“Can’t we do it another time? I don’t much feel like shopping.”
“Whoever does?”
“Then why are we here?” she asks wearily.
“Because sometimes you have to suck it up.”
“Shopping is fun, Whit.” She eyes me with disbelief.
“It’s an afternoon in purgatory.”
Disbelief turns to dismay. “Whit, I love shopping! It’s like my vocation in life. Nothing is more fun than picking out accessories or treating yourself to a new dress, then taking the goodies home to see how they work with the rest of your wardrobe.”
“Sounds like you should work in retail, maybe become a visual merchandiser. A personal shopper. A buyer. Surely a job you enjoy is better than admin.”
“I guess I just allowed my parents to choose a path for me.”
“But none of those avenues are high octane or dangerous.” What the hell has gone on in her life? What have I missed?
She gives an awkward shrug that doesn’t make me feel better.
“Why don’t you look into retraining?”
“You’re just trying to get rid of me.” Her brightness is false, more brittle than genuine.
“No, that’s not it. I feel fucking awful I wasn’t more present.”
“Stop.” The word seems ironclad. “You’re not my brother, Whit. You aren’t responsible for me.”
“No, you’re right, but Connor—”
“You know, I think I might ask you to call Heather,” she says, swiftly turning her gaze to the windscreen. “Maybe she can loan me sweats or something.” The jut of her chin; was she always this stubborn?
“I’ll call if you want me to.” Reaching over the console, I curl my fingers over her unresponsive hand. “But if it means anything to you, I’d much rather you stay with me.”
“I don’t need anyone to look after me.”
“I get that. I don’t mean to come across as overbearing. I suppose I’m just trying to understand what I’ve missed. “
“Let it go,” she says, turning to me now. “I’m living my life the way I want. That’s all you need to know.”
I sense that isn’t the case, but I’ll let it go for now as my attention is tweaked by movement in the shop’s window. “Should we go?” I make a gesture with my head to the boutique.
“I guess,” she replies, unimpressed. “I can’t believe they’re still open.” She cracks the passenger door open.
“Yes, strange that.”
“You must be a generous brother.” Mimi’s words carry over the roof of the car. “That place looks pretty pricey.”
“I forget you haven’t met Lavender yet.” My eyes briefly turn to the boutique’s window display. “Lavender’s tastes run a bit more gothic.” Though just as expensive I don’t bother adding.
“Then why are we here?” she asks, clearly confused.
“Come on inside, and I’ll show you.”
She mutters something unintelligible as she rounds the car, and I make sure her hand is in mine before we even get to the door. Which is probably just as well as the manager of the boutique has the door open before we even reach it.
“Mr. Whittington, welcome. Please, come in,” decrees a manager of indeterminable age and lots of filler, I’d guess, dressed in a three-piece suit and a pink tie.
