Chapter 5 Lainey
Lainey
How could I have been so stupid? Why did I tell Remington all that stuff about the flowers?
I should not have 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.
I can’t even 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 some work 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 , 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 only I have 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 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.
Shock. I am in shock.
There is only one person that could have sent me these flowers, and only one person that I want to have sent me these flowers.
I stare at them for several long minutes admiring the bright, cheerful colors before realizing that there is a little white envelope tucked into the bouquet.
I lift the card with trembling fingers and slide out the note.
Life is the beauty, Lainey. Even the things that might not last forever, they are still worth taking the time to enjoy them. A dessert, a sunset, and definitely flowers.
We are going to take the time. We are going to find your favorite.
-R
PS: These are ranunculus.
They symbolize charm and attractiveness.
I read his words over and over, and I let tears fall.
Nobody has ever done something like this for me.
Not only the flowers, but the words that went along with them.
Remington had shaken me to my very core.
I assumed that after texting with me, after hearing more depressing honesty from me, that he would be sprinting in the other direction .
. . not going to the local florist, picking out flowers, and hand writing me a note.
This handsome, strong, alpha, heroic firefighter has a caring, sweet side and I wonder if he does this for everyone.
My stomach drops at the thought. He offered to take my journal only because he was being nice, he even admitted it.
I’m positive that this is just part of it.
It has to be. We were texting and I shocked him with my truth.
He felt sorry for me. He might truly be a nice guy, so he went out of his way to do this, to make me feel better.
The ever present, mean, unworthy voice hisses in my head that this is all that it is.
He doesn’t have feelings for me, he doesn’t like me-like me. I am just the basket case, weird, pyro girl that he feels sorry for. That man, the sexy hero with the deep voice, caring soul, and matching eyes doesn’t want a mess like me.
A different kind of tear slides down my cheek as I pull out my phone.