Paige Torn Page 15

  “Oh.” Layla nods. “I’m sorry. You should have texted me. I would have brought you coffee. And anyway, there’s a Starbucks right beside the sandwich shop. Just go in there and grab a macchiato before you come get lunch.”

  “I’m not sure businesses appreciate when customers do that,” I say.

  “You really think you’ll have some left by the time you get back to the sandwich shop?” she asks, shocked.

  I think about it and my head aches even thinking that much. “True.” I need caffeine or an Excedrin, but one of the two.

  “See? So it’s settled.” Layla grins brightly. “Yay! We’ll see you two there! We have to go find Rick and ask him a quick question about the ceremony.”

  “You’re having Rick do the wedding?” I ask, a little shocked. Layla likes Rick, but she’s always said he is too crazy to ever perform her wedding.

  “You just never know what he’s going to say next,” she told me right after they first got engaged. “That’s a big no in my book for a preacher to do at the ceremony. I want to know exactly what he’s going to say.”

  Layla nods to me now. “Of course, Paige. We’re closest to him of all the pastors.”

  “Right, but earlier you said that — ”

  “Well, I just decided that even if he’s unpredictable, at least he knows us. Plus, his premarital sessions have got to be more entertaining than some of our other pastors’,” she says to me under her breath.

  I smile. “Yes. There is that.”

  “So. Peach iced tea?” she asks again.

  Peter shrugs. “I’m pretty much up for anything.” Which might have been the longest sentence I’ve ever heard him say.

  Tyler shrugs as well. “Why not? I like sandwiches. I like iced tea.”

  “Peach iced tea,” Layla corrects him. “Peach. There’s a huge difference between regular iced tea and the goodness that is peach iced tea.”

  “Four hundred calories and some high fructose corn syrup?” Tyler asks.

  “Taste,” Layla says.

  “Oh. Right.” Tyler picks up his Bible. “I’ll stick with just the regular stuff.”

  “Your loss,” she says. “Okay. We’ll see you there. You guys should go on ahead and get us a table.” Layla takes Peter’s arm. They leave the sanctuary, walking back down the hall to the youth room.

  I follow Tyler out into the bright sunshine. It is probably sixty-five degrees outside. Welcome to spring, apparently.

  “Where’s your car?” Tyler asks me. I point over to the lot by the youth room and he nods. “Why don’t you just ride with me? I’m right there, and the sandwich place is just a couple of minutes away.”

  And here comes Accidental Date Number Two. And exactly what Layla is likely hoping for, seeing as how the sandwich shop is only a few blocks away and she easily could have fit all four of us in her Jetta. We could have waited while they talked to Rick. I’ve been to the sandwich shop once with Rick and Natalie, and it isn’t crowded at all.

  “Look, Tyler.” I hold up my hands and squint at him in the bright sunlight.

  “I know, I know. Consider it free gas.” He leads me to his car.

  “You know what?”

  “You don’t have time to date, you wish I’d just leave you alone, Layla’s already got your engagement ring from me all picked out, whatever.” He unlocks his truck and opens the passenger door. “Hop in.”

  I bite my lip. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Really,” he says, but it isn’t a question. He leans one arm against the open passenger door, ducks his head closer to mine, and gives me a disbelieving look. “What were you going to say?”

  I cross my arms over my chest and think about it. Which is hard to do with him standing so close. “Well, she really is going to overreact,” I say finally. “I mean, she went on and on about the ride you gave me to the lounge for like seriously forty-five minutes, and I couldn’t even hear the band’s first three songs and — ”

  “Get in the car, Paige.”

  “Fine.”

  He closes the door after I get settled onto the seat and comes around the front to his side. “So.” He turns the key in the ignition. “Sandwiches.”

  “Something between two slices of bread? They’re really a neat invention. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of them.”

  “I lead a sheltered life.” He grins at me. “No, I was going to ask, what kind of sandwiches are we talking? Like Subway sandwiches or like guy sandwiches?”

  “Jared’s a guy, and he seems to like Subway.”

  “No, not guy with a little g. Big G Guy. As in Guy Fieri. Food Network? My mom loves him.” Tyler sighs at the windshield. “Honestly, I have big envy problems when it comes to his job.”

  “Because he makes sandwiches?” I haven’t watched too many of his shows. I am not the biggest fan of cooking shows. When I sit down to watch TV, I want it to be HGTV so I can dream about decorating my future house.

  “Great-looking sandwiches,” Tyler says. “Huge. And with stuff like roasted chicken and homemade mayonnaise.”

  Another thing I am not a fan of: mayonnaise. Even the name grosses me out. I make a face.

  “What?” Tyler looks over at me.

  “I don’t like mayonnaise.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s gross.”

  Tyler looks at me like he is still waiting, and I frown. Do I really need another reason?

  “It tastes like fake food. Like American cheese.”

  “Hey,” Tyler says, a warning ring in his voice. He holds up a hand. “American cheese is not fake.”

  “It is too fake. It’s not cheese at all. It makes me feel sad for all the poor Americans who live over in Switzerland and have to defend their native country’s namesake cheese.”

  Tyler laughs. “Well, I guess you have a point.”

  “Oh, stop here,” I say quickly as he drives past the Starbucks. “I really need some caffeine.”

  “I thought the sandwich shop had legendary iced tea.”

  “Real caffeine. None of this watered-down, weak stuff.”

  He grins and pulls into the Starbucks parking lot.

  “I’ll be right back.” I grab my purse. “Do you want anything?”

  “I’ll take the watered-down, weak stuff.” He shakes his head.

  I run inside, order, pay, and wait while they make my caramel macchiato. If I am going to continue to drink these things, I am really going to have to find the time to work out again. Maybe I can start getting up earlier and working out before going to work, since my evenings are quickly getting filled up with other activities.

  Getting up earlier. There is an unwelcome thought.

  “Venti caramel macchiato!” the barista yells.

  “Thanks.” I take my drink and go back out to Tyler’s truck. The sandwich shop is right across a planter median thing filled with some sort of holly bushes. “You know,” I say, opening his truck door. “We can just walk.”

  “Eh, then we’re taking up space at the wrong restaurant.” He looks at my drink. “I’ve got a five-gallon bucket you can take with you next time. Save Starbucks a cup.”

  “Hardy har har.” I roll my eyes and sip my drink. Tyler drives the thirty seconds to the sandwich place and parks in front. Layla and Peter aren’t there yet, which isn’t surprising seeing as how they went to go talk to Rick.

  Rick can be a bit long-winded.

  Tyler makes no move to get out of the truck, so I sit there as well, drinking my coffee so I don’t have to take the cup in with me to lunch. Slowly, my headache starts to ease.

  “So,” Tyler says. “Tell me about Peter.”

  “Peter who?”

  “Peter, your best friend’s fiancé Peter.” Tyler gives me a weird look.

  “What? There are lots of Peters. Peter Pan. Peter Rabbit. And we just heard a whole sermon taught from First Peter.”

  “Well, I meant Peter … you know, I don’t even know his last name.”

  “Sch
ofield.”

  “Peter Schofield. Peter and Layla Schofield.”

  I nod as he practices their names. “You have very nice diction.”

  “You know, your sarcasm level goes up the more caffeine you consume.” He grins at me.

  “No, it’s just when I get tired. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs. “I thought it was kind of funny, actually. So, Peter.”

  “What do you want to know about him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m about to have lunch with him. Is there anything I should know?”

  “Like will he attack you with one of the plastic forks and steal your sandwich?”

  “Like what is he like?” Tyler annunciates.

  “Peter …” My voice trails off while I try to think of the nicest way to describe him. “Peter is …” I pause again, taking a drink of coffee.

  Tyler is watching me. “I’m getting the feeling you’re not really a fan of his.”

  “Let’s just say I won’t be wearing a shirt with his face on it anytime soon,” I say quietly. I feel bad publicly declaring that I don’t like my best friend’s soon-to-be husband.

  “That’s tough.”

  I wave a hand. “It’s not like I think he’s a bad guy or anything. We just, uh, don’t have a lot in common, I guess.” Like spoken sentences and expressions and the ability to be considered more than just a mammal.

  “Stuff in common is good. Is he a sports guy?”

  I think about it. He does spend a lot of time watching games on TV. “I guess so.”

  “Like football? Baseball? Snowboarding?”

  “Mmm. Sure.” I finish off the macchiato.

  “You know, I think I’ll just ask him what he’s interested in,” Tyler says after another minute.

  “Probably for the best.” I nod.

  Layla’s Jetta heads into the parking lot. Peter is driving.

  “I thought you were going to save a table,” Layla says when we climb out of the truck.

  “I had to finish my coffee,” I tell her. “And we are the only two cars here.”

  She looks around. It is true.

  “Are they open today?” She walks over to their door to peer at the sign. “They’re open.”

  “They’re just not very good,” I say.

  “Then why are we here?” Tyler slings his keys around his finger.

  Layla sighs. “Peach iced tea, Tyler. I thought we’d gone over this.”

  “You’d sacrifice a decent sandwich for peach iced tea?” Tyler asks Layla, then turns to Peter. “Do you like the sandwiches here?”

  Peter shrugs.

  I would take that as a no, but I actually have no idea if Peter likes the sandwiches or not. I’ve only heard Peter’s opinion of something once, and it was when he was dissing Beauty and the Beast, which I happen to love. So, it was not an opinion I agreed with.

  “Guys, this isn’t just peach-flavored tea; this is peach iced tea. With that thick, syrupy stuff they pour into it. It’s worth a bad sandwich. I swear it to you on my dead rabbit Waldo’s grave,” Layla says.

  “You had a rabbit named Waldo?” Tyler asks.

  “She even knitted a red-and-white striped sweater for it. Don’t get her started,” I say in a hushed voice.

  Not hushed enough, because Layla glares at me. “He was cold,” she says icily.

  “He had fur,” I say.

  “He did not … have very much.”

  “All right, I’m hungry. Let’s just eat here.” Tyler opens the door to the shop and the smell of freshly baked bread wafts out in a warm breeze. “Smells good.” Tyler shrugs.

  I follow Layla in and frown. “Is this the right sandwich shop?”

  She is frowning as well. “It looks different.” She sniffs. “Smells different too.”

  “I know. It smells good,” I say.

  “Oh no. What if they got good bread and got rid of the peach tea?”

  A guy comes out from a back room then, holding a dish towel. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, obviously flustered. “That bell thing I have for the door never works. Welcome to the Sandwich Shop.”

  Layla elbows me. “Was that the name of it before?”

  “I don’t know. We always just called it the sandwich shop,” I whisper back.

  “I’ve heard you have legendary peach iced tea,” Tyler says nicely to the man.

  “Oh, we’ve only been in business for a week,” the guy says and Layla sighs. “You’re thinking of the place that used to be here, and yes, they did have wonderful iced tea.”

  “Well, this is awful,” Layla says.

  “Not that you’re in business,” I tell the man quickly. “She just really liked their peach tea.”

  “I understand,” the poor man says. “We have flavored teas as well, but not peach, I’m afraid. Mango is the closest I have to it.”

  Layla sighs again. “Oh.”

  “Your bread smells great.” Tyler looks at the menu suspended above the counter for a minute. “I’ll take your turkey club.”

  “White, wheat, or rye?”

  “Wheat, please.”

  The man nods, snapping latex gloves over his hands. “Can I get anyone else anything?”

  Layla mutters something under her breath.

  “What?” I ask her.

  “A ham sandwich on white,” she gripes.

  The man looks at me. “And for you, Miss?”

  I try to make up for Layla’s rudeness. “A turkey, please. Wheat bread, please. Mustard only, please. Thank you, please.” I may have gone a little overboard.

  “No lettuce or tomatoes or anything?”

  “Oh. Yes, please. All of that, please. Just no mayonnaise, please.” I really just need to stop, so I clamp my lips shut as Tyler gives me a strange look.

  “And for you, sir?” the man asks Peter.

  “The club on wheat.”

  “You got it.”

  Layla pays and we all pick out bags of chips and get our drinks. Layla sits at a table overlooking the parking lot, still complaining about the tea.

  “I mean, seriously. Mango is nowhere close to peach. Other than being fruit, they have nothing in common,” she whispers.

  “They’re both orange,” I say.

  “And they have similar textures,” Tyler says.

  “And they both — ”

  Layla holds up a hand, stopping me midsentence. “I’m content with my Dr Pepper.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Not yet. But I will be.”

  I grin. The man brings our sandwiches out, and they look really good.

  “So, Peter, what do you do?” Tyler asks after he finishes blessing the food.

  Peter looks up at him, and I am suddenly curious as well. What does Peter do? I have no idea. Layla has just always talked about him pushing papers around all day.

  “I’m an estate planner.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich, still curious about what Peter does. Is that code for an architect of big houses?

  “Like wills?” Tyler asks.

  “Right. I do the nonlegal stuff.”

  “People come to him to help them prepare for their deaths,” Layla says.

  No wonder Peter is so quiet and depressing. My job is stressful, but at least at the end of the day, I help with a happy part of people’s lives.

  “Wow,” Tyler says. “That’s a very needed field. My grandfather didn’t do anything to prepare for after he died, and you wouldn’t believe all the stuff my grandmother had to deal with.”

  Peter nods. It is apparently the end of the conversation, because the whole table falls quiet.

  “So, Rick’s doing the wedding?” I ask Layla.

  “Yep. Confirmed it today. We start premarital counseling in August. I’m a little scared.”

  Of marriage? I want to ask, but obviously I can’t with Peter and Tyler sitting there. So I say, “Of premarital counseling?”

  “Yeah. I mean, Rick is very strange. Even you have to agree with that.”

&nbs
p; “I do,” I say.

  “That’s the other thing,” Layla says. “‘I do’? I mean, I’m all for traditions, but I really think we should write our own vows.” She sighs at Peter. “Don’t you think that would be romantic?”

  “Mmm,” Peter hums around a bite of sandwich.

  “Then we can write whatever we want to in the vows. None of the stuff that just seems like it’s there for filler, you know?”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Just the legalese-y sounding stuff. ‘I, Layla’ and all that stuff. I never walk around saying things like, ‘I, Layla, think this sandwich is good.’”

  I grin. Tyler laughs.

  “I mean, I know there’s good stuff in traditional vows. And I don’t want to throw the china out with the dishwater,” she says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “The floaties out with the pool water?” She frowns.

  “The baby out with the bathwater?” Tyler suggests.

  “That’s the one!” Layla points at Tyler. “I don’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater.”

  I laugh. “Oh, Layla.”

  “What? Who even comes up with those clichés? And seriously, if you have such a dirty baby that after washing him, you can’t even see him in the bath, that’s a bigger parenting problem, I’d say.”

  * * * * *

  Tyler drops me back at my car at one. “See? That wasn’t so bad.” Tyler grins at me as he brakes beside my car in the empty parking lot.

  “Only because Layla was so distracted that the place didn’t have her peach tea.”

  “Layla is funny.”

  “Yes, she is.” I look over at him, debating whether or not I should ask the question.

  He smiles at me. “What?”

  “Do you think Peter is a good match for Layla?”

  “Do you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  He leans back in his seat, shifting his truck into Park. “Well, I’ve only spent today with them together. I really don’t know them that well.”

  “First impressions.”

  Tyler squints into the bright sun coming through the windshield and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “He’s quiet,” Tyler says, finally. “But Layla is very chatty. So maybe that’s a good thing.”

  I nod. “Maybe.” I pick up my purse from the floorboard and smile. “Well, thanks again for the ride, Tyler.”