Paige Rewritten

by Erynn Mangum

  It wasn’t until after I graduated high school and moved here that things started getting weird.

  “And I know I got mixed up on my priorities,” Luke says now, raking a hand back through his dark hair.

  Half of what happened to us was just long-distance problems. That’s always what I’ve assumed, anyway. We were making new friends, going different places. I was getting super involved at church and hanging out all the time with Layla. And Luke was being courted by his current employer and being offered lots of money and a great position, and if he could graduate with honors, he could go work for them.

  Suddenly, Luke never seemed to go to church anymore. When I asked why he didn’t go one Sunday, he told me he had homework. Then he had a party the next week and slept in on Sunday. Then he had more homework. And papers to write and books to read and parties to recover from.

  I finally stopped asking him if he saw my parents at church and if they mentioned anything about Preslee.

  Then he stopped calling as much. Our nightly routine of calling each other became a three-times-a-week routine. Then a once-a-week thing. Text messages became less frequent and less meaningful.

  Luke rubs his eyes. “And then that awful visit …” he mutters.

  I was nineteen. I had just gone back to school after the worst Christmas break ever, because Preslee made it completely miserable. Luke called me that Friday and asked if he could come for the weekend. I was so excited. I’d barely seen him over the break.

  When he got here, he walked in with a duffel bag and I just looked at him. “You know you can’t stay here,” I said, shocked that he would even think he could.

  He gave me a look that made me feel like the twelve-year-old dweeb I’d been when we first met. “So you’re still a prude, huh? I figured college would have fixed that part of you real fast.”

  I just stared at him in open-mouthed shock.

  Luke looks at me now, pain filling his expression. “I am so sorry, Paige. I am so very sorry. I know that nothing I can say will ever fix what happened, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that whole conversation replay in my brain. The expression on your face tortured me.”

  He left that very same night, less than an hour later, spouting something about how if God really existed and really cared about us, He wouldn’t have forced us to have such ridiculous standards. “It’s not biological,” he told me right before I closed the door on him. I opened it once, only to tell him to stop ringing my doorbell, get off my front porch, and take the promise ring he’d given me two years before with him.

  The contrast to Tyler — who barely kisses my cheek — is startling.

  I lean back in my kitchen chair, looking at Luke now. In appearance, he hasn’t changed too much. Luke has always looked like he belonged in some kind of soap opera. I was always amazed he ever was attracted to me.

  We never belonged together.

  Lord. I know that now.

  “Luke,” I say quietly.

  He looks at me, eyes bleak.

  I take a deep breath. “You’re right. You can’t change it.” Somehow, though, his apology soothes a wound that stretched deep in my heart. “But thank you for saying you’re sorry.”

  “I was an idiot.”

  I shrug. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Then.”

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. “It wasn’t meant to be then,” he emphasizes.

  I narrow my eyes at him, open my mouth to talk, and he slaps the table lightly with his hands and stands.

  “All right. I’m going to head out. Keep the rest of the doughnuts. They reheat well. I’m glad I was finally able to apologize.”

  “Luke.” I stand and follow him to the front door.

  “Bye, Paige.” He leaves without giving me a chance to tell him that there doesn’t need to be a then attached to the sentence as much as an ever.

  I watch him walk down the stairs and out of sight and I go back inside, shut the door, and let out a big huff.

  So much for my uncomplicated morning.

  My phone rings at eleven right as I’m getting out of the shower. Lazy Saturday mornings like this were never a part of my week even six weeks ago. But I’ve gotten very attached to them since then.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “So.”

  I wait but Mom doesn’t keep talking. “So what?” I ask, swiping at the wrinkles that are starting to form beside my eyes. I always hope that it’s just extra makeup that somehow didn’t get washed off in the shower that leaves me looking wrinkly, but it never is.

  It’s a sad day when I need wrinkle cream and acne solution at twenty-three.

  “So. How do you think last weekend went?” I can tell by the excitement hiding in Mom’s blasé tone that she’s been waiting for me to call all week.

  I haven’t wanted to tell her that I wish Preslee would just move back to Ohio or Idaho or wherever she was living.

  “Yeah, uh, it was fine,” I say, lying through my teeth. Some lies should be allowed, though. That’s what I tell the Jiminy Cricket who is poking me in the heart, anyway. “How did you think it went?” This is a very smart question to ask because the focus will be off me and Mom can carry on the conversation by herself.

  And it totally works.

  I end up putting her on speakerphone and propping my phone on the bathroom counter so I can do my makeup while I’m listening to her talk.

  She goes on and on while I try to decide whether the smoky eye-shadow look would be overkill for a double date at a steak house where people throw peanut shells on the floor.

  My mother thinks that’s the grossest thing in the world.

  The lighting isn’t fabulous at the steak house, though, so maybe I’ll want the extra attention on my eyes. It will definitely be overkill for the six hours before the date, especially since I’m planning on spending a couple minutes of that at the grocery store. I’m not taking another shower before tonight, so I’ve got to do my makeup now.

  “I just love, love, love Wes!” Mom gushes. “He is just the sweetest thing! He ended up driving back down for dinner on Wednesday night again, and he brought me this bouquet of daisies. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer.

  “And Preslee, oh Preslee just lights up whenever he’s around. It’s like watching a strand of Christmas lights or something. It’s just amazing.” Now Mom is getting teary. “I just never thought this day would happen for Preslee, Paige. I always knew that God had a plan for her life, but I always feared it was not the one we prayed for over her when she was little. And oh, I’m so happy God answered our prayers! My baby girl has finally come home!”

  I think I’m going to go with the brown-toned smoky eye. Apparently it works nicely on people with brown eyes. I listen to Mom choke back sobs as I dab on the first layer of a metallic tan shadow.

  Part of me feels bad that I don’t feel overjoyed that my sister is home. The rest of me just wants to achieve the perfect smoky eye for my double date tonight.

  “Aren’t you just amazed at the goodness of God?” Mom asks me, voice full.

  “Yeah, Mom,” I say when she actually waits for an answer this time.

  “And that He provided a man like Wes for her! I am overwhelmed. We are having another family dinner, by the way. Tomorrow. In Waco.”

  I gape at the phone on my bathroom counter. “Tomorrow?”

  “I knew if I gave you enough notice, you’d come up with some reason why you couldn’t go.” Apparently my amazement at God’s goodness didn’t come across very strongly. “Preslee wants to make amends, Paige. And it’s only to Waco. They found a house they want to show us and then we’re going out to eat.”

  Waco is still almost two hours. I don’t see why Preslee wants to show me this house anyway. I’m sure she mostly just wants Mom and Dad’s approval. Now I’ll have to go and pretend to be stoked about whatever beautiful house Preslee is about to
buy and then go home to my old apartment.

  I sigh at myself in the mirror.

  “I heard that.”

  “Fine,” I grumble.

  “I’m glad you’re so excited about it!” Mom says, all sarcastic and cheery. “We’re going to meet at the house at two thirty. I’ll text you directions. Have a lovely day, honey!”

  She hangs up.

  I bite my bottom lip and look at my one made-up eye and my one not. The difference is striking. Probably a sign I did the shadow correctly.

  Another dinner with the glowing Preslee and the ever-popular Wes.

  Hip hip hooray.

  I finish my makeup, pull on jeans and a fitted white T-shirt and flip-flops. This is my typical weekend summer outfit. I used to be all into shorts back when I was in school, but that’s mostly because I had more time to make sure I had a decent tan on my legs.

  Those days ended the moment I graduated.

  I drive to the grocery store, park, get a cart, and go straight for my normal haunt, aka the frozen section.

  I have a very hard time cooking for just myself. Which typically means I survive on frozen pizza and bagged salads.

  And cheese sticks.

  Every so often, I go through a phase where I bake huge lasagnas, big pots of spaghetti and meatballs, and baked chicken with roasted potatoes. Then I’ll portion it out, divide it into freezer containers, and eat those for a while.

  Usually I do all that after watching the Food Network.

  Those phases never last long.

  Probably because I usually stick with HGTV.

  I load my cart with two pizzas, three bagged salad mixes, and a few of those soups that are already in the microwavable bowl for lunch at work.

  Then I buy a package of Oreos, just because I’m an adult now and I can.

  The total is higher than I expect, which is always true at the grocery store, and I drive home to put the food away. I don’t even bother putting the Oreos in the pantry.

  I just leave them on the end table. They’ll be gone in three days anyway.

  I should really look into some of those workout DVDs.

  Chapter

  13

  I spend the rest of the afternoon doing stuff around the apartment. I straighten up and while I’m straightening, I find a book I haven’t read in a couple of years and get distracted.

  By the time I look up from the book, it’s five o’clock and Tyler will be knocking on my door to pick me up for the double date in fifteen minutes. I gasp and run for the bedroom.

  Layla always dresses up, so I have to look semipresentable. I’ve already decided on a cute deep-red sundress and flats and I’m going to bring a denim jacket with me in case it gets cold in the restaurant. Give me enough sweet tea and I’m immediately freezing.

  Tyler knocks at 5:20. I got ready in record time so I could finish the chapter I was on.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says in his typical hello, looking nice in dark-rinsed jeans and a button-down blue-and-white pinstripe shirt over a white undershirt and boots.

  I shrug. I got to finish the chapter and I figured he’d be late, which was why I told him to come a few minutes early.

  I’m learning.

  “Thanks for picking me up, Tyler.”

  “Sure thing! Hey, so on my way over here, I was thinking. We still need to go to that baseball game.”

  I nod. I thought of it earlier this week. I was actually starting to get excited about it, even though I won’t be able to watch the game in my pajamas. I looked the team up on the Internet and they do fireworks at some of the night games.

  Fireworks are a pretty good reason to get out of your pajamas.

  I’m not sure that a hot dog is, but I can handle getting dressed for fireworks.

  We get to the steak house and Peter and Layla are already there. Layla looks adorable in jeans and a black lacy top. “Oh, this is so exciting!” she squeals, grabbing my forearms when we walk in. “Our first official double date as an engaged couple!”

  I’m assuming the “our” is referring to Peter and her.

  Peter and Tyler shake hands and we get called to our table a few minutes later. It’s crowded tonight. Country music is blaring over the speakers, the whole restaurant is dimly lit, TVs are glaring silently whatever game ESPN is showing, and peanut shells crunch under our feet as we walk.

  We are led to the very back corner of the restaurant and the hostess points to a corner booth. “Does this work?”

  I have no idea why they ask that question. Do people really say no when there’s a twenty-minute wait for a table?

  Layla and I both slide in and the boys take the outside. The hostess hands us the menus and leaves. Layla is giddy. “Oh this is so fun! This is so exciting!”

  I just laugh at her and open my menu. I haven’t eaten here in a very long time. I do, however, remember their incredible rolls and delicious fried onions with some type of awesome sauce.

  Which leads me to my first Double Date Dilemma of the evening: Are fried onions acceptable on a date?

  Layla sighs at the menu. “Oh my gosh, the Deep Onion Dipper. Guys, we’ve got to get this. Maybe two of them.” She fans her face. “I’m salivating just thinking of it.”

  And that answers my question.

  Peter, in his usual outgoing, chatty way, nods at Layla. “Sure.”

  Tyler thumps the menu. “Rib eye. Going with the rib eye for sure. And the loaded sweet potato with the marshmallows. And the cinnamon apples.”

  “And the heart attack,” I say.

  “There now. I don’t wish ill tidings on you.”

  “I’m not wishing it, I’m just predicting it,” I tell him. “It doesn’t help that you like your steaks blinking at you when they get to the table.” Tyler’s steak was barely warm last time he ordered one.

  Not me. I don’t always eat steaks, but when I do, I eat them well done.

  Not to sound too much like a beer commercial.

  My dad instilled that in me at a very young age. Mostly because every time we had steaks, he would burn the snot out of them until they resembled charcoal more than edibles.

  You always end up eating like your parents.

  I decide on the chicken kebabs, mostly because I just enjoy the word kebab.

  “So!” Layla lays her closed menu on the table. “Let’s talk wedding details!”

  She is so happy, her smile has to be hurting her eardrums. Peter just smiles over at her in one of those placating “isn’t she precious” smiles that sort of bothers me, only because I’ve seen people look at their grandchildren the same way.

  I move on. “What details, Layla?”

  “Wait a second.” Tyler holds up his hands surrender-style. “Don’t tell me that you brought me here to eat rare steak and listen to lace descriptions.”

  “Raw steak. I’ve seen you eat beef before, Tyler. And yes,” Layla nods. “Okay. Now obviously Paige here is my maid of honor.”

  “Obviously,” Tyler and Peter say together.

  “She’s therefore going to need some directives about how I want the ceremony to be.”

  “Yeah, but Layla, you aren’t getting married for what … another five months?” Tyler asks, counting the months off on his fingers. “Isn’t that a little overkill?”

  Layla just gapes at him, and I roll my eyes before turning to her. “Remember he’s male. And single.”

  She just shakes her head at Tyler. “I’ll forgive you. Just this once though, so listen up.”

  Tyler grins.

  “Anyway, I’m trying to nail down a location. I think we are wanting to get married outside, since it will be October and that’s typically decent wedding weather here. What I think would be really super cute though is to get married at that farm right outside of Frisco — remember that one, Paige, with the great red barn?”

  I nod. We were lost trying to find some craft fair when we drove past it. They were having a little pumpkin patch thing that day.

  “Anyway, I m
ight call them and find out if they hold weddings there.”

  The waitress comes by then to get our order and leaves us with two baskets of sweet, hot, delicious buttered rolls. “I’ll be right back with the Onion Dipper.”

  I don’t know why I bother ordering food at this place. I should just eat the rolls and the onion thing. I’m always stuffed by the time my actual dinner arrives.

  “So, how is premarital stuff going?” I ask. Layla and Peter had their first appointment with Rick this last week.

  Layla rolls her eyes. “It was ridiculous. We went to Starbucks and I casually mentioned I like when Peter laughs so hard he snorts. So then Rick spent the rest of the time trying to see if he could get Peter to snort up his hot chocolate.” She rolls her eyes again, shaking her head. “I mean, seriously. We’re preparing for marriage here. Supposedly anyway. Aren’t we supposed to be talking about birth control or how to handle fights about closet space?”

  I laugh. But considering I’ve barely seen Peter smile, I kind of want to see him snort from laughing too.

  I glance at Tyler and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing. A mischievous look flints across his eyes. “So. Spill the beans, Pete. What makes you snort?”

  Peter shrugs. “I don’t know. I probably have to be in a specific mood.”

  “Which he wasn’t in on Thursday night. Particularly after listening to Rick tell 164 jokes. The last ones were just awful.” Layla rubs her temple. “I’m wondering if I really want Rick to perform my wedding.”

  “It’ll be entertaining.” I’ve been to a wedding that Rick did. He started the ceremony like the priest on The Princess Bride. “Mawwiage.”

  The poor groom just stared at him like he was speaking Italian.

  “I don’t know that I want my wedding to be entertaining,” Layla says.

  “Going for boring?” Tyler asks her, finishing his roll.

  “Not boring.”

  “But not interesting,” Tyler says.

  Layla and Tyler should never converse with each other.

  “So you’re going for like a plain-popcorn-with-salt wedding,” Tyler says to her. “Not boring, but not interesting either.”