by Erynn Mangum
“Paige disapproves of my standards for marriage,” Rick says.
“I would think that would mostly be up to Natalie. I mean, if you have unlivable standards, she should be the judge of that,” Tyler says. “Speaking of Natalie, where is she?”
“She felt bad leaving Claire with a babysitter two nights in a row,” Rick says.
“Not his personal marriage standards,” I tell Tyler. “His professional marriage standards.”
Tyler just blinks at us, chewing a bite of enchilada. “I had no idea that your marriage moved to professional status.”
“Well, you know. We try to stay humble about it. We try not to wear the T-shirts with our names all over them, try to refrain from adding the bumper stickers to our car. Every so often, though, I’ll pass a bus with my head on it, and I just have to stop and think about—”
“Enough,” I interrupt. “You are ridiculous. And terrible. And Tyler, I was not disapproving of his marriage, though heaven only knows how much I pity Natalie, but I was saying that his method of deciding what couple he’s going to . . .” I stop and shake my head. “You know what? Never mind. How did I get this seat?”
“We were assigned.” Rick flicks the little cardstock-folded paper in front of my plate that clearly says Paige Alder.
Obviously Layla secretly hates me.
I spend the rest of dinner listening to Tyler and Rick discuss the merits of going to a wedding and how there is a reason that the whole thing usually centers around food.
“It’s because they knew way back when weddings were first invented that the only way to get a man who was not the groom there was to promise him a steak, cake, and whatever those chalky little mints are,” Rick says.
“You old romantic.” I roll my eyes.
“Natalie tells me that all the time,” Rick says smugly, finishing his tortilla.
We are just barely finishing our dinner when the waiters bring coffee cups around to everyone’s place, and then they start walking around with huge pots of decaf and offer it to everyone. Then they bring out the most amazing apple-chimichanga thing that is fried and hot and covered in melting cinnamon ice cream.
I have a new favorite restaurant.
The entire room gets quiet because everyone is so focused on enjoying every single bite before the ice cream completely melts into a pool of sugary cream. Rick licks his fork and sighs. “Oh, Natalie is going to regret the day she decided the rehearsal dinner was a better night to miss than the wedding.”
Layla and Peter stand at the end of the dinner and thank everyone for coming and being a part of their lives. Everyone starts packing up to leave and Layla comes over to our table.
“How was your dinner?” she asks.
“Amazing. I’m not sure how you are going to top this tomorrow,” Rick tells her.
“Thanks, Rick. I guess I was hoping my wedding would be enough of a topper.” Layla looks at me. “Are you ready?”
I nod. Layla and I arranged tonight a very, very long time ago. Like way before high school and junior high and all the weirdness and chaos and newness that is life now.
We solemnly swore that at both of our weddings, we would spend the night before with each other like old times.
I wave at the boys and stand, looking at Layla. “You’ll have to drop me back off by the church. My car is still there.”
She nods. “I have to go past there anyway.”
“See you tomorrow, Paige.” Tyler grins at me as we leave.
I follow Layla out the door, turn away while she kisses Peter for the last time before they kiss on the stage tomorrow as husband and wife, and then go over to her car and slide into the passenger seat.
“Oh gosh,” she whispers, not putting the key in the ignition, but just sitting there, hands in the ten-and-two position on the steering wheel.
“What?”
“Tomorrow. My wedding is tomorrow. My wedding is tomorrow.” Her voice is hushed, her eyes big.
Layla doesn’t get quiet very often, but when she does, she’s usually on the brink of some sort of breakdown.
“What can I do? Want me to roll the windows down? Here, I’ll massage your neck. Put your head between your knees. Surely you have a bag in here somewhere . . .” I dig through the mess in the back of her car.
“No, Paige, I’m fine. Really.”
I look at my friend, my dear friend who has been like a precious sister to me, and I start to cry.
“Oh, oh, don’t do that, Paige. Please, don’t do that,” Layla says, her eyes welling up as well.
I’m gasping for breath, swiping at tears and really wishing I’d remembered to wear waterproof mascara today. I lean across the car and give her a very awkward hug over the console.
“Okay.” I pull away and try to pull myself back together at the same time. This is so not our relationship. Layla is the one who cries at the drop of a hat. I’m the one who is calm and unemotional about things.
Apparently not today.
She drives to the church, drops me by my car, and I follow her over to her parents’ house. Peter and a few of his friends got Layla all moved out of her apartment, and Peter moved out of his apartment last weekend and put everything in a brand-new apartment for the two of them.
So Peter has been staying there and Layla moved back into her parents’ house for a week.
I can’t say I’m not happy that her creepy apartment is finally gone. And that I’m not going to be staying there tonight.
Layla’s parents live in a very nice brick-and-stone home just outside Frisco. It’s about a twenty or so minute drive from the church. I pull into their huge driveway beside Layla and shift into Park and climb out to get my bag from the trunk.
Mr. Prestwick used to own a huge business in Austin, but when Layla moved up here for school and Luke moved out, Mrs. Prestwick talked him into selling the business and just doing freelance work on the side from Frisco.
So this isn’t the house Layla grew up in, but since it’s been her parents’ house for the last six years, it’s starting to feel more like their home. For a long time, I couldn’t see them in any other house except the one I met Layla in.
“Right on time.” Mrs. Prestwick smiles at us as we walk into the kitchen, pulling a tray of her famous shortbread cookies out of the oven.
Mrs. Prestwick is an amazing cook.
Layla, my frozen-food section friend, did not inherit that trait from her mother.
Layla rubs her stomach. “Oh gosh. It’s like everyone’s goal tonight is to get me to not fit into my dress tomorrow. Apple chimichangas, ice cream, enchiladas, and now cookies?” Despite her speech, she still grabs one as soon as Mrs. Prestwick dollops it with peach jam and slides it onto a plate.
“These, my love, are the exact same cookies my mother made for me the night before my wedding.” Mrs. Prestwick gets misty-eyed. “Oh honey, how I wish Gran could see you now! She would be so proud of the woman you’ve become.”
Layla and her mother hug and sniffle back tears, and I sit on one of the stools at the counter and pick up a cookie to nibble on, thankful that the emotions seem to have passed for me.
I don’t mind when other people cry, but I can only handle myself crying so much. Then my contacts start to fuse to my eyelids, I have trouble seeing, and I just get frustrated.
“So,” Mrs. Prestwick says as Layla sits beside me at the counter. “Since tomorrow night is your wedding night, I wanted to offer you some last-minute advice.”
And cue my exit. “Well, good to see you, Mrs. Prestwick. I’ll see you later, Layla. I’ll just show myself upstairs.”
“Sit down, Paige Alder,” Mrs. Prestwick says. “It’s nothing like that.”
“No, trust me, that talk was last night.” Layla rubs her cheek. “Surely there isn’t a part two. I felt like we were pretty detailed.”
Now I’m blushing and I’m not even the one getting married tomorrow.
“No part two. This is purely about how to have a happy marriage. And Pai
ge? I saw the way that young man next to you at dinner tonight was looking at you. I fully expect that you’ll need to know this in the very near future.”
“Is this like having a happy goldfish? Because I’m pretty sure we both flunked that course.” I settle back onto my stool.
“Poor Huck Finn,” Layla says, putting her hand on her heart, and we both take a moment of silence to remember the poor chap who only swam in our punch bowl for about twenty minutes before flipping over, belly up.
It’s a cruel world for a twenty-eight-cent goldfish.
“No, it is not like that.” Mrs. Prestwick says. “I need you both to pay attention. I’ve been married for thirty years. I have infinite marriage advice, and I’m sure that both of you will be asking for specific advice sometime in the future. But tonight, I want to share the biggest secret I have that will make your marriage last until death do you part.”
She’s bending over now, looking us straight in the eyes and so very serious that I’m half expecting her to pull a pistol out of her back pocket and explain that she threatens Mr. Prestwick with death every night before they go to bed if he ever tries to part.
“What is it?” Layla asks when her mom stays silent for a minute.
“This.” Mrs. Prestwick sets a tub of butter-flavored Crisco on the counter in front of us.
I look at the tub, look at Layla who appears just as confused as I am, and then look at Mrs. Prestwick.
“What do you do? Grease the floors with it every night so if he tries to run, he breaks his neck?” Layla asks.
“Three words, ladies. Chocolate-chip cookies. Learn how to make a killer batch of chocolate-chip cookies and you’ll never have to worry about your man.”
“Well.” Layla leans back. “That is not good news for me.”
I grin. This is the girl who can’t even make scrambled eggs without them turning out burned and crunchy.
Her apartment always needed to be aired out after those cooking disasters.
Mrs. Prestwick laughs and reaches across the counter to cup her daughter’s cheek. “I’m just kidding, honey. The biggest advice I can give you is to keep your expectations low and your love for Jesus high. Remember that Peter is a sinner just like you.” She smiles at her daughter. “And most of all, have fun and don’t be afraid to laugh.”
Layla is tearing up again and she swipes at her eyes while I hand her another shortbread cookie.
We move to the family room and lounge on the couches talking about nothing with her parents. An hour goes by and Mrs. Prestwick pats her husband’s leg. “Off to bed for us. We have a very big day tomorrow.”
She comes over and hugs her daughter good night and I see the free-flowing tears as she climbs the stairs. Mr. Prestwick is not emotional, but he does give Layla an extra large hug.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he says to us, smiling gently.
I look over at Layla after her parents left. She’s lying on the couch, legs twisted over the armrest and her head is back against the back of the couch. She looks tired and yet I can tell her brain is still going a million miles an hour.
I guess I can’t blame her. We’re only on the eve of what so far will be the biggest day of her life.
“How about a movie?” I suggest. Maybe if we are sitting in the dark, watching something brainless, she’ll start to slow down.
She nods. “27 Dresses.”
I push the DVD into the player and then join her on the couch. She’s holding the remotes and she looks at me before she starts it. “You’re next, you know.”
“I doubt we’ll watch another movie. I’m fine with what you picked.” I pull a blanket over me.
“Not that. This.” She waves her hands around. “Engagement. Marriage. All that fun stuff.”
I shrug. “We’ll see.”
“You love him, don’t you?” she says in a quiet voice, a smile flitting around her face.
I bite the inside of my cheek. And then I nod.
She grins. “I totally knew it.”
“We haven’t ever really . . . um, discussed it, though . . .” I stumble over the words and she nods.
“Got it. Mum’s the word. But Paige?”
I look over at her and her eyes are shining.
“He’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you.”
I grin and I know she knows what I’m thinking. I’m happy for me too.
She pushes the Play button and we both settle in for the movie.
She doesn’t make it through the first fifteen minutes. I look over when I’m giggling at one of the cute one-liners and she is completely dead to the world.
I smile, push the Stop button on the remote, turn off the TV, and gently shake her shoulder. “Come on, Layla. Let’s go to bed.”
I help her up the stairs, make sure she’s in bed, and then go to the guest room where I’d thrown my bag a little earlier. This is Layla’s last night sleeping alone. I figured she should have some privacy tonight instead of camping out on the floor like I usually do.
I pull on my jammies and slide under the covers of the queen-sized guest bed and turn off the lamp and stare up at the dark ceiling.
Layla’s getting married tomorrow, Lord.
When did we get so old?
I wake up to someone jumping on my bed.
“Wake up, wake up! It’s my wedding day!” Layla screeches while I grab my chest in the hopes of keeping my heart from pounding right out of it.
Not necessarily my favorite way to wake up.
“Layla! You scared me to death,” I moan, rolling over and tucking my head under the pillow, hoping to mute the insane jumping freak who is currently in my bedroom.
“Get up! The festivities are beginning!” Layla pulls the pillow off my head. “Mom’s making cinnamon rolls!” Then she vaults off the bed and runs out of the room.
I rub my face and look groggily at the clock. Seven in the morning. Why in the world are the festivities starting at seven in the morning? The wedding isn’t until five for Pete’s sake!
Still, Mrs. Prestwick makes the best homemade cinnamon rolls I’ve ever had in my whole entire life, so it’s probably worth getting out of bed for one.
I roll off the mattress, stumble to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and go downstairs. Mrs. Prestwick is just pulling out a huge pan of cinnamon rolls from the oven and the warm scent is filling the entire house.
Layla is already at the table, and I’m amazed she’s actually sitting still. Then as I’m bringing over our plates of gooey, warm, icing-covered rolls, I happen to see her knees under the table. They are bouncing like a little kid at a trampoline park.
I look at all the icing and the delicious filling dripping out of the cinnamon roll, and I wonder about the sense in stuffing an already-flipping-out person full of sugar.
“Mine! Mine! Mine!” Layla chirps like the birds on Finding Nemo, banging her fork on the table.
She’s not really helping her case.
“I feel like we might all regret this.” I sit in front of her. “Do me a favor and at least eat slowly.”
She waves a hand. “You worry too much, Paige.”
“No, she’s probably right.” Luke comes walking into the house wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s obviously showered and his hair has gel in it and he smells nice.
“Where are you going?” Layla asks him, digging into her cinnamon roll.
“Peter invited me to come with them to the golf course this morning,” Luke says. “I just came by to pick up my tux.” He goes over and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Good morning, Mom.”
“Hi, precious. Have a cinnamon roll.”
“I’ll take a rain check.” He comes over and gives Layla a kiss on the top of her head and then smiles platonically at me. “See you guys a little later.”
Layla looks at me as he leaves. “So, all is wrapped up there, huh?” she says in a quiet voice.
It’s fairly common knowledge that Mrs. Prestwick was deva
stated when Luke broke up with me so many years ago. So it’s good to keep our voices low.
I nod. “Yep.” And it feels good.
Layla finishes her cinnamon roll in record time and then swears that the only other thing she’s allowing near her the rest of the day are celery sticks.
“Coffee?” Mr. Prestwick says, walking into the kitchen right then, carrying a tray of Starbucks drinks.
Layla moans. “Seriously, guys. My dress was fitted two months ago. I’m sincerely worried.”
I grin at her and accept my Starbucks drink from Layla’s dad.
Layla has the entire day scheduled, so we only have thirty minutes to take a shower. “Go first,” I tell her when we get upstairs. She runs to the bathroom and I flounce on the guest bed, yawning.
My adrenaline hasn’t kicked in yet. I’m assuming it probably will when we’re standing in line outside the sanctuary, waiting for the flower girl to finish the long trek down the aisle.
I don’t necessarily enjoy being the center of attention or standing in front of a big crowd. It will be a long walk down the aisle all by myself.
I have a couple of unread texts on my phone. The first one is from my mom.
HEY HONEY! WE ARE HEADED UP THERE! PICKING UP PRESLEE AND WES ON OUR WAY. WANT US TO GET ANYTHING FOR YOU?
My family is, of course, coming up for Layla’s wedding. There’s no way they would miss it. And I’m so glad Preslee and Wes are making the drive too.
The next one is from Tyler.
HEY THERE, BEAUTIFUL. I’M GETTING READY TO HEAD OUT TO PLAY GOLF WITH PETER AND HIS BUDDIES BUT I JUST WANTED TO SAY I’M THINKING OF YOU AND I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU TONIGHT. :-)
“Well, well. I don’t even think I need to venture a guess as to who is texting you so early.” Layla grins at me from the doorway, her wet hair twisted up in a towel.
“My mother texted,” I say haughtily.
“Mm-hmm. Shower is free. We’re blow-drying our hair but don’t do anything else. Okay? The makeup and hair ladies will be here in an hour.”