“Tyler?” I ask before I can chicken out. “Would you like to come to Austin with me on Saturday and meet my family? We’re all going to be there for the shower and we’ll probably just get an early dinner afterward and head back home. And it’s a couples’ shower, so you don’t have to feel weird about coming.”
He grins at me. “I’d love to.”
Apparently he didn’t have to think about that one.
Randy brings two more cups of frozen custard to the table. “Told you it was good.” He grins as he leaves.
It was good, but if we weren’t both looking at a weekend full of meeting each other’s families, would it be so amazingly delicious?
Mom is, of course, ecstatic that Tyler is coming on Saturday. Mostly because that is just kindling the hope that I might not be their unmarried, spinster daughter for the rest of my life.
Spinster. I’m twenty-three years old!
“Does he like seafood? Oh, maybe he’s one of those poor unfortunate souls who is allergic to shellfish. Is he allergic to shellfish, Paige?”
I’m hearing that song that Ursula sang on The Little Mermaid in my head now, so I’m not paying super-close attention to her question. I’ve been listening to Mom’s questions for the last four days, ever since I told her Tyler was coming.
I should have listened to my common sense and just surprised her at the door with him.
I snort. Now there would have been a scene.
“Paige!”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Is he allergic to shellfish?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t say that I’ve ever eaten shellfish with him so I don’t know.”
“Well, find out.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“When was the last time you made something with shellfish?” My dad is not a fish person. Beef, yes. Chicken, yes. Any form of pork, definitely yes. Fish, not so much.
“You never know when I might decide to whip together a shrimp scampi, Paige.”
“Okay then.”
“I’ll call if I have more questions. Good night!”
I hang up and shake my head apologetically at Layla. We are busy creating the favors for the guests that she felt obliged to buy. She picked up little jars, and we are painstakingly filling them with M&M’s in the same colors as her wedding.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t asked for his pant size yet,” Layla says. “Knowing your mom, she’s probably sewing him a pair of pajamas or something.”
I grin at her. “Don’t even say such things.” I definitely get my crafty side from my mother, but she can go a little overboard at times.
We are sitting cross-legged on the floor in my living room, and I arch my back and set another completed jar in the box we’re keeping them in.
“Thanks for doing this,” Layla says.
“No problem. I finally feel like I’m actually your maid of honor.” I look over at her. She appears much more peaceful than she did the last time she was over at my apartment.
“Doing well?” I ask her.
She looks up from the jar she’s working on and nods. “Much better. We ended up asking Rick if we could meet one more time for our premarital counseling and told him what was going on.”
“He apparently had some good advice?”
“He gave us homework actually.” She grins. “And here I thought I was done with homework forever. He told us to go out to dinner that night and not discuss a word about the wedding. And then we’ve had stuff to do every night this week. We had to go for a walk or bike ride together, we had to find an activity that neither of us had ever done and do that together . . . a bunch of stuff. And we’ve had to write letters to each other every day in a journal that we will give each other after we get married.” She nods. “It’s been helping.”
“Good.” I have to give props to Rick. Those sound like great ideas.
“And . . .” She sighs sadly. “I think I’ll have to give Belle back to the shelter.”
I frown. “Why?” Not that I’m sad, because I have yet to see the dog since she has become Belle, but I know Layla was pretty attached to the idea of a dog.
“Apparently she barks from the minute I leave my apartment to go to work until right when I return. I’ve gotten three notices from the apartment manager.” She rubs her cheek. “I don’t know, Paige. It was probably a mistake to get her. I mean, she needs a yard and someone who is home for more than just a couple of hours at night.”
I nod, proud of myself that I’m withholding my “I told you so” speech. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “It was worth a shot. And she is a good dog. She’ll make someone very happy. But hopefully someone who has an actual house and maybe some little kids to play with.”
I nod and set another jar in the box. “That sounds nice for her.”
Layla smiles. “It does, doesn’t it?”
We work until nearly ten and then we are both yawning. “This is monotonous,” Layla mutters.
“You really didn’t need to invite three hundred people.”
“Tell my mother that. She invited my kindergarten teacher because she said she would probably like the invite.” Layla sighs. “So now my kindergarten teacher and her whole family are coming.”
Layla’s mom is very social.
I set the final jar in the box. “Three hundred,” I moan, stretching my fingers out. “And it’s official. Should I ever get married someday, I am not making favors for the guests. They can consider the cake their favor.”
Layla grins. “Better pick a good cake. Mine is red velvet.”
“That’s good and southern of you.”
“Thanks.”
I give her a hug as she leaves. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”
“Me too. I love you, Paige.”
“I love you too, Layla.”
* * * * *
Friday morning, I wake up at eight o’clock to a text from Rick.
MANDATORY STAFF MEETING AT 9 A.M. BE THERE OR I UNEARTH THE MARSHMALLOW GUN.
Such a lovely way to wake up.
I moan as I roll off the bed and stumble to my feet. I’m too young to feel this old. Isn’t that a country song? I stare into the bathroom mirror as I find my toothbrush.
Sometimes I envy those Hollywood people who get to walk around with their professional airbrushers. I wouldn’t mind for someone to knock on the door in a few minutes, set up a salon stool in my bathroom, and start making my face look flawless. I squint at the mirror and see a new wrinkle.
My phone buzzes right then and it’s my mom calling.
Again.
“Hello, Mom.”
“You’re up early.”
“So are you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Checking out a new wrinkle.” I poke at the line by my eye, but it’s not going away.
“Please. You are twenty-three years old. Wait until you’re fifty. Speaking of which, when do you think you and Tyler will be here in the morning?”
I’m not sure how that was a segue into talking about me and Tyler, but Mom’s excited. Which is cute, honestly.
“I’m not sure yet. Probably by ten.” Which would mean we would be leaving my apartment at seven.
Yuck.
“Yay!” Mom says. “We can have a family brunch then. Preslee’s shower isn’t until one, so that gives us lots of time to visit with Tyler before we leave for that. Did you find out if he likes papaya?”
Poor Tyler had been getting constant texts from me lately, courtesy of my mother.
DO YOU LIKE GROUND TURKEY? CAN YOU EAT SHRIMP AND NOT DIE? IS THERE A REASON WHY MY MOTHER SHOULDN’T CLEAN WITH TRADITIONAL ANTIBACTERIAL SPRAYS?
Mom lectured me for almost ten minutes when I questioned that concern. “Paige, do you not read the news? There are constant stories about people who are reacting to whatever awful things they put into our household cleaners! People are coming down with rashes, autoimmune diseases, and cancer! Why
, there was a lady in Philadelphia who had to be hospitalized for some lung thing she got from inhaling the fumes while she was scrubbing her shower.”
“So why don’t you switch to something natural?”
“Oh gosh, honey, those don’t do a thing. Do you want us all to die from salmonella?”
It was a no-win conversation and luckily one of my girls had shown up to Starbucks right then to meet with me, so I begged off the phone.
I sigh into the phone now. “I have no idea if he likes papaya, Mom. I don’t even know if I like papaya because I’m fairly certain I have never had a papaya in my life. Are you really going to be serving it for brunch tomorrow?”
“Well, I was on this recipe-blog thing and they were going on and on about this papaya and watermelon balsamic salad, and I was thinking I might try it.”
I can’t even think of what a papaya looks like.
I can think about what if feels like to get hit in the face with a stale marshmallow from Rick’s marshmallow gun and I start the shower.
“I have to go, Mom. Rick’s called a staff meeting in less than an hour, and I still need to shower and eat breakfast.”
“Okay. I’ll just text if I have more questions. Have a good day, sweetie! Can’t wait to see you tomorrow!”
“Love you, Mom.” I hang up and hop in the shower, hurrying through the whole shampoo, rinse, and repeat motions.
I get out and dry off, slap on some makeup, blow-dry my hair, and grab a granola bar on my way out the door. I’ve pulled on jeans and a gray-and-white striped T-shirt and my red ballet flats.
Hopefully horizontal stripes are still in.
I get to the church and I’m walking into the youth office at exactly 8:58. I’ve even beat the church secretary here this morning. Rick is already sitting in his office chair, marshmallow gun poised at the door. I hold up my phone so he can see the time as I enter.
“Two minutes early,” I say, slumping into my chair. “A rushed shower is the beginning of a crappy day, you know.”
“We have a situation,” Rick starts, not bothering with a hello.
“Okay . . .” I start to worry. Is it one of my girls? Is there a parent who is upset with something Rick or I did? Is someone hurt? Tori. Is it Tori’s brother Jake?
I’m gnawing on my lip going through all the possible scenarios in my head. Apparently I have become kind of attached to my girls.
Rick keeps talking. “Now, normally this would not be that big of a deal, but since it involves something that you sort of orchestrated, I felt like you should know as soon as possible.”
“What happened?” I’m gasping now, wringing my hands together.
“I think that the high school’s homecoming night is on that same night we are planning on doing our Cider House Duels event.”
I just stare at him.
“That is why I’m here.” My sentence is not a question.
“Yep. So I’m thinking we should probably reschedule that one to sometime at the end of October.”
“You woke me up and rushed me through a shower to tell me we need to reschedule an event?”
Rick is aghast. “Not just any event, Paige. Cider House Duels! Remember? Where everyone brings their favorite hot drink, and we all have to vote on which one is the best?”
“Rick, you know that 90 percent of those kids are going to just have their moms make something, and the other 10 percent are going to be stopping by some grocery store and just heating up some milk for Swiss Miss.”
“Yes.” Rick nods. “But I like Swiss Miss.”
I sigh and rub my eyes. “Okay, fine. We can move it to the end of October.” That would be better for me anyway. Then both of the weddings will be over, and life will be getting back to a normal pace.
“Perfect.” He smiles and then just looks at me. “So. That’s all, I think.”
I just shake my head at him and stand. “I am going to Starbucks.”
“Aren’t you most likely going there this afternoon like eight times?”
Yes. Yes, I am.
“Perhaps. But if I’m going to be working in this office all morning with you, I’ll need some caffeine.” I walk out.
“I’ll take one of those vanilla-bean Frappuccino things since you’re offering!” Rick yells after me.
“I wasn’t!” I yell back.
Geraldine is just sitting down at her desk, tucking her purse into the bottom drawer and pulling her cardigan around her shoulders. “Chilly morning in here,” she says to me. “You are here early.”
“Want anything from Starbucks?” I ask her, knowing what she’ll say but feeling rude if I don’t ask her.
“Oh no,” Geraldine hums. “Do you know that they inject their coffee beans with more caffeine just so people will get hooked on their coffee instead of Folgers?” She starts tsking, shaking her head from side to side. “No, no. I’ll stick with my herbal tea. Thanks, dear.”
I’m not sure her information is completely accurate, but I just nod and head back to my car. Thankfully there are about four Starbucks within a two-mile radius of the church. I drive to the one with the drive-thru and order a venti caramel macchiato and a vanilla-bean Frappuccino.
I am an amazing employee. I would like for Rick to take full notice of this. And I’m thankful he requested a caffeine-free drink.
Goodness only knows that Rick does not need to be more hyped up.
He grins as I hand him his icy drink a few minutes later. “You deserve a raise.”
“I’m glad you see that.”
“Sadly, I can’t give you one without the church elders approving.”
“I can buy them vanilla-bean Frappuccinos too if that would help.” I sit at my desk and turn on my computer.
I work on the postcard for the Cider House Duels for a little bit, and then I work on my lesson for next Wednesday night. One of the moms of one of our junior high boys comes in to talk with Rick about some concerns she has, and I offer to leave but she asks for me to stay and give my opinions too.
Because I obviously have a lot of experience in how to raise a twelve-year-old boy.
“I think he might be getting interested in girls a little too fast,” she says, hands together on her lap.
I watch how Rick listens to her, never mocking her worries or even questioning them. He meets her gaze the entire time they are talking.
Rick is crazy and insane and possibly should be on some form of melatonin to calm the insane amount of energy he has, but the man is one of the best listeners of anyone I’ve ever met.
The lady leaves and I look over at Rick. “How did you learn how to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Listen. Counsel. Whatever that was. She came in here all freaked out and left feeling like she had the tools to parent her son.”
He shrugs. “I just listen and try to pray at the same time. Someone told me once in seminary that people don’t always need answers; sometimes they just need to be heard.” He nods to me. “That’s why it is so important that you are here. I don’t have a clue what it’s like to be a high school girl, but you do. Those girls need understanding and empathy more than they need to be told how to live. And that’s why you are needed.”
I think about his words the rest of the afternoon. After so many years of feeling useless at the adoption agency I used to work at, the thought of feeling needed was amazingly refreshing.
Seven in the morning. On a Saturday.
And I am not only awake, I’m showered, fully dressed, and have my makeup on.
There should be laws about this kind of thing.
I even look cute, if I say so myself. The shower is a Western theme, so I’m wearing my favorite pair of jeans, cowboy boots, a button-down camp shirt, and a cami. I even got up early and curled my hair.
I look like I am on my way to a rodeo.
I am standing in the kitchen, blearily considering how long it takes to make a pot of coffee versus how long it takes to go through the drive-thru at Starbucks whe
n Tyler knocks on the door. I open it and he looks about as awake as I feel.
“Good morning,” he mutters.
“Hey.”
Then we both just stand there for a few minutes, blinking at each other. I told him about the Western-themed shower, and he went with the cowboy outfit as well. He’s wearing straight-cut jeans, a button-down shirt, and today is the first time I’ve ever seen him in cowboy boots. His hair is curling haphazardly and his shirt makes his blue eyes look even bluer.
He finally manages a smile. “Good to know you aren’t really a morning person either.”
“I’m also not a night person.” Better to inform him of this now before the relationship goes any further. “I just like to sleep.”
“I knew I liked you for a reason.”
“Coffee here or coffee from Starbucks?”
He thinks it over before nodding to the door. “Starbucks. If I’m expected to drive six hours total without falling asleep at the wheel, I’ll need a couple of extra shots this morning.”
Starbucks it is, then.
I loop my purse over my shoulder, pick up the bag that is my shower gift and card for Preslee and Wes that I signed from Tyler and me.
Even though he has no idea what it is.
I lock the door behind me and follow him to his truck.
He stops before he gets there and turns to look at me. “Good morning, beautiful.” He pulls me into a gigantic hug. His arms close tight around my waist, and I smell his spicy aftershave.
I smile when he pulls away. “Good morning.” He opens the passenger door and there is a bouquet of tulips lying on the seat.
“Oh, you’re so sweet!”
“Thanks, but those aren’t actually for you.” Tyler grins.
I just look at him.
“They’re for your mom. You know, for feeding me and letting me come hang out today last minute.”
I slide the tulips out of the way and climb into the truck. “Looking for a few brownie points, I see.”
He grins, closes my door, and walks around to the driver’s seat. “You can never have too many brownie points when it comes to mothers. And if I can speak hypothetically here, I want there to be a million brownie points in my column if this”—he waves his finger back and forth between us—“continues.”