Paige Rewritten (24 page)

A pox on my stupid guilt complex.

S
URE, THAT
'
S FINE
. I'
M AT A YOUTH GROUP PARTY
. S
HOULD BE HOME AROUND NINE THIRTY.

Maybe earlier. This park doesn't have any lighting. Once the sun goes down at eight thirty, everyone scatters pretty quick.

At least I won't have to spend the entire evening with her. Bright sides and all that.

She texts back right away. T
HANK YOU SO MUCH
, P
AIGE!!!
S
EE YOU TONIGHT!!!

Based on the number of exclamation points, you would have thought I was throwing a fun slumber party or something rather than my plan of walking in my apartment, handing her a blanket, and then going to bed.

Seriously, Lord? Preslee and Luke in the same day? Isn't that a little overkill?

Chapter

18

I
pull into my apartment complex at 9:05. The kids, as per usual, all started dissipating at eight thirty, stuffed with Tyler's amazing hamburgers.

I know that the actual making of the burger is a big part of the taste, so probably Costco should get some recognition here, but they never tasted like that when Rick grilled them.

No offense to Rick.

I even ate two burgers and I usually barely choke down one.

I think I heard Natalie asking Tyler if he would come join their household as a live-in chef.

She even offered to do his laundry in return.

Tyler looked like he might consider it just for that, but then he shrugged. “Sorry, Nat. I think I'm more suited toward computers.”

“I know suited, and you missed your calling, Emeril.” She closed her eyes as she took another bite of her cheeseburger.

I left with plans to have lunch with Tyler after church tomorrow.

I park in my designated spot at my apartment complex and hold my breath, looking around to see if Preslee is around or if she is sitting on my porch. I couldn't see all of my steps when I drove into the lot, but I didn't see her standing in the parking lot.

Which is good. People milling around in apartment parking lots after nine o'clock at night are usually about to get into trouble.

My mother always told us growing up that nothing good happens after eight o'clock at night and we should just go on to bed and get ready for the next day. I remember sneaking out of my room when I was seven, walking into the living room, and seeing Mom and Dad eating a huge bowl of popcorn and watching some movie they were both laughing at.

It took me a long time to trust anything my mother said after that.

I climb out of my car, tuck my keys into my purse, and walk over to my steps.

“Paige?”

Preslee is poking her head out of a little silver sedan in the parking lot, waving to me. “Hold up, let me get my purse.” She ducks back into the tiny car.

A sedan. The old Preslee would never have been seen in something so generic. The old Preslee was all about standing out and being different and ticking everyone off.

I wait for her and she emerges from her car a few minutes later holding about eight bags that are full to the brim.

I might as well be polite. She's already spending the night. I walk over and meet her at the curb, holding my hands out. “I can help.” I take half of the bags. Preslee's eyes are sparkling.

“Oh, I found the most wonderful things, Paige! Thank you so much for letting me stay with you. I am probably the worst nighttime driver on the planet. Wes panics every time I tell him I'm going somewhere after dark.” She smiles at me. “He's going to sleep so much better tonight knowing I'm safe with you.”

“Sure,” I say because it's that awkward moment when someone is genuinely thanking you for doing something that you didn't want to do in the first place.

We cart the bags upstairs to my apartment and I let her in. She's been here once for about three seconds, so I don't bother showing her around. Not that it would take too long to do so. I've got the big room with the living area, dining area, and kitchen, and my bedroom.

And we have now reached the end of our tour.

Preslee sets all of her bags down by the TV and then sits on the couch. “This is such a cute apartment, Paige. It looks just like you.”

“Don't look too close. I can't guarantee when the last time I vacuumed was.”

She just waves a hand. “It's fine. How much mess can one person make? How long have you lived here?” She stands and goes over to my bookshelf beside the TV and looks through my collection.

“A while.” I go in the kitchen and pull down a couple of glasses for us. “Since about my sophomore year of college.”

She points to one of the books on the shelf. “I didn't know this was a series!”

“I didn't know you read.”

She looks over at me and shrugs. “I've started picking it up. This book was great. I didn't realize there was a sequel to it.”

“Borrow it then.”

“Really?”

She sounds like I just gave her the keys to Splash Mountain. She pulls the book out of the shelf and sets it on her purse.

“Thank you, Paige.”

I walk over and hand her a glass of water. I'd offer something else but other than coffee that I'm rationing to last for the next three days, it's all I've got.

“Thank you, Paige.”

She's starting to sound like she got stuck on repeat.

“Well,” I say, preparing to tell her good night before I go into my room to pretend she's not here.

“So,” she says at the same time and then stops. “Go ahead.”

“No, you first.”

“Want to see what I got for the wedding?”

She looks so hopeful, brown eyes all big and pleading, her face all rosy. I can tell she's a little bit nervous and somehow this almost makes me feel a little better.

Sometimes it's nice not to be the only one a little off-kilter.

“Sure.” I give Preslee maybe the first genuine small smile since she came back a few weeks ago.

She grins so wide I worry she might pull a cheek muscle, and then she runs for her bags, carrying them to the kitchen table. “Okay, so that home-goods store close to Frisco?
Amazing
,” she gushes, pulling all kinds of white knickknacky things out of the bag.

There are distressed-style tall, white wooden candlesticks, white metal lanterns, four huge bags of white tea-light candles, and a bunch of other stuff.

I look at the tiny wooden place-card holders that clearly say $2.50 on each of them and think about how we could totally have made those ourselves for about ten cents apiece. If that.

Preslee is ecstatic, though. She sits at the table so we can look more closely and I join her. “I'm going for the whole shabby-chic thing,” she says. “We're going to get married in the cutest little church in Austin, but I haven't found a reception area yet. I want something eclectic but cute, you know? Like an old barn or something we could totally dress up.”

It seems like an old barn would be an easy find on the outskirts of Austin, but I guess I've never looked for one.

It wasn't exactly a high priority back in high school, when I was more concerned about what the humidity was currently doing to my hair and whether or not Luke liked me.

Best to move off that thought train.

“You know,” I say, taking a deep breath because I know I'm basically handing her the proverbial olive branch. “We could make these for a lot cheaper than two dollars.”

She just looks at me, eyes wide and bright, and all of a sudden there are tiny lakes hovering around her lash lines. “Really Paige?” she whispers.

I would take that to mean she's recognizing the branch between us as well. We might as well change into pajama pants, start brushing each other's hair, and tune up my old guitar so we can sing “Kumbaya.”

“I mean, it's just a dowel rod and a couple pieces of wood they've cut down, sanded, and painted white,” I say, looking at it. “I'd say three hours, maybe four tops, of good work and you'll have a hundred of these for ten bucks.”

I can see the wheels turning. “Meaning I could have one for every guest,” she says.

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about putting little note cards with verses special to Wes and me on them and just kind of scattering them on the table.”

I shrug. “Or you could do that. You don't have to make them. I just like … making stuff,” I say, feeling weird that I'm telling my sister something so well-known about me.

“I knew you liked drawing.”

Drawing. I haven't drawn anything since high school. I'll doodle when I'm on the phone, but I've turned more to crafty things. Wreaths. Sewing projects. Sometime, hopefully in the near future, I want to learn to knit.

Not like anyone needs knitted caps here in our winters.

Such a sad, depressing thought.

“I've kind of moved on to other things,” I tell her. “I like doing a bunch of different stuff now.” I fiddle with the place-card holder in my hands. “Do you … like doing anything … uh, creative?”

This could not be more awkward.

She shrugs and pushes her long, dark hair off her shoulder so it swings around to her back. “Well, Wes says I'm very creative at dancing.”

And apparently my earlier statement was wrong.

She freezes and then blushes about 112 shades of red as she realizes what she just said. I'm pretty sure I'm at least a nice coraly pink that would make my general practitioner request a blood-pressure reading on me.

“Oh my gosh,” she stumbles, gasping, her hands over her mouth. “Oh that's not what I meant
at all
. I just meant that we like to go to this place that does country line dancing and … oh my gosh … I am so … I didn't mean …” She crosses her arms on the table and drops her face down onto them.

I'm giggling now, and even though there is still a big part of me that is resisting this, I have to admit, it is really nice to be laughing with Preslee again.

She starts grinning at me too, eyes sparkling, and shakes her head. “So,
no
, I don't do anything crafty. I've tried to be more crafty, but even walking into Hobby Lobby makes my head hurt.”

She's so sad about it that this makes me laugh too.

“How did you even start wanting to do this kind of stuff?” Preslee asks. “It's not like Mom is all crafty.”

No, Mom is not at all. I could pretty much bet money that she's never held a hot glue gun in her entire life.

I shrug. “I don't know. I moved here and decided I wanted a front door wreath, but no one had one that was exactly like what I wanted for the price I wanted to pay. So I went to Hobby Lobby, bought all the stuff, came home, and made it myself.”

“You've always been a self-starter,” she says, all Dr. Phil on me.

“You're the one who started a band,” I say before thinking, then I mash my lips together, wondering if it's safe to bring up the past.

After all, the band was one of the bigger reasons Preslee left.

Or rather Spike or whatever his name was who was in the band with her. He played the electric guitar if I'm remembering right. The only thing I remember 100 percent about him is that he had an inch-long silver spike sticking out of his chin.

It was gross.

Preslee looks at me for a long moment and then nods slowly. “Yes. Maybe you tend to be more creative in the arts and I tend more toward creativity in music.”

“Probably.” She hadn't seemed to mind the last question, so I ask another. “Do you still play?”

Preslee played mostly drums in high school, but she was also pretty good at guitar.

She shrugs. “I don't really play the drums anymore. I sold my set when the band broke up.” Sadness crosses her expression briefly, but she blinks it away. “Every so often my church needs a fill-in for music, so I'll play the guitar or piano for them. Honestly, it's been kind of hard not to be around music anymore.”

Preslee always lived with her iPod plugged into her ears.

I'm not like that. I enjoy silence. I think I always have. When it's just me at the apartment, I rarely turn on music.

There are a lot of holes in my story about Preslee. I look at her as she settles against the chair back. “Are you up for answering a few things?” I ask her quietly.

Her face becomes very serious and she nods. “I was praying we would get a chance to talk about everything, actually.”

“Oh.”

She takes a deep breath and sits up. “Could we move to the couch?”

“Sure.” I nod to her half-empty glass. “Want more water?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” She stands and goes into my living room, sits on one side of my couch, kicks her shoes off, and curls her feet up underneath her.

I refill my water glass and then join her, sitting on the other side of the couch, feeling very weird that I am in my apartment with Preslee and about to hear her side of the story that broke so many hearts.

Doesn't seem real.

“So …” She rubs her face. “I guess I'll just start at the beginning.”

Suddenly Maria from
Sound of Music
is singing in my head.

“I know I was awful growing up,” she says. “I don't know exactly where all the rage was coming from, but I do know that I made your life a living hell, and for that, I want to apologize.” She gives me a very sad look. “You have no idea what I would do to change the past.”

I nod. “I know. Keep going.”

“So, when Spike came into the picture, I thought I was in love. He was cool, he was edgy, he was very unpredictable. It was …” She takes a deep breath. “Well, at the time I thought it was exciting. It was like a constant game of figuring out what his mood was going to be like that day.”

It sounds exhausting to me.

“So anyway, there was this potential gig in Indiana and a potential agent who was potentially willing to listen to us.” She rolls her eyes. “We were so stupid. Risking everything for a potential. I remember thinking that this was it. We were going to break out, and I'd never have to come back to Austin again, unless it was to perform.”