“Pole banners on the streetlights!” someone says.
“Little flyers that each shop can keep on the counter that says what all the businesses are doing,” April suggests.
This is such a great idea, and even Pink Chai Guy can’t argue against it. Rebranding Love Street as the street of loveisthe way to get people to come here. And they’ll keep coming back once they realize how amazing it is. Best of all, with the focus being on love, my mother’s business has the most to gain, as it’s the street’s only florist. I smile at her, and she grins back.
Eventually we decide to form a subcommittee of the BOA for this Love Street rebranding project. Jenn asks for volunteers, and of course my hand can’t shoot up fast enough. This wasmyidea, and I want to be involved. Plus, I’m going to be studying digital arts in college—any branding we do will be great for my portfolio. Cara, Julie, April,and Grant, one of the restaurant owners, also volunteer for the committee.
After the meeting ends, I turn to glance at Pink Chai Guy, but all I see is his backside leaving the café with that waiter from the bistro. It’s a nice backside, but I’m glad to see it go.
Reggie comes up to me. “I think this idea of yours has merit, Sana, but I can’t help wondering if this is all a ploy of yours to get me to carry kissing books?” He has a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Despite his neglect of my favorite book genre, I like Reggie. He’s a Black man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a faint Caribbean accent, and he always wears buttoned-up shirts and tweed or corduroy jackets. He reminds me of my favorite English teacher. I grin. “You’re throwing away sales by ignoring the most voracious readers in existence.”
He rubs his chin. “Well, now it seems we’re entering the season of love. Fortuitously, I recently purchased a large lot of books in an estate auction, and there were quite a few romance novels among them. I’d planned to donate the romances, but maybe you could help me curate our first romance section instead? I’m afraid that I’m not well-versed in the genre. I would, of course, pay you for your time.”
Ah! Curating a romance section in a bookstore! Dream come true! “Of course. I’d love to! I’ll do it for free!”
“Oh no, my dear. I must insist. What would Lionel Osmond Love say about me using free labor to make more money for myself?”
I can’t say no to that. This will be a ton of fun.
I have such a warm glow when I leave the café. Thiswhole rebrand is going to help Mom, Jenn, and the other business owners so much. Sales will increase, Mom won’t have to sell the building, and we can all stay here happily on Love Street. I touch my locket as I walk out into the early spring night. Maybe Jenn was right—this fortune could be referring to Love Street, not my love life. This whole street is going to get flipped over by love.
And if I also find love while helping Love Street? Even better.
CHAPTER THREETHE ONE DIRECTION BRUNCH
The restaurant my stepmother chose for Sunday brunch is playing an easy-listening cover of a One Direction song with an out-of-place country twang. It doesn’t match the “Elevated Asian Fusion” the restaurant claims to aspire to, but I’ve come to expect that Noureen’s restaurant picks are always more about style than substance. At least this place does have decent vegetarian choices, unlike last month’s Tex-Mex brunch.
Noureen… isn’t my favorite person. I didn’t meet her until about a year after my parents’ divorce, even though I know Dad was seeing her long before then. Maybe he didn’t want to introduce me to Noureen because he knew she wouldn’t like me. Or maybe he’d filed me in the “old life” category in his mind, and Noureen and Sarina were “current life,” and he didn’t see a need to combine them until necessary. It hurt—especially since Dad and I had a pretty close relationship before Noureen.
Noureen is different from my mother. She doesn’t work; her life goals seem to be to have a husband and children. That’s it. Like, I’m not sure if she has—or had—any career aspirations of her own. She does adore my father—or at least she adores being married to a successful man with his own company—and I think my father likes theway Noureen fawns over him because my mother’s not the type to put anyone on a pedestal, not even her husband. I don’t know if Noureen actively dislikes me, but she does seem frustrated that her attempts to fix me haven’t worked yet. Noureen is a fixer. You can’t mention anything to her, even things that aren’t problems at all, without her giving her opinion on how to fix them. And I apparently have a lot that needs fixing.
Today she has already suggested I fix my wardrobe (I assume that dress is used again? You would have a much better chance of finding clothes that fit if you bought them new.), fix my hair (You must try this new flat iron I bought Sarina! It would even smooth outyourhair!), and my grades. Well, she didn’t specifically try to fix my grades because I know she sees me as a lost cause there. But she did say that I should look into transferring from the art school I’m going to in September to a proper university (her phrasing) after a few semesters. And she found a way to squeeze in the fact that Sarina got to choose between scholarships when she was deciding on her university options.
In my opinion, Noureen doesn’t have the right to try to influence me or my life. She’s done enough damage already.
“Sana, you should come home with us after brunch,” my dad says after Noureen finally seems to accept that I’m not switching schools. “We can at least go over your course selections for next year.”
“Can’t,” I say. “I have to help Mom at the flower shop.” I sip my watery green tea. Thank goodness Mom gave me that excuse.
“I thought you stopped working at the flower shop when you started at the thrift store?” Dad asks.
“It’s avintagestore, not a thrift store.” Not that there’s anything wrong with thrift stores, but Jenn spends a lot of time and energy curating and merchandising her stock, which thrift stores don’t do. “And I help Mom out when she needs me.”
“You can’t have enough time for studying if you’re working in two places,” Noureen says.
“She’s my mother,” I snap. “I am always there for my family.” I don’t normally talk back, but ugh… These brunches bring out the worst in me. And anyway, I’m planning to study while I’m at the flower shop, but of course I can’t mention that because I don’t want Dad and Noureen to know that the flower shop will probably have no customers. If they knew Mom’s business was struggling, they’d use it against her. I also don’t intend to tell them about the Love Street rebranding project because I know they would do nothing but poke holes in my idea. Now that I think about it, Dad and Noureen would totally get along great with that Pink Chai Guy.
Everyone is silent for a moment. “Well, maybe another time,” Dad finally says.
I don’t say anything. Brunch every two weeks is enough daddy-daughter time—I don’t think we need more.
Dad and I used to be close… before the divorce. As a florist, Mom always worked weekends, and Dad used to take me out while Mom worked. He would keep track of all the festivals in Toronto: Taste of the Danforth, Taste of Lawrence, the Jazz Festival, the Festival of South Asia, even Comicon. Almost every weekend we’d be in a different part of the city, eating twirly tornado potatoes and cinnamon churros and riding cheap carnival rides. I’mpretty sure the tradition started because he had no idea what to do with a girl who didn’t like sports, but we did have a lot of fun. I still kind of miss eating expensive food, people-watching, and getting to know all the different pockets of the city with my dad.
But then he married Noureen, who’d been divorced for years. And with Noureen came Sarina—a girl only a year older than me. Whenever I went to Dad and Noureen’s, it was assumed I would hang out with Sarina, so no one planned anything special for me. No more fairs or festivals. Dad was probably relieved that he didn’t have to find things to entertain me anymore.
Dad also became more judgmental after marrying Noureen. Probably because her kid is exactly the high-achieving, perfect and quiet child that Indian parents want, and it made Dad feel insecure about his own academically mediocre offspring.
