It wasn’t the first time he’d given me a one to apologize to me.
The first apology had come when we were nine. He’d sneaked into my bedroom and read a story my childish mind was creating, about a panda who desperately wanted to be a ballerina and was struggling for obvious reasons. He’d stolen the sheets and when he put them back, he’d lost one. The next day, he’d cut a white rose from his mom’s rose garden and given it to me. When I’d asked why he’d given me a flower to say sorry, his response had been, “Because it’s pretty, like you.” Then he’d pinched me and run away.
The second apology came when I was twelve. He overheard me and Camille talking about our periods and teased me until I cried. He hadn’t realized that I was scared because, hello, my vagina was crying blood. One day later, there was a white rose on my doorstep with a note. When I asked him about the rose again, he’d given the same answer. “Because it’s pretty, like you.” That time, he’d nudged me and handed me his last Reese’s.
The third apology came when I was sixteen. I’d refused to help him with his English homework, so he, in turn, did the same to me with math. There was something I really didn’t understand, and it caused me to fail the test. He’d felt guilty because I’d helped him so many times in the past and he’d been petty. The following Monday, I’d found a white rose tucked into my locker with a note wrapped around the stem that said, “Sorry. And before you ask, it’s because it’s pretty, like you.”
I took a deep breath and looked down at the rose in my hand. Its perfectly formed petals were white like freshly fallen snow and as soft as silk. The note crunched as I balled it into a crumpled mess in my hand and opened my car door. I dropped the note to the floor, but I laid the flower down carefully on the passenger seat next to my purse.
As I drove home, I could think only one thing.
Why the white rose, and why now, after all this time?
When I got home, I grabbed the rose and my purse and got out of the car. I paused for a second before going back and grabbing the note from the floor. I couldn’t leave it, not when I knew I’d only pick it up and put it where it belonged.
Lani Montana, you’re a sentimental fool.
I shook off the thought as I let myself into the house and dumped my purse and keys in the hallway. I didn’t care if this was sentimental. It was, but it was also a reminder that maybe somewhere under all the crap, Brett hadn’t changed so much.
That might not be a good thing, but this rose reminded me of the Brett I once loved. Something that was definitely not a good thing, but I wanted to keep it anyway.
When I was in my room, I knelt in front of my bed and reached under it. The shoebox was easy to find, and I had it out from under the dusty underside of the bed in seconds. Opening it, I coughed slightly as I dislodged some dust. Inside it was an old copy of Alice in Wonderland my grandmother had given me when I was eight years old and was coming into my love of the written word. It was her favorite story, and when she’d given it to me, it’d become mine too.
I lifted it out of the box with as much care as I could and set it on the rug in front of me. I wiped my hand down the front cover with the barest brush and opened it to chapter nine.
There, folded between a ragged, fraying bit of fabric, was three dried, perfectly-pressed roses. They were severely degraded now, with the stems the only recognizable part of it. Even those were completely fragile. Beneath them lay three small notes with the word “sorry” scribbled on each one in the same rough handwriting that was on the note in my hand.
I smoothed out the new note and gingerly slipped it beneath the disintegrating flower stems. A thorn dislodged from the stem, but no other damage was sustained to any of them.
A breath escaped me. I didn’t know it meant that much not to destroy them.
I lay the new rose down, covered it with the cloth, and shut the book. Minutes later it was back in the box and under the bed once more.
I sighed heavily and stood up. I was hungry since I’d skipped breakfast in favor of the meeting, and now my heart was squeezing tightly in confusion. The roses were a reminder that Brett had always been a bit of a dick, but they were also a stark reminder that his heart was in the right place...Maybe a little late, but it always got there in the end.
I changed quickly and headed back downstairs. I wanted to get in and out of the grocery story before it got really busy, but I wasn’t about to wear the nice dress I’d worn to see Mr. Reeves.
Mr. Reeves.
What I’d agreed to.
I waved those thoughts away. If I dwelled on them too long, I might forget that I actually hated Brett.
I picked up my purse and keys. The door clicked as I opened it, and I froze.
“You didn’t stomp on it.”
Despite myself, I half-smiled as I met Brett’s gray-blue eyes. “You thought I’d stomp on it?”
He shrugged. “Stomp on it, tear it up, throw it in the trash. Something. Nice touch with the note though.”
I tilted my head to the side. “Did you follow me home?”
“I wanted to see if you’d stomp on it here. Is it burning in the sink or something?”
A small laugh escaped me. “No, it’s not burning in the sink. It’s...safe.”
“Safe?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay, then.”
“Is that why you’re here? Because I have things to do.”
“A little, but I mostly wanted to talk to you. If you stomped on, tore up, or threw out the rose I knew I wouldn’t have a chance in hell.”
“And you think now that you do?”
“I figure I’m in with a chance.”
I pursed my lips and made him think I was considering it. “I have to go grocery shopping. Follow me there and we can talk.”
He held up his hand. His keys dangled from one of his fingers. “Why don’t I just drive you?”
I stepped out of the house and pulled the door shut. I locked it and then mirrored his action. “I know better than to trap myself in a car with an asshole when I can’t escape. Why don’t I drive and you can push my cart for me? Show the people of Whiskey Key what a gentleman you are.” I threw those last words in with a smirk and a challenging raise of my eyebrows.
“All right...” He hopped off the doorstep and backed toward my car. “Does that mean I get to spank you if I pass you in the aisle?”
I stopped in front of him and prodded my finger against his chest. “No.”
He held up his hands as he walked around the car. “All right, all right. No spanking.”
“Ouch!” I clapped my hand over my right ass cheek and almost jumped into some poor soul just trying to grab their milk. “What the hell?”
Brett grinned, his eyes dancing. “You said no spanking. You didn’t say anything about pinching.”