by Erynn Mangum
Luke Prestwick is like a taller, darker Zac Efron. He’s beautiful to look at, and he’s as charming as a free gallon of ice cream and about as sweet.
He’s just not Tyler.
I’m struggling to find the words to tell Tyler this without sounding like I need to immediately be transported to the nearest Disney Channel stage from all the sugariness.
“I know what it looked like,” I tell him quietly, not wanting to share my entire relationship history with the whole Cheesecake Factory. “But like I said before, I don’t like Luke anymore. I haven’t for a long time. I finally have been able to forgive him for things and move on, and whether or not he has is not my problem anymore.”
Right at the beginning of the summer, Luke came over to my apartment and confessed his undying love for me over a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The setting was good but the timing was very bad.
Part of me has wondered, though, what would have happened if he’d said all those things back when I wanted him to while we were dating.
Then I realize that my life right now would be completely different. I probably wouldn’t be working at the church with the girls I love. I probably wouldn’t have reconnected with Preslee, and I certainly would not be having dinner with the cute guy across the table from me.
I like my life. Without Luke in it.
Or at least without him as a major player in it.
Tyler nods. “I believe you.” He looks down and continues to pick at his food.
No. I don’t think he does.
The rest of dinner is almost tedious. We both start and stop conversational topics about eight times, and in the end we just eat our food in relative silence. Tyler pays the bill and then looks at me. “Ready to go?”
I have morphed into one big tension ball, but I manage to nod. “Sure.” I know he’s going to end it as soon as we get to the car. He’s nice enough that he won’t break up with me in my favorite restaurant. Maybe he picked here to symbolize the Last Supper sort of a thing.
Then he takes me home, says good night, and leaves with a squeeze of my hand that seems more like a placating little nudge than anything else. No “it’s over, Paige” or “I think we should take a break” or “it’s not you, it’s me.”
This stinks.
I toss my purse on the couch and go find the salted caramel truffle ice cream I’d stashed in the back of my freezer for emergencies only. As a general rule, I’m a cookie kind of a girl. Baked or unbaked, I’ll take chocolate-chip cookies any day.
But for particularly bad days, I always turn to ice cream.
My mother told me that was a genetic trait. “One day your father and I had the worst fight of our entire married life. I slammed the door right in his face, walked into the kitchen and ate an entire half gallon of Blue Bell ice cream.” She even rubbed her stomach while telling me the story, making a terrible face. “An entire half gallon of The Great Divide. Seemed fitting at the time.” She shrugged, looking somewhere far into her past. “Anyway, the ice cream worked, I went and apologized to your dad, we made up and nine months later, you were born.”
It was a little too much information about my birth story, and I suddenly had a terrible sense of camaraderie with those poor kids born on that Discovery Channel show.
Someone knocks on my door as I’ve got a spoon full of frozen caramel cream deliciousness lodged in my mouth. I remove the spoon with a frown, walk over to the door, and open it, half hoping it’s Tyler and he’ll drop me back in one of those amazing movie kisses, and we won’t even have to say the words. We’ll just know everything will be all right.
Layla is standing there, so all hopes of romantic kisses disappear. She looks terrible. She’s wearing yoga pants, a tank top, and even though it’s ridiculously hot out, she’s got on her fuzzy gray jacket, which means she’s either had such a bad day that she has taken off her bra in utter defeat, or she’s just sad and needs to have some snuggly warmth around her.
I look at her for a second, turn around, walk into my kitchen, pull another spoon out of the drawer, and hand it to her as we both collapse on the couch with the tub of ice cream between us.
She’s had about three spoonfuls before she starts talking. “I’m going to quit my job.”
“I already did that.” Part of me misses the office environment. No emotional high school drama, no crazy work hours, no shaky hands from all the trips to Sonic.
I also didn’t have any fun and felt like I was making zero difference in the world, but that’s beside the point right now.
Layla sighs at my TV. “I’m going to call off my wedding.”
“I think Tyler is going to break up with me.”
“And it didn’t even work to take off my bra tonight.”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
We sit there, both staring at my blank TV, dipping our spoons in the ice cream and eating in total silence.
Finally I break it. “You aren’t going to call off your wedding.”
“I might. I can’t even stand it anymore, Paige. The man makes me insane. Did you know he keeps a jar of his left pinky toenail clippings?”
I make a face. “Ew.”
“Exactly. I mean, who does that? How did that even get started? I’m all for a greener earth, but some things just shouldn’t be saved, you know?”
She does not have to talk me into that one. “What does he even keep them for?”
“I don’t know. Fish bait? A potential source of calcium if the earth ends? A way to weed out prospective wives?”
“Surely if that were the case, he would have shown you the jar earlier.” I drag my spoon through the ice cream, aiming for some of the truffle goodness.
“I don’t even know.” Layla rubs her head and leans back against the couch. “I just want it to be winter already. So the wedding can be over and I can be married and deal with these things as a married couple who has no way out.”
“Now that’s the romantic spirit.”
“Why is Tyler going to break up with you?”
I pause, spoon in mouth. Do I tell Layla what happened even though Luke is her brother? Or do I nose around the issue so she’ll drop it and we can move on through our topical conversation list?
Now I know why some of my girls cower when I come to the door. There’s nothing fun about getting a scab picked at.
“I don’t know.” I feel like we have both said this eighteen times tonight. Probably why there’s a tub of ice cream between us. “He’s lost that loving feeling.” I paraphrase from one of my dad’s favorite songs by The Righteous Brothers.
I hated that song growing up. Anytime Dad thought we were sleeping too late on a Saturday when Preslee and I should be up “being productive,” which basically meant helping my Dad with the yard work, he would blast that song so loud through the house that no amount of hiding under the pillow could mute it.
I pulled many a weed with that song stuck in my head. It was fated that I would hate it.
“Like what do you mean?” Layla licks her spoon. “Like he won’t hold your hand anymore, or he has stopped with the flattering compliments? Because the last one is just part of the circle, you know.”
“What circle?”
“The circle. You start off all whatever around each other and everything is all cool. Then you start to think he’s cute and he thinks you’re cute and he says all these cute, funny things and you think he’s so brilliant and dreamy and then all of sudden he doesn’t say it as much but holds your hand more and you see him all not showered and he’s becoming more gross and less cute, then you start being all comfortable around him again.” She shrugs. “It’s the circle of life, baby.”
“You are making that up.”
“It’s the cirrrrclllllleee . . .” she sings like on The Lion King.
I do love this girl. And what I love almost more than her right now is the distraction from her own train of thoughts she just provided for us.
Monday morning and it’s the last week before
all the kids go back to school. And for whatever reason, I am standing in the middle of Target, trying not to be mowed down by some crazed mother with kids hanging off her back. The whole store is just filled with this sense of urgency like 150 No. 2 pencils will never be enough!
There are days when I have to move “Done with School” up a few notches on my list of blessings.
I steady my little basket over my arm and try my best to mash through the crowd to the makeup aisle. I wouldn’t even be here but I ran out of my foundation yesterday, and after my Friday night ice cream binge, my face is still recuperating.
I grab the foundation, find the two other things on my list, and go stand in the mile-long line to the registers. I look at the people’s carts in front of me and just frown. I never remember buying that much crap when I started school.
Then again, my mother was more the type who was like, “This is what is on the list from your teacher and that is all we are getting. I don’t care how cool the Lisa Frank folders are.”
I blame Mom for my uncool status in elementary school.
I finally pay for my couple of things and then drive to the church for my weekly Monday morning staff meeting with Rick. Natalie and baby Claire sometimes join us with muffins, and I smile as I see their car in the parking lot.
I can hear Claire the moment I open the church door, much less the office door. Geraldine is sitting at her desk, wincing at the shrill chatter coming from the back office.
“She’s a loud one, isn’t she?” Geraldine says.
“She’s Rick’s daughter. I guess I didn’t expect any less.”
Geraldine shrugs. “That’s the truth.”
Natalie starts waving Claire’s hand at me as soon as I walk in the door. “Hi, Auntie Paige!”
“Hi, Clairey girl,” I say all baby-talk like, bending down to nuzzle the little peach-fuzzed cheek.
Claire lets loose another shrill squeal that makes my right ear immediately start ringing.
“Yep,” Natalie says, noticing my wince. “That would be why I’m already looking into whether or not our health insurance covers hearing aids.”
“And?” I straighten to dump my purse on my desk.
“And it’s not looking good for my ears.” Natalie nods to the basket on the floor. “Doughnut muffins this morning. Dig in.”
Rick is silent up until now because he has been stuffing his face with muffins, and a sugary sprinkle covers his whole desk. “These, baby, are the reason I am going to stay with you through our old age.”
“You old romantic, you.” I roll my eyes at Rick and reach for a muffin.
Natalie has brought these before and they are delicious, but they really go better with coffee. I find the little mini coffeemaker I unearthed here during the Great Cleaning of Late Spring while Rick protested that yes, he was going to throw away the pizza box with the moldy pizza in it, eventually.
Eventually is my least favorite word ever. I’m with the people at Nike on this one. Just do it, for Pete’s sake.
Anyway, I found the coffeepot and Rick swore he’d never seen it, which probably means it belonged to whoever owned the office before Rick.
Disgusting.
I spent about three hours cleaning it and now it works perfectly. I brought in a pound of coffee, especially for days when it’s just me and Rick here all day, and the little maker has been chugging along ever since.
I find I can handle Rick a lot better when I’m properly caffeinated.
Natalie is talking while I get the coffee going. Sometimes I think she misses being around more adults because anytime she’s here, she hardly ever stops her monologue long enough to catch a breath.
“So then we went to the grocery store because we were all out of milk and I was standing there by the milk and I was looking at all the different kinds and I just started thinking about how many millions and millions of cows there have to be to produce this much milk for every grocery store in every town and city and state and it just totally overwhelmed me with this sense of compassion for these cows because I feel like Claire wants to eat like every twelve minutes and I get really overwhelmed thinking about how much milk I have to produce to keep her alive so I cannot imagine what those cows must be thinking when the weight of the whole world is on their shoulders.”
Rick is nodding and eating his doughnut muffins through her entire speech. I’m just watching her as she talks. She barely even notices what she’s doing with Claire, she’s so focused on telling Rick her story. But she bounces Claire on her lap, yanks a piece of fuzz out of Claire’s mouth, checks her watch, and then lifts her shirt and starts nursing all while telling us her story.
“Personally, I worry about goats,” Rick says.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, hon. Cows are like created for milk. I never really think of goats that way. And obviously neither does America because you never see people buying a gallon of goat’s milk for their kid. But now all of a sudden, everyone’s all into goat cheese–stuffed dates and goat cheese pizza, and whatever those little pastry dealie things are with goat cheese, and I’m just feeling bad for those poor goats. They didn’t even see it coming.”
Natalie is nodding with this extra thoughtful look on her face. “I hadn’t ever considered that. Poor goats.”
Then they both just sit there in this sympathetic silence for the goats.
Sometimes, despite the eardrum-splitting squeals, I really feel for Claire.
* * * * *
The week passes by in a blur. I meet with twenty-six girls and by Saturday, I’m so excited for the regular school year, I can taste it. Forty hours a week is a great number to be working.
Seventy-six is not.
“It will get better” has become Rick’s mantra. “This is only for a season, Paige. It will get better. In fact, why don’t you take the first week of the school year off. Don’t meet with anyone. Don’t even come to the office. Just sit at home and wash your hair or paint your nails or do whatever you single, nonmotherly girls do.”
“I wash my hair every day, Rick.”
“Oh. Well, all I know is Natalie is always talking about how she never has any time to wash her hair anymore and she’s going to turn into a big blob of grease.”
I washed my hair extra well that next morning.
Saturday is a beautiful fall day and miracle of all miracles, it’s even a little bit overcast, which just makes it the most-perfect temperature for an outdoor karaoke picnic. I’ve never heard of a karaoke picnic, but Rick threw the idea out there during one of our leader meetings, and everyone kind of got attached to the idea of seeing our little puberty-stricken junior high boys singing “Call Me Maybe” in their squeaky voices.
I am definitely videoing most of tonight on my cell phone.
I get to the park a little after four. I’m carrying a box with eighty bags of chips. I’m wearing my cutoff denim shorts and a looser dark gray knit T-shirt and flip-flops. I’ve got my hair in a sloppy bun at the top of my head and I’m wearing sunglasses.
I never dress up for youth events. I learned that lesson after playing Ultimate Frisbee in my favorite white capris during my first year volunteering with the youth group. I had to throw the capris away because I couldn’t get the grass stains out.
It still sort of makes my stomach hurt to think about it.
And speaking of stomachs twisting . . .
Tyler climbs out of his truck and gives me an awkward wave as he crosses the field over to where I am.
“Hey.” He takes the box from me.
“Thanks.” We keep walking to where Rick is busy setting up long white tables. He and I spent all of yesterday at Costco shopping for today. We’ve got chips, deli meats, cheeses, rolls, lettuce, and tomatoes, all kinds of dips for the chips, and every flavor of soda imaginable.
“So, um, how’s your weekend so far?” I ask Tyler, rubbing my now-empty arms and wishing I had something else to carry so I don’t feel so weird.
“Good. Fine
. I had to go back into the office today to work on that project some more.” Tyler’s curly blond hair is in top form today, probably because the overcast skies have also made it extra humid. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a white polo over a T-shirt. I sort of want to warn him about the potential grass stains, but I don’t want to sound like his mother so I keep my mouth shut.
Tyler glances over at me and forces a smile. “How are you?”
“Good. Rick gave me the next week off.” I don’t even know what I will do with myself. I’m going to start by cleaning my apartment but after that, I have a feeling I will get very bored.
“Cool. Maybe we can hang out.” He doesn’t look at me as he says it, though, so he’s only saying it because he doesn’t know what else to do.
I hate this.
We either need to just have it out or end it. This teetering halfway between relationship and strangers is about to kill me.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite karaoke singer!” Rick booms, wrapping an arm around Tyler’s shoulders. “I’ve already got ‘Single Ladies’ queued up for you, man. No need to thank me. You can just dedicate the song to me.”
Tyler shakes his head. “You have definitely got the wrong guy. I don’t sing.”
I’ve sat next to Tyler in church and I can kind of vouch for him on this one. It’s not that he has a bad voice. I just wouldn’t send him to try out for American Idol or anything.
Not to be mean.
“Well, we will just see. ‘Single Ladies,’ friend. ‘Single Ladies,’” Rick takes the box of chips and sets them on the one table he set up. I start popping the legs out on the other tables and before we know it, a million kids are at the park, tossing footballs back and forth, bringing more food, chattering in huge groups about what they’re wearing for the first day of school, and someone brought a volleyball net.
Rick halts the construction of the net. “Nope, peeps, this is not your normal park picnic,” he announces in a loud voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“No one reads my postcards!” Rick points to where he has built a makeshift stage out of two-by-fours and plywood. The man is really taking this karaoke thing seriously.