Well. The house fits into the area, I guess.
I really doubt I will ever own a house. Mostly because I am a snob for newness. I am the first renter to ever live in my apartment. I got it brand-new way back in college, and even though it’s small, any dirt there is my dirt.
None of this 90 percent of dust is dead-skin-cell yuckiness to worry about every morning when I get out of the shower and walk around barefoot for a little while.
I don’t see Mom and Dad’s car, and I’m sure not going to go up and ring the doorbell and visit with Wes and Preslee by myself. So I sit in my car, listening to someone crooning about harvest moons in Kansas over the radio, picking through the can of nuts to get out all of the pecans.
It will be a sad ride home if all that are left are almonds and those weird Brazilian nuts, but at least I’m happy now.
There’s a knock on my driver’s window and I jump about eight feet in the air, knocking cashews and almonds all over my steering wheel.
It’s Preslee and she’s laughing. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says after I mash the button to roll down the window. She’s grinning though, which likely makes her first statement a lie.
Preslee was always one for the practical joke.
Wes is standing right behind her, looking like a transplant straight from the coast of California with his sandy blond hair spiking up in a faux hawk, ratty plaid shorts, flip-flops, and a polo shirt.
I turn my car off and mentally cheer on myself. I can be alone with Preslee and Wes. I can.
I probably can.
I shoulder my purse, cap the nuts, and climb out of my car, standing next to them on the sidewalk across the street from their potential new house.
Preslee is glowing. “Isn’t this such a wonderful neighborhood?” She gasps, holding her hands to her chest, her eyes sparkling. Preslee has always been beautiful, and today she seems even more so. Her hair is long and wavy, she’s wearing white shorts and a blue shirt, and it’s killing me that she’s already got such a great tan.
I nod rather than share my true opinions about this particular part of Waco.
“It’s so quaint! I love it. I wonder if there are any original home owners left on this street.” She looks around, pulls a pair of sunglasses out of her shorts pocket, and slides them on her face.
Wes shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“So did y’all already buy it then?” I ask, finally speaking.
Preslee nods happily. “We’re in escrow.”
I have no idea what escrow means. Aside from sounding like a slightly more disgusting form of those snails, if anything can sound more disgusting than that, I haven’t got a clue. But I nod and manage a nice fake smile, pretending like I’m in the know.
That’s half the job of being a secretary right there.
Mom and Dad’s Tahoe pulls up and Mom gets out, hands clasped together like Preslee, already oohing over the house. “What a beautiful neighborhood! I just didn’t even know this area existed! What a perfect, quaint little street! And the trees! Oh!”
Mom and Preslee are cut from the same cloth.
Preslee runs over to Mom, loops her arm through Mom’s, and then leads her around, happily pointing out every wonderful thing about this street. “And I just love the lawns and the brick and the cuteness!” Preslee squeals.
Dad gets out of the Tahoe and pulls his sunglasses off, frowning at the crumbling concrete front steps. “There might be structural problems. Did your Realtor say anything about those steps? And that oak tree is planted way too close to the house for my comfort. A good stiff wind and you’re looking at major insurance headaches.”
I think we can all see where I come from.
We all cross over the street and stand there, looking at the brick house. It’s old. That’s all I can think about it.
“We’re obviously going to need to repaint.” Preslee points at the faded, peeling eaves, the dinged-up shutters. “But I just love the porch. And the yellow door, actually. I might keep it yellow. It’s just so happy and cheerful!”
Another car pulls up and a woman with big hair and a pale blue suit gets out, waving and grinning a toothy grin.
Must be the Realtor.
“Hello! You must be the family. I’m Wenda, this delightful couple’s Realtor.” She hurries over to the lockbox swinging from the front door.
Dad is on his hands and knees now, looking at the steps, feeling the crumbs and smelling the concrete. I watch him for a second. “You can tell something about the foundation by the way it smells?” I ask him.
“No, but smell this for me.” He holds a handful of powdering cement at my face.
I wrinkle my nose and hurry up the steps. “No thanks, Dad. You never know how many dogs have found that step super attractive.”
Dad laughs.
I follow Wenda, Mom, Preslee, and Wes into the house. Mom is just beside herself with enthusiasm, Preslee is all smiles and giggles, and Wes is obviously unsure if he should stay back with Dad or continue on with his fiancée.
The carpets are orange shag, the walls are dingy and gray, the kitchen dark and greasy.
“Obviously it needs a little work, but I figure we have the time and ability to do it, so why not?” Preslee says.
“Exactly.” Mom nods. “Why not?”
“When was the last time the plumbing was updated?” Dad echoes from under the sink.
Two very long hours later, we are finally talking about heading to the barbecue place for dinner. I spent the majority of the last hour in the only place in the house that wasn’t just awful, which was the backyard. Whoever lived here last had something of a green thumb. Flower beds are erupting in color and there is a little swing hanging off a big tree outside.
Preslee comes outside and joins me on the lawn furniture that whoever used to live here left.
“So, what do you think?” She holds up her hands as I get ready to shrug out my platonic answer. “And I want an honest opinion.”
No pressure there. I sigh. “Well, I mean, honestly, it looks like a lot of work for you guys. But if you’re up for it, then I think it’s fine.”
She smiles. “We’re up for it.”
We sit there quietly for a few minutes, my stomach rolling. I am sitting on the back porch of an ancient house with orange shag carpet with my sister.
The whole thing is just weird.
“So, Paige …”
I look over at her and Preslee is playing with her sunglasses, a slightly nauseous look on her face. “What?” I ask her.
“Well. I have a question for you, but I’m a little nervous about what your answer is going to be.”
I just look at her, waiting for her to ask it. No sense in me promising that my answer will be to her liking. The odds are good it won’t be.
She finally sets the glasses in her lap and takes a deep breath, looking over at me. “Will you be my maid of honor?”
I’m pretty certain I’ve lost all feeling in my legs. I just look at her, no intelligent thoughts anywhere near my brain.
“Oh, Paige, it would mean so much to me! I honestly can’t tell you how much.”
Even if I wanted to answer, I can’t. My lips are numb, words are gone.
Preslee wants me to be her maid of honor.
Me.
Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have thought this was a weird question at all. Actually, I might have thought it was a weird question just because it was so obvious. Of course I am supposed to be Preslee’s maid of honor. I’m her only sister.
Now, it’s just awkward.
She’s quiet, both of us just staring out at the flower beds, and my brain is furiously working.
On the one hand, she is my sister, no matter what she did to me or our parents. And a tiny part of me is really trying to remember that, even though the rest of me wouldn’t mind too much if she just moved into this crappy house and didn’t bother us again.
On the other hand, there is the whole past to consider.
&
nbsp; Maid of honor. I never knew such a seemingly sweet phrase could seem like such a long, tired sentence.
“You don’t have to give me your answer right now,” Preslee says after we’ve sat there for ten minutes in silence while an argument ensues between my heart, my brain, and the Holy Spirit.
I feel like I’ve been arguing a lot with Him lately.
I nod. “Okay.”
She stands and gives me a sad smile as she disappears back into the house. Last time I was in there, Dad was shining a flashlight into the attic and declaring that it looked like there had been a large extended family of squirrels living there at some point.
Reason enough to stay out of the house.
I stare at a cute little bunch of pansies and think about Preslee’s question again.
I am going to be Layla’s maid of honor. If nothing else, I will be a pro MOH by the time this is all over with. Maybe I’d even be able to list my maid-of-honor services on Craigslist.
Does an excellent job of holding up bride’s dress while bride pees.
Dad pokes his head out the back door. “How’s everything out here?”
“Oh, you know. Just amazing. Wonderful. I can’t believe it hasn’t sold before now,” I say, mimicking Mom and Preslee in a monotone voice.
Dad laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m just about done poking around. Just need to check the laundry room and I’m done. A house is a big investment, Paige. It’s good for Preslee and Wes to know what they are getting into.”
“That’s why I’m going to buy new.”
Dad sighs and wipes a soot-covered hand on a red washrag he brought with him. “I wouldn’t mind that.” He goes back inside.
A few minutes later, Mom comes out to tell me that Dad’s done and everyone is starving, so we’re going to eat.
I bring up the rear in our little caravan to the restaurant, and by the time I find a parking space, everyone else is already following the hostess back to a table.
“This is my favorite kind of restaurant,” Wes says as the hostess sets a huge basket of buttered rolls in front of us and then leaves a three-inch-high stack of napkins as well. “Any place they need to leave fifty extra napkins should be considered a five-star joint.”
Dad chuckles. “You and me both, son.”
I’ve never heard Dad use the word son before, and it suddenly hits me that Dad and Mom are getting a son-in-law. And I’m getting a brother-in-law.
So weird.
I don’t know what to think of it.
“I’ll have the full rack of baby back ribs,” Wes tells the waitress. “And a Coke, please.”
“And your two sides?”
“Mashed potatoes and cinnamon apples.”
I know someone Wes would really like. He and Tyler order basically the same kind of dinners.
I eat my roll and listen to the conversation around the table. Mom and Preslee are talking wedding details; Dad and Wes are discussing football.
There’s still a knot in my stomach that tightens anytime I look over at Preslee. It’s just strange that she’s back.
Mom and Dad are soaking it up, though. And I guess I can’t fault them for that. She is their daughter.
We leave the restaurant stuffed at seven o’clock. Mom looks at her watch and smiles. “Well, this is just perfect timing! Honey, you text me as soon as you get home,” she says to me.
I nod, pulling my keys out of my purse. “Well. Bye all.”
Dad and Mom give me a hug and Wes waves. “Nice to see you again, Paige.” He smiles.
He is a nice guy.
Preslee comes over and gives me an awkward hug.
“Just … well, just let me know about what I asked earlier.” She puts her hands in her shorts pockets.
I nod again. “Sure.”
I climb into my car and the others are still chatting in the parking lot. I turn the ignition, and set my gallon-sized to-go cup of Coke in the cup holder for the drive home.
I might be making a few bathroom stops along the way.
I’m about an hour into my drive when my cell phone starts vibrating in the passenger seat.
“Hello?” I answer it, not looking at the number first.
“Hey, Paige.” It’s Tyler.
I smile, turn down the radio, and switch my left hand to the top of the steering wheel, settling in for a chat. Tyler moved here from Austin. He knows how long and lonely this stretch of highway gets.
“Hey,” I say. “How was your Sunday?”
“That’s what I was calling to ask you. Mine was boring. I just sat around and watched football with Rick and Natalie. Natalie made tacos and then Claire spit up all over me.”
I grin, secretly very pleased that he’s fitting in with my friends. “Sorry about that.”
“Eh. I was the one who asked to hold her. So, how was the house?”
“It’s old. And in a very old neighborhood.” I tell him about the likely plumbing problems and the orange carpet.
“Do Preslee and Wes like it?”
“Yeah. I think they see it as a fixer-upper.”
“I guess that’s all that matters then. My dad was the fixer-upper type. He lived for projects.”
“Not your mom?” Tyler’s parents got divorced when he was a kid.
“Nope. Sometimes I wonder if that was the last nail in the coffin. No pun intended.”
I smirk. “Sure. No pun intended.”
“How was dinner?”
“Good. I think you and Wes would get along really well.” I clear my throat. “So, Preslee asked me to be her maid of honor.”
“Wow. You know, Stef always says that the best part of being in someone’s wedding is not having to figure out what to wear to the wedding.”
Stef is Tyler’s sister.
“There is that perk.” I sigh.
“You didn’t say yes?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How come?”
Sometimes, I really don’t like talking to Tyler. I sigh all loudly into the phone, but it doesn’t make him recant his question.
“Take your time,” he says, instead.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “I mean, yes, I feel like I should.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Because, Tyler. I feel like I’m being guilted into this, and being a maid of honor is more than just standing up there in a very expensive dress and holding the groom’s ring.”
“What else is it?”
“Haven’t you ever been to a wedding and the preacher is like, ‘Okay, I’m now charging the people standing up here as well to keep these two to the vows they are making’?”
“No, but I have to tell you that I’ve only been to one wedding where I wasn’t busy decorating the getaway car during the ceremony, and that was Stef’s, and I wasn’t necessarily focusing on what the preacher was saying.”
“Well, my point is that I don’t even know Preslee anymore. She’s a completely different person than she was five years ago.”
“So get to know her.”
That wasn’t necessarily the answer I was looking for.
“Look, Paige, I can appreciate that she hurt you deeply, but look at it from her side. If you had done something awful against me and I wouldn’t forgive you, how would that make you feel?”
I really don’t like talking to Tyler sometimes.
I sigh again. “Not good.”
“So. Get to know her. What can it hurt? She lives close enough that you could easily meet halfway to get coffee or something.”
I think through that. Coffee. Alone with Preslee.
It sounds terrifying.
“I don’t know, Tyler,” I say, slowly.
“It’s your call. I’m just saying to think about it. Well. I’ll let you focus on your driving. Want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“Can we not talk about Preslee?”
I hear his gentle laugh. “Sure.”
“Then yes.”
“Drive safe, Pai
ge.”
I hang up and toss my phone back on the passenger seat, thinking.
Preslee.
A potential job with Rick.
Luke.
I rub my head, crank the radio, and then grip the steering wheel with both hands. And then I try with everything in me to focus my aching head on the song blaring over the speakers.
Chapter
15
The week drags by.
And not just because somehow this ended up being the week when every mundane task that my job could possibly have ended up all together.
I sigh at my work computer again.
“Bad day?” Candace asks, walking by. She’s carrying a bag of carrot sticks.
“Whose wedding?” I ask her instead, trying to take the focus off me and my sad problems. I have another job offer, my estranged sister wants me to be in her wedding, and hey, hey, my ex-boyfriend’s back.
And I have nine hundred bills to write checks for and process in the agency’s online budgeting system.
Hip hip hooray.
Candace shakes her head slightly. “Bar mitzvah. Friend of Bob’s son.”
“Isn’t Bob’s son your son?”
She frowns and looks at the ceiling tracing invisible lines with her finger. “A friend of Bob’s from work, it’s his son.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Too many trails there. Anyhow, I’ve got to fit back into The Dress.”
I grin. Candace has one dress she wears to every wedding, funeral, and apparently bar mitzvah she goes to. And she goes to a lot of events.
“When is it?” I ask.
“Saturday.”
Today is Thursday. But considering that Candace has been on some sort of diet since January, I’m not real concerned. She and Peggy are constantly going on some new fad diet. No meat and all vegetables. No dairy and all meat. No carbs and all proteins.
It gets hard to keep track of, so I’ve just stopped offering cookies when I bring them into work and set them on the desk. If people want one, they’ll come get one.
Mark, however, is always up for cookies. Cookies and Sonic tater tots.
I look at the clock on my computer, waiting for the inevitable Thursday “Oh, Paige, could you run to Sonic?” question that is likely coming.