Page 47 of A Lot Like Lavender

Dinah whines. “Awww, I was just starting to see them all.”

Jack growls and grinds through his clenched jaw, “Polly. Cinnamon Twists. Lola kisses.”

I’m glad he’s holding Lola right now, because he looks as if he’s dreaming of other, less tender actions to take with his hands.

Paying little attention to my brother-in-law or sister, Jordan only has eyes for the girl sitting on his lap, spewing rapid fire information like she’s afraid he’ll disappear before she can get it all out. He doesn’t rush Molly or attempt to dismantle her body from his but listens raptly, absentmindedly playing with the ends of her strawberry blonde hair, and responding only when he can get a word in edgewise. They’re in their own little bubble, hardly aware the rest ofus are still here. A club of two that feels like a privilege to witness.

Jordan asks all the right questions, when time permits. Then when I think my heart can’t take much more, he whispers something in Molly’s ear, earning a wide-eyed, full smile from my girl and another hug, that I feel emphatically wrapping around my soul.

“How about I make us all some breakfast,” Jordan finally says when he and Molly have reached an agreed upon stopping point in their chat.

“Can we have breakfast pockets again?” she asks.

“I think breakfast pockets are a must,” he agrees. “Jack, Dinah, you guys want to eat breakfast with us?”

With us.

He says the simple phrase with so much normalcy, goosebumps race down my arms. Because it fits.Hefits. In the kitchen. On my couch. In this house. In Molly’s and my life. And I want that breakfast together.

Dinah wiggles her eyebrows and holds up a giant Knotty & Nice bag. “Oh, we’re not goin’ anywhere. And we also brought y’all Bacon bites. You’ve gotta be extra hungry after?—”

“Chores!” I interrupt my sister, jumping up, snatching the bag from her grasp and pressing my foot on her toe for good measure. “We did so many farm chores. We. Are. Starving.”

“So that’s what we’re calling it these days.” Jack is an angry dad, just biding his time for when he can shine his rifle in front of my new beau.

I choose to show grace and not remind him of the time he made out with my sister in front of all of Honey Hill on the pretzel shop’s counter… a few days after Dinah innocently fell asleep in Jack’s bed after taking care of him.

“Thank you… both,” I snip, before kissing her cheek and rushing to the back door in my custom-made Bastian Duke pajamas. The ones I printed for Chloe’s bachelorette party that have “Ahoy, Matey” printed on the rear. I slip on my work boots, shovel three dough bites into my mouth, and escape the inquisition for the farm chores I definitely have not done this morning.

After a respectable time, completing initial feedings and waterings of the animals, letting the girls and our only male alpaca, Dwight, out to pasture, and a quick shower, I prance into the kitchen clean, fully clothed, covered in fresh mosquito bites, and wrapped in a new sense of confidence. Somewhere between last night’s meltdown and the tiny shower spiral I just climbed my way out of, I had a few realizations.

Firstly, I may not be fully ready to kiss Jordan yet, but desiring him is not the problem. Even now, watching him flip and fumble an omelet half onto the pan, grinning wide, blushing under Molly’s adoration, and taking Jack’s good-natured ribbing in the background in stride, something in me wants to march over to the stove and claim his lips in front of everyone. A makeout on the counter. A Knot Girl tradition of sorts.

Jordan is sweet and incredibly sexy, and he makes a fine omelet. But something is holding me back.

One of those somethings, though I hate to admit it, is this house. My sister and the rest of the Book Baes were right. I’ve made this home a mausoleum devoted to James and, in doing so, buried myself within it. I need to make some changes.

What would James do if he knew I wanted to change the floors of the kitchen we danced on? To paint overthe walls? To make changes to the farm? And to rip that horrid wallpaper from our bedroom ceiling?

“Finally, Red,”I hope he’d say.“What took you so long?”

So, I’m really going to do it. I’m gonna start project by project and dig myself out of this grave. And, lastly, on the tenth anniversary of his death, I’m going to remember my husband well. To cherish the memories and laughter and love we shared, but I’m going to say goodbye, and I intend to move forward.

“I want to spread James’ ashes,” I announce as everyone is in various states of eating their breakfast. “Today.”

“Em,” Dinah begins, apologetically. “If this is about last night, I'm sorry if I was out of line.”

“It's not,” I promise, shaking my head. “I mean, it is, but it isn’t.” Unbidden, my eyes flick to Jordan, who’s neglected omelets altogether and has pulled Molly towards himself, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. He doesn’t do or say anything, just offers quiet support to us both by simply being here.

And Jordan being here feels weirdly necessary. And so very,verygood. It’s messing with my brain chemistry.

“I also want to replace the floors and paint the house.” Now I'm just spitballin’. Throwin’ ideas out to see what sticks. Spread my dead husband’s remains. Check. Start my own HGTV show. Check. Invest in shiplap and become the next Joanna Gaines… Could be. The sky’s the limit.

“Oh! Pink?” Molly asks excitedly. She totally gets me. “And can we paint flowers on the walls?”

“Maybe.” I shrug because who knows what I’ll do next. “But, ashes first. I really need to do this.”

Before the ten-year mark. Before Molly’s birthday and the Fifth-Grade Festival. Before I kiss a beautiful man on the lips.