by Erynn Mangum
I nod. “I know.”
“How did he even get your number?” she rants.
I shrug. There are any number of people at the party who could have given Luke my number, but my bet is on Layla’s parents. They made no secret about how disappointed they were when Luke broke up with me. “We’ll always consider you our other daughter!” Mrs. Prestwick cried, mashing my head into her shoulder the day after the dumping.
“It doesn’t really matter,” I say now. “That’s not all, though.”
“That’s not all? What, did he ask you to marry him or something?”
I don’t mention how he’s been asking me out. Layla and I have spent the past four years not talking about Luke and that is good for us. Layla loves her brother and so she should. I don’t want to make things awkward in the Prestwick house.
“Preslee is in town,” I say quietly.
Layla just stares at me, openmouthed. “Preslee. As in, Preslee Preslee? Your sister?”
Layla was there for all of the Preslee saga as well. Layla has been through too many sagas with me.
I nod.
“Wow.” Layla leans back into the couch.
“That’s not all,” I say again.
“Okay, Paige, seriously.” Layla shakes her head. “I’m not sure how much more I can take. You’re singing a duet on Sunday with Zac Efron? You discovered you’re allergic to chocolate? You found that dog with the two-thousand-dollar reward I’ve seen posters for all over the place?”
I laugh and Layla grins at me.
“Mark offered me a raise. For the same job I already have.”
“Offered. As in you didn’t take it?” She gives me a confused look. “Paige, this might just be me, but usually when someone offers you more money to do the same thing you’re already doing, you generally say yes.” She shrugs. “That’s just been my experience though.”
I sigh and rub my forehead. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, let’s start with Mark since that seems the easiest.”
This is why we are good friends.
“Okay.” Layla straightens up, crossing her legs under her body and turning toward me. “You don’t want more money. Why?”
I laugh. “Layla.”
“What? It’s a valid question.”
“I don’t want to die being a secretary.” I bite my lip.
“Why not? It seems like a fairly mild way to go honestly. What’s the worst that could happen? A gigantic paper cut? A stapler to the forehead out of frustration? Maybe dying of boredom?”
“Layla, I didn’t mean literally dying because of being a secretary. I just meant …” I watch Westley as the Man in Black tries to find out if Buttercup still loves him or not. “I don’t want to be a secretary forever.”
“Well sure. But there’s a lot of things I don’t want to do forever. For example, I hope that at some point someone invents sunscreen that doesn’t smell like a tropical rain forest, because one day I have high hopes of wearing sunscreen and perfume without knocking people over from the sheer weight of scent around me.”
“You have the strangest goals.”
“At least I’m honest.”
“Well, here’s me being honest then. At some point in my life, I’d like to use my degree.”
She shrugs. “Degree usage is overrated. Next.”
“Next what?”
“Next topic. Let’s talk about Luke.”
“Let’s not.” Like I said, not talking about Luke has worked out really well for us for the past four years.
“I think you just need to tell him, ‘Dude, you missed the train. I have a great life, a great new guy, and all is right in the world that you have no part of.’”
I look at Layla, eyebrows raised. “Harsh.”
“I like you without Luke.”
“So it seems.”
“And I like you with Tyler. Are you with Tyler?”
“Well — ”
“And as far as Preslee goes, I’m not going to get involved with that one.” She pretends to wash her hands and holds them up. “You need to figure that out on your own.”
“Thanks for all the help,” I say dryly.
“I don’t have a sister unless you count yourself.” She reaches for the remote. “I can’t help you there. Now shut up, this is my favorite part.”
She cranks the volume just in time for Westley to kill the R.O.U.S. and sighs sweetly when he looks up at Buttercup, all bloodied and hair mussed.
“Seriously. That scene right there shaped everything I wanted in a future husband,” she says.
I climb under the covers later after Layla leaves and pull my Bible over to my lap. I just finished reading through James. It’s time to find something new, so I turn to Galatians since Rick’s wife, Natalie, and I were just talking about some verses she was trying to memorize from there.
Verse ten of the first chapter screams at me: “For am I now seeking the favor of men, or of God? Or am I striving to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a bond-servant of Christ.”
I close my Bible, frowning. What does that even mean? And surely there is some caveat in the later part of the book, because isn’t part of life pleasing people?
Chapter
2
Friday morning I open my eyes, blink at the white ceiling, and realize yet again how awful birthdays are when you live by yourself.
When I lived at home, Mom would always wake me up with a birthday cinnamon roll with a candle in it, sing happy birthday, and give me a present to open that was something I got to use on my birthday before I opened my real presents that night.
Usually it was just something little, like a cool pen or a cheap necklace or something, but it was still special.
I miss my mom on my birthday.
I get up, take a shower, and pull on a cream-colored gauzy tunic-style top with black leggings and boots. It is maybe a little winterish for March, but we are on day four of constant drizzling rain and it feels weather appropriate. Plus, it is one of my favorite outfits, and you should always be allowed to wear your favorite outfit on your birthday.
I eat a quiet breakfast of Raisin Bran just like I always do, but it just feels more depressing today since Raisin Bran, for all its high-fiber benefits, is nothing at all like a cinnamon roll covered in melting icing with a candle in it. My phone buzzes and I click open the text message.
A little dancing yellow smiley face wriggles around on the screen singing happy birthday and then a sign pops up. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! — TYLER
I smile. Layla has also texted.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, O ELDERLY ONE.
I am three months older than her. Which means I have three months of being told how old I am before she moves on to other insulting nicknames.
I get to work and Peggy smiles at me as I put my lunch in the refrigerator. “Happy birthday, Paige. Anything fun planned for tonight?”
Luke asked me again to go out tonight and I never texted him back, so I am hoping he got the point. Tyler hinted about dinner earlier this week but sent me a text right after his happy face one telling me he had a huge meeting this evening at five o’clock.
I AM SO SORRY PAIGE. CAN I MAKE IT UP TO YOU TOMORROW NIGHT? YOU SERIOUSLY HAVE NO IDEA HOW SORRY I AM.
I shrug to Peggy. “Not that I’m aware of.” As of right now, I am planning on treating myself to the Cheesecake Factory, getting it to go, and going home and watching a movie.
Takeout.
Takeout is a sad word on your birthday.
I work all morning, watch the copier man, Flynn, wrestle the copier all afternoon, finally copy all the teetering stack of files, and turn off my computer at five o’clock. Candace showed up with birthday chocolates in the morning that I’ve already eaten half of, Peggy hands me a box of gourmet cupcakes, and Mark gives me a gift card to Panera.
“They have a new strawberry salad,” he says as he puts his hands in his pockets. Mark is one of the most awkward gift givers I know.
He finally goes back to his office, and I put the gift card in my purse as I sling it over my shoulder and gather up the chocolates and the cupcakes. I wave at Candace as I head out the door and open my car door, meeting a blast of warm air.
For being such a drizzly day, it is still warm out. I put the chocolates and cupcakes on the seat next to me and start the engine and the air conditioner, debating between using my new gift card tonight or sticking with the Cheesecake Factory plan.
My phone starts ringing right as I am mentally putting mac ’n’ cheese in the pro list for Panera for the fourth time.
I don’t recognize the number, so I answer it. Maybe I have “won” a Visa card worth one thousand dollars again like the last time I answered an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“I was hoping you’d answer.”
Luke.
I bite back the urge to push the end call button and bite my tongue instead.
“Happy birthday, kiddo,” he says, voice warm and friendly.
You would think the man would take a hint. I’ve barely returned any of his texts, I pretty much ignored him the whole night of his parents’ anniversary party, and I danced with Tyler the whole night.
You’d think he’d see that there is the potential of a relationship with Tyler here and that I am finally happy again and he should just go back to California or wherever he is now living.
At least I think there is that potential with Tyler. Apparently we’ll see after the crazy time at his work is over.
“Hello, Luke,” I say, because he is obviously waiting for a reply from me.
“Any big birthday plans?”
I think about how to answer this without blatantly lying. “I’m not sure yet,” I say, hoping maybe he’ll misread that to mean I am expecting a surprise party.
“Great. You should come out to dinner with me.”
“I think not.”
“You’re just sitting there in your car. That’s a terrible birthday.”
I immediately jerk my head around until I see him parked two spaces over, smiling at me through the raindrop-streaked window all stalker-like, phone to his head. He waves the hand not holding the phone and flashes a smile.
“Hi, Paige.”
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
He shrugs. “I’m considering adoption.”
“Go away, Luke. I have plans.”
“For what? Dinner alone? No birthday cake? No candles? No singing?” He tsks into the phone, shaking his head. “That’s the worst birthday I can think of.”
No worse than sitting here in my car talking to my ex-boyfriend two parking spaces over from me. I try staring him down but it doesn’t work. He just smiles bigger.
“I like your hair,” he says.
“What?”
“Your hair. It’s long. I like it like that.”
“You know what, Luke? You had your chance. Go back to California.” I hang up the phone, don’t look at him again, turn the key forcefully, and drive out of the parking lot, not even sparing a glance in my rearview mirror.
Who does he think he is anyway? The greatest gift to mankind? Poor Paige, I dumped her and now she must be miserable without me?
I grip the steering wheel, staring through my windshield wipers that aren’t really needed for the tiny drizzle coming down. Idiot. Does he really think he can just waltz back into my life without even a thought to the past?
My apartment is very close to work, and I get there in record time. It seems that fuming makes you drive faster. I gather up all of my birthday gifts and am halfway to my apartment when I realize I forgot to pick up dinner.
Apparently fuming makes you forget important things like eating as well. I stand there in the drizzle, staring at my building, wondering if I should just make do with the cheese stick and rice cakes inside, thinking about how I likely happened on a life-changing discovery in the diet industry and how my soon-to-be bestseller could put my money troubles to rest.
Fume More, Consume Less.
“So, about dinner …”
I close my eyes, willing the voice behind me to leave.
“Come on, Paige. You can’t avoid me forever.”
“Maybe not, but I can try.”
“Paige.” He draws my name out, a slight teasing tone to his voice. I take a deep breath and turn around, squinting at him through the spitting drizzle.
He looks good. Luke has always looked good. While most boys went through the goofy years where their head, feet, and hands were too big for their bodies, I can’t remember Luke ever looking anything less than perfect. I met him when I was a beyond-awkward fifth grader wearing my mom’s old stirrup pants and carrying around toothpicks to get food out of my braces. Layla was assigned the desk next to me and we were instant friends. I’ll never forget the day she took me to her house and I met Luke.
I thought he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen. And he was way mature because he was already in the seventh grade and had to shave.
I just look at him now, biting the inside of my cheek. The years have been good to Luke. His shoulders have filled out and his jawline has become a man’s. His hair is thick and straight and nearly black, eyes dark. He smiles at me then, and I realize how long I’ve just been staring at him.
“Sorry,” I mumble, looking away, blinking the raindrops out of my eyes.
“Look. I recognize I’m not exactly your favorite person on the planet. But I know Layla had something come up for work, I’m assuming the same can be said of the guy you were dancing with at Mom and Dad’s party, so rather than sit inside a tiny apartment by yourself on your birthday, will you please just come to dinner with me?” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “I won’t even talk to you if that’s what you want.”
I sigh. The options do not look good either way.
“Fine,” I bark, stalking back to my car. “I will drive. We will stay for one hour. One hour, Luke.” I whip around to face him and find him right on my tail, with a satisfied smile on his face. “And we will not discuss anything in the past.” I use my best This Is Nonnegotiable voice I perfected during my many years babysitting.
Kids feared me.
Luke, it would seem, does not. He obviously fights to contain a grin and the battle is painful to watch.
“Yes, ma’am,” he chokes out finally, hurrying around to the passenger side of my car, probably worrying I will change my mind.
Which I do six times by the time I open the driver’s door. This is not a good idea. I slide into the car and look over at him sitting there so close to me.
This is the worst idea ever.
I check my phone, hoping that by some miracle Tyler’s meeting has been canceled and I suddenly have a great excuse not to go out to dinner with Luke.
Nothing. Not even a low-battery warning, which obviously would have sent me back up to the apartment to charge it, therefore canceling my plans.
I start the car, my jaw aching from the sheer stress of sitting sixteen inches away from Luke Prestwick. He is even wearing cologne that is quickly soaking into my car. From the smell of it, some things haven’t changed in the past four years.
“Where would you like to go?” he asks. “Didn’t you always like that little Italian place over by the —?”
“No talking about the past,” I interrupt. “We will go to the Cheesecake Factory.” We never ate there when we were dating. I drive, thankful for its close proximity to my apartment. The quicker we get there, the quicker I can get out of this car and get home and away from Luke forever.
The restaurant is packed, but it always is. I finally find a parking spot and march to the doors, push past a throng of people waiting, and approach the hostess stand. Luke h
urries behind me like a little puppy struggling to keep up. “Two, please. Preferably with your fastest server.”
The girl gives me a weird look but nods. “Two? Right this way.” She picks up two menus, and I give an apologetic look to one of the fathers in the large group who shrugs in a “it’s okay” way as he picks up his screaming three-year-old while another child runs around with a toy airplane making engine noises.
With any luck, we’ll get seated right beside them and we won’t even be able to make conversation.
It is not our luck. The waitress keeps walking farther and farther into the bowels of the restaurant, and we finally end up in some tiny alcove in the back, full of tables of couples holding hands across the tables and smiling into each other’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, we don’t need a quiet table,” I tell her.
“It’s the only table I have right now. The others will be about a thirty- to forty-minute wait.”
“Here is fine.” I sit down and try not to look at the couples around me, sling my purse on my chair, and take the menu.
Luke thanks the hostess and then sits across from me, smiling first at the people around us and then at me. “Nice little spot. I guess I’ve never been here with just one other person. I always get seated in the big room.”
“Mm-hmm. It’s great. We should probably know what we want to eat since we only have about forty-five minutes left.” I prop up my menu on the table and stare at it, trying to focus, trying to get my brain to stop thinking about the fact that Luke is sitting opposite me in the Cheesecake Factory on my birthday.
I should just mark twenty-three down as the worst birthday of my life.
“Well, I’m going to get their steak. They have great steak.”
He would pick something that takes ten years to cook.
He smiles at me and lays his menu on the table. “What is the birthday meal going to be?”
“Chopped salad.” I close the menu.
“Salad?” he repeats dubiously. “We are at the Cheesecake Factory and you’re getting a salad?”
“It cancels out the cheesecake. You should decide what cheesecake you want too so we can just order them both together.”