Paige Rewritten (15 page)

H
OPE YOU ARE HAVING FUN AT
R
ICK AND
N
ATALIE
'
S!
It's from Tyler.

I write him back. H
OME NOW.
I
T WAS FINE.
I struggle with typing the word
bearable
instead, but I refrain.

W
HAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?

W
ATCHING
HGTV.

T
HERE IS A SHOCK.

Two rather good-looking cousins are remodeling a restaurant kitchen. I squash farther into the couch. This is one of my favorite shows. Mostly because of the guys.

Like I said. Good looking.

I go into the bedroom during the next commercial break and change into sweatpants from college and a T-shirt that says
And we wonder why Charlie Brown never went pro
, which has a picture of Lucy yanking the football away from a flailing-in-the-air Charlie Brown. It's one of my favorite shirts and it shows. It's nearly threadbare. I pull on a pair of thick white socks and knot my hair into a sloppy bun.

Relaxation time.

I sit back down on the couch and grab the blanket I keep there and that's when a soft knock sounds on the door.

I pause, thinking, my heart racing.

No one I know of is coming over. Layla always calls and it's too late for solicitors.

The only other logical answer is a man in a mask here to kill me and make it look like an accident.

I have got to stop watching crime shows.

I creep all ninja-style over to the door, like maybe the person on my porch can see me through the walls, and peek through the peephole.

It's a man. He's holding a paper grocery bag and wearing a knit winter hat. He's looking down into his bag so I can't see who it is.

It is May. It's a little warm in Dallas to be wearing a winter hat. Obviously, this person is a murderer.

I've never had this happen before. What do I do? Call the cops? Call the apartment security? Run? Go get something to protect myself?

The last one seems to be the most prudent, so I run to get the only thing I own that somewhat resembles a weapon and creep back over to the door, holding for dear life to my phone and staring out the peephole.

He knocks again and looks up and I gasp in relief.

“Tyler!” I yank open the door, breathing in the cooler night air. “You gave me a heart attack! I thought you were here to kill me!”

He grins at me, looking adorable in gray sweatpants and a black UT T-shirt. His blond hair is poking out in curls from under his cap. He nods to the grocery sack. “Maybe with chocolate. Can I come in?”

I open the door wider.

“What's with the flyswatter?” He nods to my hand.

I look at it, debating on whether or not I should tell him that this is my weapon of choice for a knitted-cap invader.

“Mm, nothing. Thought I saw something,” I say quickly, setting it back under the kitchen cabinet.

“Like a fly?”

“Right. Exactly. Just like a fly.”

“Paige?”

“Mm-hmm? Yes, Tyler?”

“You weren't holding that for self-defense, were you?”

I decide silence is better than lies, so I just peek into the bag he's holding instead of answering him. “Hey! Junior Mints!”

“You were. Oh, Paige, I don't know whether to laugh or drive to Walmart and go get you a can of Mace.”

I smile at him. “I'll be fine. What are you doing here?”

He shrugs and sets the bag on the couch. “I just thought maybe you'd want some company. And some Oreos.” He pulls out a bag of Oreos, a box of Junior Mints, and a half-gallon of Blue Bell ice cream.

He is my favorite person on the whole planet.

“You even bought the good ice cream,” I say, feeling myself get all sappy.

“Well, sure. I'm not the type to show up, scare you half to death, and then feed you some crappy ice milk.” He grins at me.

Any worries I had about Tyler not being especially attracted to me are melting away like the ice cream is. I hurry to get an ice cream scoop and a few minutes later, we both settle on the couch with our bowls full of ice cream, the Oreos and Junior Mints in between us on the couch.

I cross my legs Indian-style and point to the TV with my spoon. “So those guys are cousins. They remodel kitchens.”

“I didn't know you were into kitchen remodeling,” Tyler says.

I just eat a bite of ice cream off my spoon and look at the TV. “Uh, sure. Sure, I'm into kitchen remodeling.”

“Uh-huh. You're not the best of liars, Paige.”

“You aren't the best at asking questions that don't make me have to lie, Tyler.”

“And you might need to work on your grammar.”

“Aren't you just full of compliments?”

He nods and shrugs, faking humility. “I was raised right.”

We watch the show in silence for a few minutes. Tyler finishes his bowl of ice cream, takes my empty bowl, stacks his on top of it, and sets them on the end table beside him, scooting the Oreos and the Junior Mints to the coffee table and wrapping an arm around the back of my couch so his fingers graze my right shoulder.

I look at him and he smiles at me. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar. Geez, Paige.”

“Thanks for the ice cream, Tyler.”

“Thanks for letting me crash your evening.” He tugs on my right shoulder shirt seam. “You look cute.”

“And now look who has become the liar,” I say, but I fight to control the blush jumping up my cheeks like those salmon fish that skip up the rivers.

“Like I said,” he fiddles with a stray strand of hair that somehow missed my bun, “I was raised right. I don't lie, Paige.”

Cue my stomach dropping into my toes. I am suddenly sorry I'd eaten the bowl of ice cream.

I never imagined that thought would ever cross my mind.

He smiles gently, eyes softening as he looks at me. He finally turns back to the TV, which is a relief because breathing has suddenly become very difficult for me. I try to be as inconspicuous as I can be gasping for air.

“You okay?” He's still fiddling with that strand of hair. I don't know if I am thankful that it evaded my bun or not. On the one hand, it is sending little shivers up and down my arms.

On the other hand, I have no feeling left in my toes because I'm so focused on not moving a muscle so he won't move his arm.

I am not cut out for a relationship. Maybe this is why it's never worked out with any of the guys I've dated. I can't handle the pressure. Not that there were these kinds of creepy crawlies in my stomach with all of the other guys.

Particularly recently.

Luke's face fills my mind and I blink it away.

Tyler and I sit like that, watching HGTV and then switching over to the Food Network, until almost midnight. He finally stretches, looks over at the clock on my microwave, and declares it's time for him to go.

“Thanks again for letting me join you tonight,” he says, standing.

“I don't remember having a lot of say in it.” I stand as well.

He grins. “Thanks for not kicking me out then.”

“You brought ice cream.” I shrug. “I can't kick out a man holding ice cream.”

“I figured.” He walks over to the door and smiles at me, rubbing the curls poking out of his hat at the back of his head. “Sweet dreams, Paige.” He reaches over for my left hand, pulls me a tad closer to him, leans down, and kisses my cheek, lightly cupping the back of my head with his other hand.

I focus on taking tiny, short breaths. My lungs are suddenly having trouble carrying out their only duty of bringing oxygen into my body.

He smiles at me, an inch from my face, then flicks my nose with his finger. “Night, Paige.”

He leaves and I watch him stroll down the steps, wave once at the sidewalk, and then walk out of sight.

That's when I realize I didn't ever say good-bye to him.

I whack my hand on my forehead and close the door, deciding that it might seem a little weird to run after him shouting good-bye.

Oxygen. That's all my lungs were supposed to provide. Without oxygen, my heart started racing, my head got fuzzy, and my good, rational sense vanished.

Not to mention my sense of balance.

I sit down sharply on the edge of the couch and just focus on breathing for a minute or two. Then I turn off the TV, lock the door, turn off the lights in the apartment, brush my teeth, and snuggle under the covers.

I just sit there for a minute.

It would seem that I have nothing to worry about as far as Tyler is concerned.

Relief makes me smile as I pull my Bible over.

Paul is still talking about his favorite word in Galatians. Law.

“But when the fullness of the time came, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman, born under the Law, so that He might redeem those who were under the Law, that we might receive the adoption as sons.”

I think about those words for a few minutes and my smile slowly fades. Nothing I did gave God any reason to love me as His own. If anything, I was and am like Preslee used to be.

And God still loves me.

I slowly turn off my light and close my eyes, but it takes me a long time to go to sleep.

Chapter

12

I
'm just pouring my first cup of coffee the next morning when there's a knock at my door.

Maybe Tyler decided to come back with cinnamon rolls.

I smile, half hoping I'm right, half hoping I'm wrong, seeing as how I look like someone in
Grey's Anatomy
, and not one of the beautiful doctors, but one of the near-death patients.

I never leave my house without makeup on.

I peek through the peephole and it's a guy, but it's not the right one.

“Good morning, Paige!” Luke singsongs, holding up a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Maybe I should look like crap more often. It seems to bring attractive men to my door holding sugary foods. I open the door.

“Luke. Did I know you were coming over?”

“Nope. Saturday morning surprise. I woke up this morning, went for a run, and while I was on my run, I thought, I wonder if Paige has had breakfast?” He waves the fragrant doughnut box under my nose. “I hope not.”

I rub my cheek, feeling ugly. Even if I don't have any of those kinds of feelings about Luke anymore, I still want to look nice around him. It's that whole revenge thing after someone breaks up with you.

“Hmm,” I say, because I can't think of anything else to say.

“You haven't eaten breakfast?”

“No.”

“Great!” He marches into my apartment, sets the box on the table, and then sits down in a chair.

I close the door, fighting the urge to walk out and leave him in my apartment by himself with the doughnuts. It looks like he's planning on joining me for breakfast.

I look at him sitting there, looking all freshly showered and perfect, and feel even grosser.

“This is so great.” He grins all big at me. “I really have been wanting to catch up with you again. We have hardly talked and I've been here almost two months now.”

I go into the kitchen, pour him a cup of black coffee, add sugar and cream to my cup, and then carry both mugs over to the table.

“Thanks Paige!” he says, like I just gave him the gift of never needing deodorant again.

I sit at the table and rub at my sleep-matted hair. I am wearing my sweatpants from last night and another old T-shirt. At least I brushed my teeth. I guess I could look worse.

Not much, but a little.

Luke opens the doughnut box and the smell of sugar and dough takes over my apartment. The smell of these things has to be a huge reason Krispy Kreme is still in business, because everyone knows they are made of entirely terrible things for you, yet people continue to eat them.

Luke starts chatting happily about how this is so wonderful, he's so thankful for such great friends like me, and how we should do things as friends more often. It's like he had the channel tuned to watching Rachel and Ross all night while he was sleeping and now the word
friends
is on repeat in his head.

I'm half expecting him to burst into the theme song at any moment.

“But enough of the sappiness, friend,” he says. “How's life going?”

I hate this question. How am I ever supposed to answer that? If I answer it truthfully and tell him I'm eating a delicious doughnut in the company of an annoying man, that just seems rude. If I complain about having company when I look like my face should be on the cover of a magazine with the headline
NO MAKEUP HORROR SHOW
, that just seems pitiful. And if I delve into the whole topic that is Preslee and what I've been worrying over in the last week, that just seems too raw and honest for a guy who crushed my heart under his designer shoe and left over four years ago.

Too many things to think about when it's still coffee cup number one. I usually try to save topics like this for my brain once I get to number three.

Sometimes number five. That is for particularly rough days, though.

It doesn't help that there is a coffeepot at the adoption agency and that one of Candace's many nieces works at Starbucks and routinely gives Candace free pounds of coffee.

Luke is looking expectantly at me, and I realize my brain has rabbit trailed into Starbucks. “Sorry about that,” I say, lightly shaking my head. “What were we talking about?”

“You.” Luke shrugs. “You've heard about me. I started my new job. Love it. I found an apartment. It's actually just up the street. And I really like Layla's and your church, so I'll probably keep going there.”

There's a shock.

Lord. I really wasn't joking when I mentioned to You four years ago in the middle of that massive post-breakup cake consumption that I never wanted to see Luke again. Just so You know.

And yet here he is. Licking icing off his fingers at my kitchen table.