“Holy crap, Rem! This is about a girl, isn’t it?” Sutton, of course, wouldn’t think I would be shopping for myself. “Who is she? What happened?”
“It’s not a big deal, I just need a new notebook. Well, not a notebook. I need a nice journal,” I explain.
My sister’s place is like the quintessential small-town gift shop, bookstore combo. It is the perfect fit for Fox Grove locals, the influx of out-of-towners we get from being not too far from base, and summer vacationers. She and my brother-in-law have worked hard to make Sutton’s vision come true, and it has been worth all the hard work. She runs the store fulltime with the help of a couple dedicated and trusted employees that Deck of course put through hoops and background checks before letting them on to the team.
Brooks and Books is full of earth tones, plants, and organized in a perfect, “chaotically Sutton” way that makes it feel warm and welcoming. The shelves of reclaimed barn wood and thrifted tables are the exact right mismatch blend, displaying everything that has been brought in with a lot of intention. The store offers a unique selection of items curated by Sutton and Deck along with locally made things that also help other small businesses and makers. Each local artist has their own little area showcasing their work.
Sutton spins on her heel, marches toward the back wall of the store, leaving me to follow. The large wall is lined with a selection of cards, notepads, stationery, and most importantly, journals.
“We finally got in some new things that I was waiting on. Put them out and organized it all yesterday. What did you have in mind ... Or should I ask what didshehave in mind?” Sutton side-eyes me, the line of questions as subtle as an elephant.
Sighing I say, “Sutton. I met someone and she, ugh, she is really great, but she just went through a shitty breakup, and I am trying to help her out with something. That’s why I need that journal. Her ex was a total asshole. She has this thing where she gets a nice journal on her birthday every year. I guess she told him about how she liked Lisa Frank when she was little.”
Sutton squeals with delight. I know all about Lisa because my sister was obsessed. She had a big poster of the little tiger above the desk in her bedroom, and she always wanted all the folders and shit for school. “Lisa Frank was THE best! I wonder if Deck would let me do the baby’s room in that theme.” She starts laughing, tapping a thoughtful finger onher chin. I know that as much as she used to love Lisa, her style has changed drastically, and she would only suggest that to Deck to drive him crazy. And he will love every second of her playful torture.
“Yeah well, you would not love the stupid-ass notebook her ex-boyfriend got her. It’s a nightmare knockoff and would make your baby cry. Creepy kittens and butterflies, and shetoldhim that she had a puppy notebook when she was little,” I say with deep irritation. I fill her in on the coffee shop scene, the fire cleanse, and officially meeting Lainey.
My sister looks at me with soft eyes and says, “Wow, first of all that guy sounds like an idiot. Good for Lainey for breaking up with him in a Sugar Cube–gossip-mill-worthy fashion. I love thatthat rumorI heard about isher! So badass. But most importantly, Rem, you are downbadfor this girl.” Sutton looks delighted.
“No, I’m not. I know it’s only been a few days ... But I feel like I was meant to know her. We have a connection, and I am honestly just trying to help her out. Write the stuff from her old notebook into a new journal so she doesn’t have to ruin a year of work and memories or her tradition because of him. Hopefully, it will help me get to know her, and maybe she will give me a chance to prove to her that not all guys are assholes.”
“Just be careful, Rem. I don’t want you to get hurt.” Sutton softly delivers her sisterly warning.
Sutton knows I long for a real relationship, and that I have a hard time letting anyone get too close. She also knows all the shit in my past that makes it hard for me to let people in, even when it’s the thing I crave the most. I think back to the way Lainey bravely handed over her journal to me, a stranger, and then opened up to me again when we were texting about the flowers. She has every reason to be closed off, and I have a feeling that she is with other people, but with me she openedthe door. She let me in, and it makes me want to let her in, too.
Eli is always telling me that I need to relax and play the field like him. He swipes his apps, hits it and forgets it, but that is not what I want. I have always been ready for more, but my past burned me so badly that I swore off any kind of real and meaningful relationships and had only been casually dating.
The minute Lainey Quinn’s eyes locked on mine, I think I knew I was ready to jump back into the fire, especially if she was the one starting it.
5
Lainey
How could I have been so stupid? Why did I tell Remington all that stuff about the flowers? I shouldnothave given him that much honesty. I should have made up an answer. Told him a white lie. Why can’t I just have a normal answer like a normal girl? Every other girl I know loves flowers and knows exactly what kind they liked the best.
I should have said roses. But then would he think that is too flirty, forward? Are roses too sexy of a flower to be your favorite? Maybe that only applies to red ones? Should I have said a daisy? Or is that too simple or plain? I don’t even know. Ican’teven know. I haven’t allowed myself to like flowers, as I explained to Remington. The idea of thinking about them, figuring out what I truly enjoy without judgment is so overwhelming.
God, he must think I am insane.
It has been a few hours since our text exchange, and I have not heard from him. It says he read my message. I am trying really hard not to overthink everything, but that is not how my mind or my anxiety works. Thankfully, I had somework to do at my desk, and also had a quick meeting that just wrapped up.
I love my PR job, and the fact that I get to work remotely now is a blessing. I was in the city, Washington DC area that is, for eight months for a special training program that my company wanted me to do. I kept my apartment here because they paid for my small temp place there. Brett was also in the city, and I was so excited about it. I thought that I would spend a lot of time with him, but looking back on it now, I really didn’t. We only saw each other a couple times a week. I would meet him for a lunch or dinner, maybe hook up a couple times a week. We would rarely spend the night together, and if we did it was always at my crappy little apartment. He said he was busy with work, that his place was on the opposite side of town so my place was more convenient, that he needed to get rest for early morning meetings. Looking back now, it should have been so obvious.
When I came home to Fox Grove once my training was over, and Brett and I were doing long distance, I was the one making all the effort. I was the one that cared. He said he missed me and that I was important to him. He knew all the things to say to keep me hooked enough to keep me happy, or so I thought. Now, knowing what I do, I think he was just full of shit. I was a placeholder for I don’t even know what. We were definitely not on the same page as far as what a committed relationship was, and I can’t believe that once again, I picked wrong.
Shutting down my work programs for the day and thinking about what I should do for dinner, there’s a buzz for my apartment door. I walk over to the wall unit, leaden anxiety swooping in and nearly stealing my voice with the press of the button. “Hello?” I say down to the front buzzer of the building.
“Yes, I have a delivery for a Ms. Quinn,” a young man’s voice says back.
“Okay, thank you,” I say and press the button to allow the person access to the building. I hate answering the door, having to sign for packages, unexpected deliveries, knocks on the door. I normally know exactly what I order and when they are coming. I know that I have some new sheets ordered from Amazon, due to come tomorrow, but maybe they are a day early? I guess I can shove down the uncomfortable swell of anxiety from having an unplanned interaction with a delivery person knowing I will have the reward of getting to wash my pretty sheets and slip into crisp, clean, soft bedding that onlyIhave ever slept in.
The light tap on my door shakes me from my drifting thoughts and I check my doorbell camera on my phone that I set up. What I see is not the Amazon guy leaving my box, but a high-school-aged boy with shaggy brown hair, a baseball hat, glasses, light bomber jacket, and beautiful bouquet of flowers. I unlock and open the door, and the boy smiles. “Ms. Quinn?” he asks cheerfully.
“Yes, that’s me,” I confirm.
“Great! I have these here for you,” he says, handing over the pretty mix of reds, pinks, oranges, yellows, and whites of the same type of flower mixed with some kinds of greenery. “I hope you have a fantastic day!” The high school boy spins down the hallway before he can hear my whispered thank you.
Shutting and locking my door, I carry the flowers to my coffee table and sink down into my soft cream couch.
