Paige Rewritten

by Erynn Mangum

  Then she got caught up in her parents’ anniversary party. Now she’s restoring furniture.

  I am a little scared to see what happens next.

  At twelve thirty, Layla declares it’s time to let the paint continue to drip dry and we should go get Panda Express.

  “What about the dresser?” I ask.

  “What about it?”

  “Are we just going to leave it in the parking lot?”

  She shrugs. “It’s in my space.”

  “You don’t think anyone will mess with it?” This is Layla’s apartment complex we are talking about here. I’ve seen three sketchy-looking men walk by in the last twenty minutes, two who had huge tattoos covering their entire visible flesh.

  Say what you will about tattoos being the new in thing, I was raised to irrationally fear all people who had one.

  Which now includes my sister, apparently.

  My fear of her is officially justified.

  “Hmm,” Layla says. “Good point. Okay. I’ll go get Panda. You stay here and guard the dresser. And no fixing the drips, Miss Perfectionist. It’s supposed to be — ”

  “Raw,” I say along with her. “Yeah. I get it.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back.” She jogs across the parking lot to her car and leaves a minute later, waving at me as I sit on the curb next to her parking space.

  Another man wearing a sleeveless shirt showcasing a huge dragon crawling up his arm and eating his shoulder walks by, glancing at me.

  Forget the dresser. Now I’m worried about my personal safety.

  Layla really needs to move.

  My dad once told me that when I’m in a situation where things could get dicey, I need to be paying 112 percent attention to my surroundings. “Nothing should distract you,” Dad always said. “You live in a constant state of caution, you understand?”

  I happen to disagree on one thing. I think a girl on a cell phone is a lot more intimidating because then at least someone, even though the person isn’t physically there, knows that I’ve been kidnapped and sold to Russian carpet thieves.

  “Hey, Paige.”

  “Hi,” I say into my phone, looking furtively around me, trying to watch out for potential kidnappers. A girl walking her dog gives me a weird look.

  “You okay?” Tyler asks.

  “Fine. Why? Do you think I’m not okay?”

  “What?”

  “What?” I ask back.

  “You’re just talking weird, like you’re standing in line to rob a bank or something. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m at Layla’s. Babysitting a dresser. In the parking lot.”

  “Where’s Layla?”

  “She went to get Panda Express for us.”

  “There’s a shock.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “So correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re sitting in the parking lot with a dresser?”

  “Next to it, if you want to be precise.”

  “You’re just sitting there?”

  “No, I’m trying very hard not to get kidnapped.”

  He snorts. “In broad daylight?”

  “I’m sure it’s happened before.”

  “Well, what’s the dresser look like?”

  “It’s raw,” I tell him.

  “Raw,” he repeats.

  “Right.”

  “Like rah, rah, sis boom bah?”

  “No, like, hey these carrots in this salad are raw.”

  He laughs. “What on earth does that mean? It’s bare? It’s a naked dresser?”

  “No, but that makes more sense. Apparently it means that it dries in drips all over the place.”

  “Huh. Do you sand them off?”

  “I’m afraid to ask Layla.” The guy with the dragon gnawing on his shoulder is back. He strolls by, looking at the speckled-with-drips dresser, then at me, then at my phone, and climbs into a greasy-looking sedan.

  I grip the phone tightly. “Tyler,” I whisper. “I am in danger.”

  “What?”

  “There is a man with a dragon tattoo eating his shoulder who keeps walking by and looking at me and the dresser.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the parking lot,” I annunciate it carefully. “Space number sixty-three. I am wearing my paint-splattered denim shorts and a T-shirt. I have my hair in a — ”

  “Paige, chill. I was only asking to clarify. You have to admit you probably look ridiculous sitting beside a dresser in the middle of the parking lot. I don’t think the dragon guy is out to get you.”

  “Everyone knows that dragons equal danger, Tyler. Have you never watched Flashpoint? Or NCIS?”

  “No, but I’ve watched ESPN, and I’m pretty sure that five out of every ten football players has a dragon tattoo. And I don’t think they are dangerous. Except maybe to other football players.”

  “You can even basically spell danger from dragon,” I say, ignoring him.

  “Dangor? That’s not a word, Paige.”

  “Whatever. If someone was running toward me yelling ‘dangor,’ I would still run for my life.”

  He starts laughing. “Oh, Paige.”

  Layla’s back, waving cheerfully at me from behind the wheel as she passes me and the dresser to find a parking place.

  “Layla’s back.”

  “I’m glad you lived long enough to eat your orange chicken,” Tyler says.

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon. Maybe we can watch a movie or something tonight.”

  “That would be fun. Bye, Tyler.”

  “Bye, Paige.” I hang up and take one of the paper sacks from Layla. She pulls her sunglasses off and frowns at the dresser.

  “It’s really drippy, isn’t it?”

  Another trip to Lowe’s for sandpaper and another gallon of paint is in my future. I force back the sigh, put on a smile, and nod to the bags. “Lunch first.”

  Chapter

  9

  “So, what’s it going to be?” Tyler taps the stack of “acceptable” DVDs he found in my TV cabinet.

  I glance over. I’m in the middle of doing the dishes. Tyler surprised me at five thirty by showing up to my apartment with pizza and enough paper plates, plastic forks, and napkins to give each of the Duggars their own family-sized set.

  In light of that courtesy, I figured I should probably make him some homemade cookies, plus I still have to do dishes tonight.

  I am a glutton for punishment, so it would seem.

  “And I purposefully grabbed nineteen million plates and forks so you wouldn’t have to do those tonight.” Tyler points at my hands in the sink.

  “What can I say? I love doing dishes.”

  “Thanks for making cookies.”

  “Thanks for bringing over pizza.”

  He’s smiling at me from across the high counter separating my kitchen from my living room and my stomach flips a little. His eyes soften as he looks at me and now there are a hundred tiny gnats all trying to showcase their break-dancing moves in my stomach. The smell of freshly baking cookies surrounds us, and I suddenly get that feeling. You know, the one where it feels like your heart and lungs are stapled together.

  I really like this guy.

  Finally he taps the DVDs again, breaking eye contact, and I catch a breath.

  “So?” he asks.

  “What are the choices?”

  “Iron Man, Count of Monte Cristo, Rocky, or Indiana Jones.”

  “I don’t remember owning any of those movies.”

  “Thankfully, I brought some of my own tonight.”

  “Hey!” I say, rinsing the mixing bowl. “I have good DVDs. I thought for sure you’d pick The Parent Trap for tonight.”

  He sighs sadly. “Is that what you want to watch?”

  I grin. “We can watch one of your movies.” The poor man has watched about ten of mine in the last month. It’s probably about time for me to let him have a turn.

  I pull the cookies out of the oven, slide them onto a paper plate, and join
him on the couch. “What won out?”

  “Indiana Jones. I haven’t seen it in forever.”

  “Me either.” A very young Harrison Ford fills the screen, and I start to wonder why I haven’t watched it in so long.

  Tyler pauses the movie.

  “What’s wrong?” I look over at him. We have the cookies on the coffee table, our glasses of water, and I even brought over some napkins.

  “I just felt the need to remind you that Harrison Ford is now like eighty.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe older.”

  I start laughing. “Play the movie, Tyler.”

  “I’m just saying. And Indiana Jones is fictional.” He presses the Play button.

  I pick up a cookie and start munching. “Doesn’t make him less attractive.”

  “I knew I should have chosen Rocky.”

  I laugh.

  About halfway through the movie, I glance over. Tyler is sitting about a foot or two away, totally engrossed in the movie.

  It’s different. Tyler is not really a touchy guy. And I’m not sure why. Maybe he’s more into the friend side of this relationship? Maybe we aren’t really in a relationship?

  What if any chemistry I’m sensing is just on my side of things?

  I chew on my bottom lip, watching a youthful Harrison Ford dodge all manner of weapons, and try not to worry.

  “Try” is such a relative term.

  I climb into bed at eleven thirty and bemoan the fact that I chose a book written by Paul for my devotional time at night. Paul needed a copyeditor, because I have to read every sentence eleven times to understand anything.

  Tonight’s no different.

  “I do not nullify the grace of God, for if righteousness comes through the Law, then Christ died needlessly.”

  I lean back on my pillow, thinking. So basically Paul is saying that if me being a good person will get me into heaven, then there was no point to Christ’s death.

  I think. It’s late.

  I turn off the light and I’m asleep before my eyes fully adjust to the darkness.

  Sunday.

  A word that has recently become a very stressful word. I stand in the parking lot after church, holding my keys with both hands like I might accidentally ignite a hay bale into sudden and horrifically large flames like in Oklahoma if I let go.

  Amazing how quickly that hay bale caught fire in Oklahoma.

  And how no one seemed to feel any financial burden from all the hay bales burning up afterward.

  “Are you okay?”

  Rick is suddenly standing right in front of me, squinting in the bright sun, looking at me like I’m two red shoes shy of Munchkin Land.

  “I am going to have dinner with my family.”

  “Where? The county prison?”

  “Preslee is going to be there.”

  “Ah.” He nods at me, crossing his arms over his chest. “Preslee strikes again, huh?”

  “Actually, Mom’s making me do it.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” I glare up at him. “You don’t know the whole story, so you don’t get to have any opinions.”

  “I am a human being and an opinionated one at that, so I can have all the opinions I want, thank you. Look, try not to stress, okay? It’s only awkward if you make it awkward.”

  I hate that saying. It puts all the pressure of how the evening goes on my shoulders. Plus, just because I don’t act awkward doesn’t mean she isn’t going to. Or my mom. Or my dad.

  This is the first whole family dinner we’ve had in years. I think I’m allowed to feel this sense of concern.

  Or foreboding.

  Potato, Po-tah-to.

  “Well.” Rick shrugs. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll be praying.”

  “Rick,” I say apologetically as he starts to walk away.

  “It’s okay, Paige.” He waves, smiles, and all is well as he leaves. I climb into my car, turn the key in the ignition, and just sit there.

  I have a three-and-a-half-hour drive ahead of me. Both ways. Seven hours in the car for this dinner.

  You’d think we could have met halfway. Surely there’s a McDonald’s or something two hours outside of town I could have just pulled in, ordered fast food, stuffed my face, and left. I could have been home and recovering by five.

  There’s a tap on my window, and it’s the second-to-last person I want to see.

  I sigh and roll down my window. “Hello, Luke.”

  “You okay? You’re not moving.”

  “I’m about to leave for Austin.”

  Luke flashes his cover smile and nods. “Say hi to your parents for me.”

  I think not. “Well, see you.” I reach to roll up the window.

  “Oh hey, since I’ve got you here, Paige,” Luke says, keeping his hands on top of the lowered window. “How about coffee sometime this week?”

  “I’m pretty busy this week, Luke.”

  “Next week then.”

  “Luke.”

  “Paige.” He ducks his head so he can see me better. “I promise, it will be nothing. Just two old friends having coffee.”

  “Friends.” I repeat the word, hearing a different meaning than Luke does, so it would seem.

  “Right. I’ll call you.”

  There is no sense in arguing anymore. I have to save my arguing allotment for dinner tonight. “Good-bye, Luke.”

  “See you soon, Paige!” He waves at my closing window.

  Seriously. Get a clue.

  I merge onto I-35 southbound and mash around on the stereo, trying to find a station that might carry me the whole way. Country. Somehow, those stations always seem to broadcast across the state.

  Plus, it works for my current mood. My devotional time this whole last week was spent in a concordance, trying to find biblical reasoning for not having to go to this dinner.

  The closest I’d gotten was Proverbs 23:3: “Do not desire his delicacies, for it is deceptive food.”

  Somehow I’m thinking a concordance should not be used for devotional studies too often.

  Regardless, I’m not in the mood to listen to my usual Christian music station. Or even my oldies station. Elvis just reminds me more of Preslee recently.

  I glance down at my outfit about halfway to Austin. Should I have gone with a different look? Preslee seemed so mature and sophisticated when she dropped by my apartment with my birthday present. I decided on denim capris and a gray gauzy top with red ballet flats after trying on nearly every single outfit I own. If someone breaks into my apartment while I am gone today, they will likely assume I’ve already been robbed since my entire closet is currently piled on my bed.

  I chew my bottom lip, then decide to break into the jar of nuts I brought with me to save my lip nerve endings. I never eat nuts except on road trips home. They are my car food. When I was little, my parents would mix Goldfish and pretzels in a big, empty Christmas butter cookie tin for when we would drive fourteen hours to see my grandmother. Inevitably, I would get carsick somewhere between Austin and Omaha.

  I still can’t handle the sight or smell of Goldfish crackers.

  I’m approaching Waco, and there’s a Dairy Queen right off the interstate when you first enter the city limits. I have to stop every time on my way to Austin to get a Blizzard. We have about forty-three Dairy Queens in Dallas, but I have never been to any of them.

  I’ve been to this Dairy Queen a least twenty times. If not more.

  As a general rule, I find Dairy Queens disgusting, but there is something about a Blizzard on a road trip that just makes everything seem like all is right in the world.

  Today, I need that Blizzard like I need a real one preventing me from continuing my trip.

  I pull into a parking space, walk into the dingy restaurant, and leave a few minutes later holding my ice cream and praying that there are no communicable diseases contained therein. I get back on the interstate.

  Another hour and a half of sad, bluesy country music that makes me
feel like I should sell my car, get a truck and a dog, and never fall in love, and I’m pulling onto my parents’ street with a knot the size of Lake Texarkana choking my esophagus.

  I remember when I drove back for the first time and didn’t refer to Austin or my parents’ house as “home.” It took me three years. I was a senior in college, and I was very involved at church, very happy with my friends, very settled, thanks to Rick, Natalie, and Layla. Someone asked me what I was going to be doing for Labor Day weekend, and I told them going to Austin and about cried that it didn’t feel like home anymore. First out of sadness and then out of relief.

  The first year of college had been brutal as far as homesickness went.

  My parents live outside the city on a couple of grassy acres. There are a couple of huge old trees and an old farmhouse that my parents bought when I was in the second grade. They’ve been remodeling and updating it ever since then.

  The garage is open and Mom’s Tahoe is parked inside. Dad’s truck is in the driveway. There’s a small silver sedan parked behind Dad. I’m assuming that’s Preslee’s, which is just weird because Preslee was always all about flashy cars. When she started driving, she talked Dad into helping her buy this lime-green VW Bug that sounded like it had a fatal case of bronchitis. That car broke down more times than Preslee snuck out of the house, and that was often.

  I park next to the sedan and sit in my car, gripping my steering wheel with both hands, fighting the urge to put it in reverse and head home.

  God. Help.

  It might have been the shortest prayer I’ve ever prayed. Sometimes there are just no words.

  I finally take four deep breaths and open my door.

  I climb out, trying to smooth out the road-trip wrinkles and instill some fresh air into my stale-smelling clothes and hair. I actually blow-dried and curled my hair this morning. I fish my purse out of the passenger seat, making sure my phone is on loud.

  Layla has strict instructions to call me at four with a life-and-death emergency. That gives me an hour and a half to soothe my mother with my presence and wish Preslee a happy and healthy life away from ours.

  Really, I probably only need ten minutes.

  I unlock the phone and start to text Layla to tell her to call sooner.

  Right then the front door opens and my parents’ dog, Honey, runs out, all happy and tail-waggy and cheerful. Mom got Honey a couple of months after Preslee left because the empty house was just killing her. She’s a sweet, if not horribly ugly, dog. I’m not even sure what breed she is. Some sort of a collie, Lab, cocker spaniel something.