Chapter 3 #2
She fiddles with the pink sapphire ring on her finger. “Yes, but I want this to be our decision. For him to trust himself as a dad.”
“He’ll get there.” I reach across the table and squeeze her forearm. “Like you said, it’s part of first-time daddy anxiety.”
If anyone can daddy up, it’s Rem. Even before my parents divorced, Nolan Lane wasn’t exactly father-of-the-year material.
There’s a lot about my dad to like. With his passion for his work and big personality, he’s the life of every party.
Dad’s great at the fun stuff. Unique outings, like when he took us to an art exhibit where we smashed pieces of furniture and then glued them back together into art pieces.
At nine and seven, Jackson and I thought it was the coolest, while Rem tutted it wasn’t appropriate for children.
“Plus, he’s had years of practice fathering. Even when it’s not solicited or necessary.” The statement is meant to reassure me, but a bitter lilt punctuates my words. I try to hide it with an extra-large smile.
Hope’s sigh telegraphs that she’s not buying my fake smile. “It comes from a good place.”
I motion with a piece of scone at her. “Bestie Card.”
As much as I adore Rem’s good sense in marrying Hope, there are boundaries. The bestie card reminds us of when we need the other to just be a friend. Not Rem’s younger sister. Not his wife. Just Hope and Georgia.
“Fiiiiine.” She puffs out a long breath. “How was the date? I saw your car pull in after ten. That’s a long happy hour.” She waggles her brows.
“It wasn’t eyebrow waggle-worthy. I left before I finished the first drink and went to SPN for Doc and Estelle’s weekly reading.”
“That bad? What happened?” Her red-painted lips tick down.
Grabbing a second scone, I share the details. It’s not the worst Georgia Lane date disaster. No theft. No emergency trips to the vet for Wentworth. No finding a date making out with the bartender after learning that I was only there to make his ex jealous.
“I wonder if I can find a No Double Dipper mug on Etsy.” Hope taps her manicured finger against her chin.
“Bitch!” I laugh, tossing my napkin at her.
She catches it. “Language in front of your niece,” she says cheekily, rubbing her belly. “You and Jackson may swear like drunken sailors, but this little peanut will have manners.”
I arch a brow. “Says the woman with the Fuck the Patriarchy keychain.”
She wags her finger. “There’s a protest clause to my no swearing rule for?—”
“Saffron?”
Her head tilts. “Now, that one I kind of like.”
“Please don’t name my niece after a spice.” My brow pinches. “Though, it’s on brand for this family. Consider combining your love of cooking and Rem’s obsession with the law. Saffren Sotomayor Lane,” I say, making jazz hands.
Laughter vibrates through her. “Oh god, no!” She swipes at her eyes. “Perhaps we keep the over-the-top book character names away from my baby girl.”
“Sure,” I sigh, breaking off a piece of scone.
“Still blocked?”
“I’m not blocked—” I sit up a little straighter. “I’m just…”
The half-hearted protest is the crumbling realization that this isn’t just a mere blip. For months, the words haven’t come. No matter the writing exercise. No matter the suggestions from fellow authors. It’s like the words are walled away from me.
With a head shake, I meet Hope’s eyes. “It’s just temporary. It will all be alright.”
Rem asks, “What will be alright?” Worry deepens the firm lines of his mouth as he emerges from the house with a large white sun hat in his hand.
“If I have a third scone!” I flick my wrist and then pluck another pastry off the tray.
The last thing I want to discuss in the presence of my older brother is my writing. He’ll have lots of opinions. Many that he’s already shared.
“That doesn’t go with your athletic leisure wear getup.” Hope gestures at the sun hat in his hand, a wry grin across her lovely face.
Bless my bestie. No words needed. She may champion that he just wants what’s best for me, but she’s witnessed enough brotherly I know best, Georgia lectures through the years.
Smirking, he looks down at his Anaheim Ducks T-shirt tucked into mesh shorts, his standard weekend attire. “I leave the fashion expertise to you, sweetheart. It’s for you.” he bends and presses a peck to her cheek. “The marine layer is almost burnt off.”
“If only our little ole’ female brains thought of some sort of sun shielding contraption,” I sass, waving at the large green umbrella that shades the table.
“Your little ole’ female brain I worry about”—he juts his chin toward me and then back at his wife—“Not hers.”
“Thanks, baby.” Hope takes the hat.
He sits beside her. “If you’re carb-loading, I take it last night’s blind date didn’t go well?”
I bite into my scone and say nothing.
“That well?” He chuckles.
“He double-dipped,” Hope offers as an explanation.
His nose wrinkles. “Please, tell me you were at least at Fisher’s Landing where cross-contamination wasn’t an issue.” His brown eyes, the same as mine, fix on me. “Are you feeling okay this morning? Should?—”
“Easy, Nagging Ned.” I raise my hand, palm up. “I know to always have my blind dates in food-safe venues.”
It’s a habit I started two years ago after a terrible date ended with me in bed the next day with the Niagara Falls of migraines.
Thanks to my celiacs, any trace of gluten can cause a reaction.
My body doesn’t process it, but revolts against it.
While I experience my share of stomach cramping and nausea, migraines seem to be my body’s choice response.
As a kid, I was sick all the time. Rem often volunteered to stay home with me, so my parents, and then just mom after the divorce, didn’t have to take time off work.
He’d sit by my bed, the curtains shrouding the room in darkness, and press a cold compress to my head or rub soothing circles on my back.
It wasn’t until I was twelve that doctors diagnosed me with celiac disease.
Knowing helped me to manage things. There’s no pill to cure the condition, just an adherence to a gluten-free diet.
As mindful as I am, sometimes that pesky gluten finds its way through kitchen cross-contamination or food mislabeling.
“This is the guy that Jackson set you up with?” he asks, tipping his head toward me.
More like the guy he bribed or blackmailed. Nodding, I take another bite, hiding my annoyed expression.
He shifts in his chair. “What’d he do? Do I need to?—”
“Would you leash your husband?” I groan, my gaze meeting Hope’s, her mouth drawn into a patient smile. “No big brother talking to needed. We just aren’t a good fit.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s a pickleball-playing finance bro.”
Even if Davis hadn’t spent half the date locked in on his phone nor the second half insulting me, we’re not an ideal match.
Opposites attract may work in some cases.
Like with Hope and Rem. She softens his edges, bringing out his sweeter side.
He dotes on her. Rem may be overprotective, but he supports Hope with everything she does.
The start of her business and now its expansion with their recent acquisition of a fourth truck.
“I told Jackson this wouldn’t work,” he mumbles.
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes.
“You never make it past the first date.”
Hope reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Baby, some of them aren’t second date material. Georgia has had some less-than-ideal candidates for her Mr. Right.”
“True. But, for some of them, we’ll never know they weren’t her Mr. Right because she finds the most ridiculous of reasons to eliminate them.”
“I do not!”
Ignoring my protest, he goes on, “The guy that wore flip flops to their first date.”
“Flip flops aren’t appropriate date attire unless you’re at the beach,” I interject.
“The guy who said his favorite ice cream was vanilla. The one who wore tapered jeans. The one who had too much product in his hair. The one who said Free Willy was their favorite movie.” He counts each reason I’d nixed past dates on his fingers.
At the time, each appeared to be a perfectly logical reason to chuck the Mr. Not-So Rights. With each tick of Rem’s fingers, the foundation for my previous excuses wobbles.
“Maybe he’s not the right one for you, but you’ll never know if you don’t give anyone a chance beyond a first date.” His tone softens. “They’re not all going to be Will.”
Breath whooshes out of me. It’s been five years, but the mention of Will still has the power to make me speechless.
It used to be the happy speechlessness of his big romantic gestures or swoony words.
But those experiences belong to someone else now.
All I get is the dull ache of lingering heartbreak that snatches away the words that want to come out.
Will has nothing to do with this. I don’t use ridiculous standards to protect myself.
Fuck you and your self-help paperback psychoanalysis.
“Georgia…” He closes his eyes, lets out a hard breath, and then opens them. “I just want to see you settled. You’re thirty-two. Single. You?—”
“I don’t need a relationship to be settled,” I snap back.
While I hope for the clichéd happy endings from one of my books, I already have so much.
A career I love. Friends. Wentworth. Family.
Even if one brother thinks I’m so desperate he had to get someone from work to do him a favor, and the other one’s factory mode is constant disappointment in me, I love them.
“I know you don’t need a relationship. I wouldn’t worry about you being alone if you had more direction. If you were more established in your life. You still live at home.”
“You still live at home, too,” I scoff.
“But I own this house. It’s my home. With my wife. You live in a one-bedroom apartment above the garage. All your money goes towards your books instead of building something.”
Anger boils in my bloodstream. “I’m building a career.”