Paige Rewritten (2 page)

I
WILL THINK ABOUT IT.

I push send. No smiley face, no exclamation point. Maybe he'll get the message and recant his constant pleading over the last two weeks.

That is another thing. He can't bother to visit for two years, but now that he came back for his parents' anniversary party two weeks ago, he can suddenly stay in town? He tried to talk to me the whole night of his parents' party, but things just got crazy.

And I've been doing a great job of avoiding him since then.

I've been doing a great job of avoiding a lot of people.

Including my sister.

I finish the last bite of salad, throw the bag away, and sigh, thinking of Preslee. She and Luke must have tag teamed this because I've gotten almost as many texts from her as I have from him. And they could have been sent by either one of them, the messages sound so alike.

I
REALLY NEED TO TALK TO YOU.

I
KNOW
I
HURT YOU IN THE PAST, BUT
I
HAVE CHANGED!

I think about that last text I got from her three nights ago.
I have changed.
What does that even mean to Preslee? Or Luke?

No, the past is where it should stay. In the past. I've moved on from both of them, and I am content now. I am doing great in my walk with God, I am good with the awkward are-we-dating-or-just-really-good-friends teeter-totter I'm riding with Tyler, I am happy hanging out with Layla and occasionally helping her with wedding stuff, and I am okay with my current job situation. So what if I don't use my college degree and am not doing anything to counsel people like I've always dreamed about?

Okay, I am sort of okay with my job situation.

Regardless, I don't need any more speed bumps in the road. I am finally at a good place. I just want to stay here.

The rest of the workday passes by slowly since I spend the majority of it on hold with the people who service our copier. The stupid machine goes out at least once a month, and rather than pay for a new one, Mark just prefers to have me call in the repairman, Flynn, who is never available until at least four business days after the copier breaks.

“I just need someone to come by Friday,” I say, eyeing the teetering stack of papers waiting to be copied. Today is Wednesday. “Friday at the
latest
,” I annunciate.

“We'll do our best, ma'am!”

That means they will be here by next Tuesday.

I hang up, feeling useless and thinking about how a lot of people would kill for a gigantic raise for a job that essentially consists of answering the phone, waiting on hold, answering e-mails, doing paychecks, and getting prospective adoptive parents and birth parents bottles of water or coffee.

It is a no-brainer job.

At the moment, I can't decide if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

“Well, I'm out of here,” Peggy announces at five o'clock, coming down the hallway and pulling on her raincoat and a wide-brimmed hat.

I look out the window and it is barely drizzling.

I think Peggy misses her hometown of rainy Seattle a little too much sometimes.

I dig my purse out from the desk drawer, turn off my computer, and stand too. Normally I teach Bible study on Wednesday nights to a bunch of high school girls, but this week is spring break in Dallas, so Rick, our youth pastor, took most of them on some sort of retreat and canceled Bible study.

“You really should come with us, Paige,” he told me at Layla's parents' anniversary party.

“I can't take a week off work.”

“It's only four days.”

Rick does not understand what a normal nine-to-five job looks like.

I follow Peggy out, looking forward to a nice, quiet night at home. Just me, Westley, Buttercup, and a takeout container filled with General Tso's chicken from one of the local drive-thru Chinese places. It is three dollars for a huge box. Which sort of scares me because it is so cheap and the kid working the drive-thru always looks like he is plotting someone's murder, but that's why I drive through instead of going inside.

I don't ask questions; I just hand over the cash and keep my door locked.

Candace was the first one to suggest the restaurant. “Oh it's amazing!” She raved for days after she'd been there the first time following one of her niece's weddings. Really, that is the only time I take Candace's restaurant suggestions since every other time she is on a diet and looking for low-fat, low-calorie, and low-taste food.

I wave at Peggy and slide into my car, drive to the Chinese food place, buy my container of chicken with a side of broccoli and rice from the creepy boy, and drive home.

Layla texts me almost as soon as I pull into my allotted parking space at my apartment complex. P
ANDA
E
XPRESS TONIGHT?

I look at my three-dollar container of mystery meat covered in General Tso's sauce and am suddenly a little repulsed. Especially when I think of the delicious, no-MSG orange chicken.

I call her, gathering my purse and the takeout container.

“Is that a yes?” she answers.

“I just bought a huge box of General Tso's chicken.”

She makes a gagging noise. “From that nasty Chinese place? Gross, Paige. Look, I'm leaving right now. I'll get you decent Chinese food and be there in … I don't know. Fifteen minutes?”

It will at least give me a chance to change into comfy clothes and get the movie going. Layla and I watch
The Princess Bride
at least once a month. Usually it ends up being just background noise while we talk, and then we both get quiet during our favorite scenes. I walk a few steps over to the Dumpster and toss in my takeout box before going up the stairs to my apartment.

I open the door exactly fifteen minutes later and Layla smiles at me, her hair glistening with rain droplets. She holds up a sack and the smell of Chinese food takes over my house.

“Thanks, Layla.” I close the door behind her. I don't bother offering to pay her back. I will just buy next time.

She sets the bag on the kitchen table and starts unloading it, talking a hundred miles a minute. Typical Layla.

“So Peter told me yesterday that he wants me to move into his apartment after we get married and I'm like, absolutely not, you know? I mean his apartment is okay or whatever but it's a
guy's
apartment. It's cold and dark and smells kind of weird if I'm being totally honest. Plus have you seen his kitchen?”

She looks up at me and apparently that question needs an answer.

“I've only been to Peter's apartment once, and I definitely don't remember the kitchen.” I turn on the TV and start the movie.

“Well, I told him we should move into mine instead.”

Layla's apartment, in my opinion, isn't much to talk of either. The apartment itself is fine, but there's a long, dark, creepy path you have to take all the way around the building from the parking lot. I call it Murder Alley.

Layla calls it a relaxing walk after work.

She hands me the Styrofoam container and sits down on my couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table and weaving her fingers together. “Jesus, thank You for the real food we are about to consume and may any fat contained therein make its way to our boobs and not our hips. Amen.”

I snort and shake my head, joining her on the couch.

I nod over at her box of orange chicken. “No more vegetarianism?”

“It calls to me,” she says, tone sad, spearing a bite.

“Vegetarianism?”

“Chicken.”

I nod. Layla's strike lasted about three weeks. That is longer than the no-more-bottled-water strike, the I-will-only-wear-100-percent-cotton strike, and the waking-up-early-to-do-Pilates kick. That one lasted two days, and then she decided Pilates was created by someone who hated human beings and their hamstrings.

We eat our chicken in relative silence, watching the beginning of the movie we know so well.

“So,” I say, after I've finished most of my meal.

“So,” Layla echoes, looking over at me.

“I haven't had a chance to tell you,” I say slowly, thinking about it. That statement is sort of a lie. I've
had
the chance to tell her what I am going to say, but I've just chickened out.

Seems fitting to tell her over a dinner of poultry.

“What?” Layla looks back at the TV.

“Luke's been texting me.”

Her head snaps over at me. “Are you okay?” she asks, eyes worried. “Oh, Paige, I swear I had
nothing
to do with this!”

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.