Free Paige Torn by Erynn Mangum Page B

old enough to be married.
    Never mind that Layla and I are the same age.
    â€œSo, we have a big problem.” Layla takes the meatballs out of the microwave.
    â€œNot with the meatballs.” I hold back a shudder at the thought.
    â€œNo. With the flower girl.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with her?”
    â€œShe doesn’t exist,” Layla says sadly. “I don’t have any little cousins, and Peter doesn’t know any girls under the age of six — ”
    â€œDoes he know any over the age of six?” I cut in.
    Layla purses her lips in thought. “He knows you. And me.”
    â€œSo two.”
    â€œHe’s a quiet sort.”
    â€œLayla,” I say, deciding to just voice my concerns while there is still plenty of time to call the whole thing off. “Are you really sure you want to marry Peter?”
    She gives me a funny look and dumps the sauce from the jar into a skillet. “Uh, yes, Paige. That’s why I said yes when he asked me.”
    â€œI mean, he’s nice,” I concede. Most people would argue that it is hard to be mean when you just kind of stand there unmoving like a rusted-open barn door all the time.
    â€œHe is, isn’t he?” Layla sighs.
    â€œBut he’s not very … um …” I struggle to find a word that doesn’t have a nasty connotation to it. “Animated?”
    â€œOf course he’s not, and I wouldn’t want him to be.” Layla spoons the meatballs into the sauce carefully so it won’t splash. “He’s a very real person. He doesn’t try to pretend.”
    Animated is not the right word.
    â€œHe’s just not who I always envisioned you with,” I say slowly.
    She looks over at me with a smile. “I know. I just figured out one day that Gilbert Blythe probably wouldn’t be knocking at my door anytime soon.”
    We both have a moment of sighing silence for sweet Gilbert who stole Anne of Green Gables’ heart.
    She goes back to stirring the sauce. “Peter’s a good guy, Paige. You can stop worrying.”
    I won’t, so I don’t promise anything. “If you’re certain, Layla. All I’m saying is, you’re going to be with him the rest of your life, and I just want you to be 100 percent certain.”
    She pulls a colander out of the cabinet. “I’m 200 percent certain. Stop worrying about me. You’ve done that since we were kids.”
    â€œYou needed worrying about back then.” She still does now. She just obviously can’t see it.
    She waves a hand. “Please. I was fine. You were the one running around during finals like you and six of your rodent friends had to make a ball gown by midnight.”
    I laugh. “What?”
    â€œLike it?” She grins. “I just came up with it by myself.”
    â€œYou are so weird.”
    She pours the spaghetti noodles and the boiling water into the colander and nods. “And yet, somehow, I am still loveable.”
    * * * * *
    â€œThank God it is Friday night,” Peggy gripes as she comes down the hall, putting on her jacket. “I am not going to have to look at one more birth father who is contesting the adoption or one more adoptive parent who needs to learn some patience, kindness, and gentleness toward their case manager. I am going to sleep in tomorrow morning. I am going to sit at my breakfast table with my husband and drink my green tea while we work crossword puzzles together.”
    I grin at her while I stack up the papers strewn all over my desk. “Sounds like good, clean fun.” I slide them all into a stack to work on come Monday.
    â€œWatch it, Paige. You’re going to get old one day too.” She finishes pulling her jacket on and waves a finger at me. “And then see how you feel about the antioxidants in green tea helping to prevent the sag under your chin and the chance to exercise your aging brain doing a crossword