Paige Torn (22 page)

The overstuffed tax folder is still sitting in my apartment, but I nod just to please Tyler.

“Thank you,” he says. “And thanks for coming to lunch with me.”

“Sure. Sorry again.”

“Stop apologizing, Paige. It's all good.” He smiles at me and waves. “See you on Wednesday night for youth group.”

“Okay.” I close the truck door, and he waits until I climb into my car and then lets me leave first. I am tired. More than just physically.

I
drive home, walk up the stairs to my apartment, unlock the door, and head inside. I go straight over to my closet, pull out a pair of sweatpants, and am just getting ready to change when my doorbell rings.

I look at my phone. No missed calls, no missed texts. Surely it is just a solicitor. I set the sweatpants down and walk over to the door, looking through the peephole.

It's Lucy, one of the high school girls. I open the door, confused to see her. She isn't looking at me. She is looking back down the steps.

“Lucy?”

She turns and her face is splotchy and she has tears in her eyes. “I didn't know where else to go,” she says quietly. “Can I come in?”

I open the door wider, my heart sinking to my knees, my brain automatically going to the worst possible things that could have happened to her. I don't know Lucy very well. She is one of the quieter girls, but she was here for movie night. I am pretty sure she is a senior in high school.

She comes inside and I point to the couch. “You can sit there.” I go into the kitchen and all I can find to drink is water, so I pour her a glass, dampen a paper towel, grab the tissue box, and carry all of it back over to the couch. She is sniffling, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Here.” I hand her the wet paper towel. She mashes it against her eyes. I set the water and tissues on the coffee table and then sit down beside her. I am so bad at this. Do I touch her? Give her space? Give her a hug? Give her time by herself? Ask her what happened? Sit there in silence?

I decide to just keep my hands together in my lap and sit quietly. She dabs her face with the paper towel, blows her nose, and drinks most of the water before she finally starts talking.

“I just had a huge fight with my dad,” she says, tears flowing again.

“Are you okay? I mean, he didn't …” I can't even say the words. I don't know very much about Lucy, but I know her parents are divorced and her mom isn't really in the picture.

“No, no,” she says quickly, shaking her head, swiping at her eyes with the paper towel. She sniffs and shrugs. “I have this amazing opportunity to be a camp leader this year at a Christian camp that specializes in helping special-needs kids.”

“Your dad doesn't want you to go,” I say when she cries again.

She shakes her head and talks through her tears. “He says I'll be blowing all my chances at a scholarship and that will put me back a year and then I'll be the one who doesn't have enough motivation to stick it out in school and medical schools won't accept me because of that.”

I listen quietly. I'm not sure what she wants me to say. I'm not even sure I know what I'm supposed to say. I'm sorry? Disobey your dad and go to the camp? Obey your dad and go to college?

She sniffles. “I just don't know what to do. I don't want to go against my dad, but this is the only time in my life that I'll be able to do something like the camp. But if he's right, I don't want to sacrifice my ability to go to medical school, because I really feel like God's calling me to be a doctor.” She blows her breath out and stares out my window.

I watch her for a second, rubbing my face. Lucy is one of those girls who can do whatever she wants to. She's beautiful, with long, thick blonde hair, and she's brilliant. I rub my cheek, watching her tear-stained face for a minute.

On the one hand, I wish I was eighteen and had the whole world open to me again. I hadn't made any major life decisions, but I had everything figured out. I was going to become a counselor and work with the kids who hurt the most and change lives for the better. Which just makes me a little depressed thinking about my life and how it has turned out in these last five years.

On the other hand, I am thankful I'm not in the middle of feeling pressured to figure out my whole life.

I squeeze my eyes closed for a minute.
God. Words, please!

“Lucy,” I start slowly.

She looks at me, still dabbing her face with the paper towel.

“When do you have to let the camp know whether or not you can come?”

“By the end of the month.” She sniffles.

I nod. “Well …” I am seeing my afternoon of finishing that wreath slipping through my fingers. But what kind of awful person would I be not to help a hurting girl in need? I pat her arm. “Let's go make some chocolate-chip cookies.” I stand. “Sometimes the world makes more sense after cookies.”

Lucy doesn't leave until almost eight o'clock. We talk through the pros and cons of each choice, why her dad is so stuck on her going to college, and what she wants to do. And then we talk about it all again and again. I never tell her what I think she should do, and I never offer advice. I just listen. And mix up cookies and then bake a frozen pizza for us to eat for dinner.

She turns to hug me right before she walks out the door. “Thank you, Paige.” She hugs me tight, holding a plastic container of cookies in one hand. “You're the best.”

“Let me know what you decide to do,” I say.

“I will.”

After she leaves, I close and lock the door behind her and then look around my apartment. I have taxes to work on, a florist to find, pans to wash, and a cookie-making mess to clean up. I had been considering getting up a little earlier tomorrow morning to work out before I go to work.

It seems like an even better idea now after spending the afternoon eating cookie dough, but a horrible idea considering how late I will probably be up cleaning.

I stack all the dishes in the sink, run some hot soapy water over them, and then just let them soak. I rub a sponge over the counter and wipe up all the sugar remnants and then sit down at the computer to do some floral research.

I've already called around ten florists for the banquet. They like to start planning the next year's banquet as soon as one is over. It's a lot of work.

The band is another story.

Mark is one of the best bosses I've ever had just because, most of the time, he lets me do my own thing. I do my work, he does his, he gives me more work to do, and I do it without him looking over my shoulder the whole time. It drives me absolutely nuts when people are constantly looking over my shoulder.

Well, the music selection for the banquet turns Mark into the exact opposite of a best boss. He wants to know every little thing I do with the music. What bands I am thinking about, what the band looks like, acts like, sounds like, and what they charge. Whereas everything else for the banquet, he just gives me a budget and a green light.

I am so thankful we finally booked the swing band. Four weeks before the banquet is cutting it way too close.

I Google florists in Dallas and four million results pop up. And I'm not even exaggerating. Apparently, the floral industry here isn't suffering for competition.

I scroll down the page, cross-checking the listings with the florists I've already called. A place called At First Sight catches my attention, and I click over to their webpage.

They have some pretty designs on their site. And a few of the pictures are of large weddings and other events, so they obviously can do something on a larger scale. I write down their contact info on my yellow legal pad. I'll call them in the morning.

I look at the tax stuff and just shake my head. It is already ten thirty. My goal of getting taxes done by March is looking progressively more and more like a failure.

I
get to work a few minutes before eight the next morning. Without having worked out.

In a little over a month.

I am feeling it too. It is not my favorite feeling.

At First Sight florist opens at eight fifteen, so as soon as the four changes into a five on the digital clock on my desk, I dial.

“Good morning and thanks for calling At First Sight florists,” a friendly lady answers the phone.

“Hi, I've got a bit of a catastrophe, and I hope you can help.” I might as well be honest.

“Well, honey, I've been in this business for thirty-two years, and it's been my experience that flowers can usually help in a catastrophe.”

“It's not really that kind of catastrophe.” I explain about the banquet and how the florist I already booked had canceled. “And so, I need eighty-four table centerpieces by the last weekend of February.”

“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” she says through the whole thing, like she is writing it down. “Okay,” she says with a sigh when I finish. “Eighty-four, huh? Do you know what you'd like them to look like?”

“I'd like red roses.” This is my first year to be officially in charge of the banquet completely, and I want it to be spectacular. Last year, I was working here when they had it, but I was new, so I didn't plan hardly any of it.

“All right. Big arrangements? Small? And what kind of price range are we looking at here?”

I tell her our budget and she responds with another, “Mm-hmm.”

“And somewhere in the middle as far as the size,” I tell her.

She is quiet for a minute. “Okay, sweetie. Here's what I'm going to do. I'll get together three different designs for you, and if you can come here around two o'clock this afternoon, I'll have them ready and be ready for you to sign the contract. Does that sound like a good plan?”

“Does that mean you'll do it?”

“If you like the designs, then sure. Consider me your florist.”

“Thank you!” I gush as Peggy and Candace walk in. “Thank you, thank you!”

“No worries, dear. We'll get this figured out. I'll see you at two.”

I hang up, grinning. My day is already looking good. “Good morning,” I say cheerfully to Peggy and Candace.

“Happy today, hmm?” Peggy asks. “Date tonight?”

“No, she's happier than just a date,” Candace says before I can answer. She looks at me, studying my face. “Did you just win that thousand-dollar Starbucks gift card competition?”

“There's a competition for a thousand-dollar Starbucks gift card?” I gasp.

“That obviously isn't it.” Peggy picks up her message slips from her box.

“I think I found a florist for the banquet.”

“I thought you found one months ago,” Candace says.

“They called me Friday and canceled.”

“Well, that is mean,” Candace says.

“I agree.” Then I frown. “What did you mean when you said I was happier than just a date?”

“I can't explain it.” Candace turns to Peggy. “You've seen Paige before she goes on a date.” Candace shrugs. They both start to walk toward their offices.

“Wait.” I hold up my hands. “What's wrong with me before I go on a date?”

“Oh, nothing, dear,” Candace says.

“No, really. I should probably know this.”

She sighs. “You get … tense?” She looks at Peggy.

“Apprehensive.” Peggy nods.

“No I don't,” I protest.

“Honey.” Candace rolls her eyes. “I am trained in the field of recognizing when someone is tense or not. Trust me. You tense up. Big time. I'm surprised you've never gotten cramps. In your neck. Or your back.”

She is back to fragments. Candace is serious.

I lean back in my chair, frowning. “Really?”

“Sorry, Paige,” Peggy says, smiling motherly at me. “It's true.”

“Remember that kid with the bleached shirt?” Candace asks Peggy.

“Major tenseness.” Peggy nods.

“Okay.” I hold up my hands again. “Michael was weird. And I did not know this before I went out with him. Of course I was going to be tense for a blind date.” Natalie set me up with him, and I still haven't forgiven her for that one.