isn’t something I really talk about, but I guess I have no reason to not tell you. I have already embarrassed myself more than once, and you have my journal, and who knows what you will uncover in there that I forgot about writing.
My heart twists. There was no way I thought a simple question, one that most girls could easily answer, was going to cause her such trepidation. She is nervous and rambling, but in text, like she was last night. I feel like a dick.
Remington: You can tell me anything, Lainey. Always.
Lainey: I was not really allowed to have a favorite.
Remington: I don’t understand?
Lainey: My umm dad ... He always said that they were useless and a big waste of money.
A waste of time. Talking about useless things upset him.
So I didn’t allow myself to pick a favorite, to like them, want them.
It doesn’t matter.
They just die. You don’t get to keep them.
The fuck?I could feel my blood heating with the rage I felt toward a person I never knew. How could a man, a father of a little girl, treat her that way? Make her feel like she couldn’t even have a favorite flower for fuck’s sake? That they are a waste of time and money? I am sure there is so much more she isn’t saying, a deeper meaning behind everything, and I am determined to make Lainey not only see the beauty in her own life, but in flowers and favorite things.
I also know exactly what I am going to do with her new journal.
The bell in Sutton’s shop rattles gently to announce my arrival. She pops her blonde head up from behind the antique wood counter and says, “Welcome to ... Oh, hey, Rem.” When she notices that it’s only me, her barely one-year-younger brother, she cuts off her normal “Welcome to Brooks and Books” song and dance for customers. Usually I am here to visit or check up on her, but today I will actuallybea customer.
“Nice to see you too, big sister,” I say with a drip of sarcasm while I scoop her tiny frame into a gentle hug, being mindful of her belly.
“Calling any pregnant lady ‘big’ is a dangerous choice of words, Rem. Deck would kick your ass if he was here,” she says with a sniffle. Her husband Derek Brooks, or Deck as we all call him, is a Navy SEAL and currently deployed. Sutton is sixteen weeks pregnant, and Deck left eight weeks ago. She had just found out that they were expecting, in the first trimester sickness that made her feel awful, and it was a really hard time.Still is a hard time. But we are all here for her. My mom stops at her house daily and calls her lord only knows how many times a day. My dad does all her mowing and yard work, and he even brings her a grocery delivery every few days. I work a lot, but Sutton knows I am always a quick call away, when I am on or off duty. Even Deck is still sending her care packages when he can. Amazon boxes and random things show up at the shop or their house constantly for her or the baby. That man cannot wait to get home and spoil her and that baby in person.
“Sorry, Sut. You’re right. Hello, older sister, lovely one that is making me an uncle and going to help me pick out exactly what I am shopping for today,” I tell her with a smugness, hoping the last bit of information will perk her up.
“Shopping?” Sutton’s shimmering brown eyes lock on me, and she smiles widely. “You aren’t just here checking in on me? Youhateshopping. What are you shopping for?” Her words spill out in a flurry, like if she doesn’t get me to admit to talking about the dreadedsword that I may change my mind.
Laughing I say, “I make exceptions when I need something important. And I knew that your store would be the perfect place to get what I am looking for.” I can feel a flush creeping up my cheeks, realizing I am going to have to tell her more.
