Paige Rewritten (27 page)

Our pastor gets up a few minutes later and tells everyone to turn to Luke chapter 7. He starts reading.
“A moneylender had two debtors: one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. When they were unable to repay, he graciously forgave them both. So which of them will love him more?”

Pastor Louis looks up at all of us, his eyes scanning the room. Pastor Louis is probably the most pastoral-looking man I've ever met in my life. I sort of doubt this man had a childhood because it's hard to imagine him going through middle school.

“Jesus starts here by asking a question. Who loves the moneylender more? It's almost one of those rhetorical questions.”

If Rick were teaching this message, I'm pretty sure the word
duh
would have been used. Probably more than once.

Probably why he's the youth pastor and Pastor Louis is the lead pastor.

Pastor Louis preaches for another thirty minutes on the verses in Luke. “As Christians, particularly Christians who have been in the church for many years, we have a tendency to look down on those who haven't known the Lord as long or who have sinned in greater ways than us. I pray that we remember what it says here. That those who have had much forgiven often love the Lord more than those who have had little forgiven.” He quirks one side of his mouth up. “Room for thought, eh? Let's pray.”

Preslee is swiping under her eyes as we bow our heads and a part of my esophagus suddenly feels like there's a lasso around it.

For all intents and purposes, I am the perfect daughter.

I never smoked, never drank, never stayed out past curfew. If Mom and Dad told me to do something, I did it. My bed was always made, my teeth were always brushed, my clothing was always up to my dad's standards for me.

The closest I ever came to cussing was when I stepped on a scorpion barefoot in the seventh grade and said, “Oh my God.” Mom sent me to my room for a week, swollen foot and all, and I never took the Lord's name in vain again after that.

I never missed a birthday, never missed my parents' anniversary, and I called my grandmother every single Friday at exactly four in the afternoon until she passed away three years ago.

If I were to die tonight, my headstone would read:

 

PAIGE ALDER

LOVED BY HER PARENTS. ENVIED BY OTHER PARENTS. BORING BUT DEPENDABLE.

 

I never realized how uninteresting I was as a child. While Preslee wreaked havoc, screamed, yelled, and gave my parents early gray hair, I had my name on the honor roll and a steady job since I was fourteen years old.

I'm like the human equivalent of a Chevy truck. Though I hope to heaven I never hear anyone describe me like that. I'll have to immediately go on a diet and get a tattoo.

Preslee pokes me and I blink, suddenly realizing that everyone is up, milling around, stretching, and talking to the people around them. Somehow I missed the whole prayer and closing ceremony, which is just usually a bunch of announcements.

It's not like this is the Olympics or anything.

“You okay?” Preslee asks me, frowning.

“Fine. I'm fine.” Aren't I always?

There's a thought needling the back of my brain, and as it surfaces and forms into something tangible, I realize that my problems with Preslee and Luke aren't really with Preslee and Luke.

I have problems with
me
.

What if my issues with them aren't so much because of what they did as much as me feeling … maybe, in a small way, potentially … jealous of them?

Jealous.

Rick was right.

I'm jealous. I'm jealous of the apparent fun they had. I'm jealous of the way that everyone seems to just forgive them and move on, and I'm jealous that on top of everything else, now they apparently love God more than I do.

“Well, where would you like to eat?” Tyler asks me. He looks over at Preslee. “We would really like for you to join us.”

“Oh, that's sweet, but I — ”

“Good morning, everyone.” It's Luke, looking for all the world like a team of professionals spent hours fixing his hair this morning.

No one should look that good before noon.

He looks at me and there is just straight-up, undiluted longing in his eyes.

Another thing that shouldn't happen before noon.

I bite my lip and look away. Luke's impassioned speech yesterday is hanging in the air like a big old toot that everyone can smell but no one can figure out the source of. Tyler is looking at me and then back at Luke confusedly, and Layla has apparently used her Spidey sense to figure out what happened because she is glaring so hard at Luke, I'm scared his perfect hairstyle is going to melt.

Preslee, meanwhile, is looking at Luke, recognition flitting in and out of her expression. “Are you …?” she starts.

He looks down and sees my sister. “Preslee!” He yanks her up into a big, huge hug like he's been missing her for ages. “I haven't seen you in years!”

Tyler is still looking at me and I take the opportunity to attempt some telekinetic conversation.

Nothing happened. Stop. He is just delusional. Stop. You can stop worrying. Stop.

I don't know the proper format for telekinesis apparently because Tyler is now just making a weird, confused face at me.

Even so, I'm thankful that Preslee intercepted Luke's attention for the moment.

“How about that sandwich place a few blocks away?” I ask Tyler in a quiet voice.

He nods. “Done.” He smiles slightly at me.

“Well, Paige, I'll see you tomorrow night. We've got a
family
lunch right now at Birker's. Mom and Dad want to discuss the wedding details.” Layla overannunciates, looking pointedly at Luke.

“I heard you and I'm coming,” Luke says, shaking his head at Preslee. “I'm not sure why I need to be present for wedding detail talks, though.”

“I'm just telling you what Mom said.”

Sometimes Layla and Luke don't act too different from how they were as kids in high school.

And yes, to the unasked question about their parents being
Star Wars
fans. Apparently a lot of people were in the 1980s. I think they changed Layla's name just enough to not make people too weirded out.

Or maybe to save her from a life of wearing cinnamon-roll buns over her ears. The jury is still out on that one.

“Well, it was good to see you guys again,” Preslee says. “Have a good lunch.”

Layla gives me a tight, one-second hug around my shoulders and simultaneously whispers, “You're welcome!” in my ear as she leaves.

Luke gives me one last, long look and then follows his sister and Peter out of the sanctuary.

Tyler stares at me with a quizzical, somewhat sad expression and then wipes his face clear before turning to Preslee. “So, I think we're going to go to a little hole-in-the-wall sandwich place that both of us like. Would you like to join us?”

Preslee looks at me and I nod. “I'd really like that.”

“Then sure. Thanks, Tyler.”

We end up all riding in Tyler's truck together and get to the sandwich shop a few minutes later. Preslee walks in, inhaling. “They make their own bread?”

“Yep. Aren't you glad you came?” I ask her.

We order our sandwiches and Tyler finds an empty booth in the far corner of the restaurant. It's not busy yet, but the last time we came here after church, the place filled up within minutes of us getting our food.

“So, Preslee, Paige tells me you're engaged,” Tyler says.

She nods. “Yes. We are planning the wedding for the end of November.”

I don't think I've heard a date yet. Guess that would be good to know as the maid of honor.

“Congratulations.” Tyler gives her a genuine smile.

“Thank you.” She looks at me and tears build up in her eyes as she grips my wrist. “Paige is going to be my maid of honor.”

He only smiles at me, but the way that he does makes everything in my rib cage get warm.

“Order for Tyler!”

He stands and walks over to the counter to get the order. Preslee squeezes my wrist again. It's an awkward place for her to hold.

“Oh, Paige, he is just the sweetest guy,” she whispers. “I like him a lot.”

“Me too,” I say. And I mean it.

Tyler sits back down with our tray of food and looks at Preslee and me. “Can I pray for us? Lord Jesus, I thank You for this meal and for these dear friends. Watch over us today and bless this food. Amen.”

“Amen,” Preslee and I echo.

“Thank you for lunch,” Preslee says to Tyler.

He shrugs. “My pleasure. So tell me about Waco. You've moved there? Are moving there?”

Tyler is a master conversationalist at lunch. He only hits on the good topics, sticking with the future and staying away from the past. He tells stories about his work that make us laugh and then bemoans the fact that he's the only engineer in his office who knows anything about football.

“I promise I did not know this before I majored in engineering.”

“Oh please.” I roll my eyes.

“I honestly didn't. I didn't know any engineers at all. My computer-lab teacher in high school suggested I look into software engineering and I did.”

“Sorry about that. I imagine it was a rude awakening.” Preslee grins over her sandwich at me.

“Very rude.”

I just shake my head and laugh.

I cross my arms and just stare at my Bible that night, pillows stacked behind me so I'm sitting up in bed, covers up around my waist.

I do not want to open it.

I know what it is going to say.

So I sit there. Staring at the brown leather cover.

On the plus side, things are going great with Preslee. She gave me a hug when she left this afternoon, and for the first time in ten years, it wasn't awkward or rushed or out of some guilt-ridden desire to please our mother.

For the first time in forever, I'm almost excited to get to know my sister better. Where there was once a hard, cold knot of pain in my heart, there is now something soft and squishy.

Hopefully that isn't the sign of some sort of awful heart disease.

I finally sigh and pick up my Bible, turning to Galatians.

“For the whole Law is fulfilled in one word, in the statement, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'”

Luke's chocolate-brown eyes begging me to forgive him fill my brain and I close my Bible hard. I toss a couple of the pillows off the bed, mash the remaining one under my head, yank up the covers, and flick off the light.

“You ask too much, Lord,” I whisper into the pitch-black darkness.

Chapter

20

M
onday night Layla arrives at my apartment at exactly six o'clock, holding a huge bag with a panda bear on it.

“Good night! How much food are we eating tonight?” I gape at her. “Everyone knows Panda makes the worst leftovers.”

She shakes her head sadly. She's got her hair up in a sloppy bun and she's changed into baggy sweatpants, an old T-shirt, and fuzzy blue slippers.

I'm willing to bet she walked into Panda in those slippers.

She comes in, sighing. “I can't commit, Paige. I was standing there in the line, planning on getting the orange chicken and Beijing beef and then, all of a sudden, I just started thinking. What if the mushroom chicken is better? What if I really don't want meat, what if I only want fried rice and spring rolls? What if I should have worn real shoes in here? What if I should have had my hairstylist put some blonde in for the summer? What if I shouldn't marry Peter?”

She sets the bag on my kitchen table and covers her eyes.

“What if you stopped overreacting long enough to eat some of this feast?” I start pulling boxes out of the bag. “There's like nine entrees here, Layla.”

“What if this is all just a big sign?”

“Layla.”

“Like if I can't even decide what I want to eat, how in the world am I supposed to be able to decide who to marry?”

“Layla.”

“Woe woe to me.” She collapses in one of my kitchen chairs, crosses her arms on the table, and lays her forehead on them.

I sigh. I have too many major life decisions to make myself. I can't be making Layla's too.

“Layla,” I say again.

“What?” she moans.

“Do you love Peter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you enjoy being around him?” My voice is a monotone.

“Not if he just ate a chili-cheese dog.”

Too much information about Peter. I rephrase the question. “Do you have a good time with Peter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have similar beliefs about God, the Bible, raising kids, and how often carpet should be cleaned?”

“Yes.”

“Then marry the poor man, Layla.” I pop open the lid on a huge container of chow mein noodles.

“Oh.” She raises her head. “He's not poor. He's not rich, but — ”