“I just…need it,” I say. I sound like a teenager.
“Relax,” she says, pushing my arms down to my side, pulling them away from my neck that I’m rubbing obsessively. I might be a little stressed.
She reaches below the sink, moving a bucket out of the way, and slides out an orange, plastic cooler. It’s not a basket. It’s not even close to a basket.
“Is this all we’ve got?” I ask.
“Honey, this is all we ever had,” she laughs.
“No…we had a basket. I swear we did,” I say, looking where she just looked. There’s only cleaning supplies left.
“You must remember it differently. Things seem better when you’re younger,” she says, and I flash to that night with Beth, then look at the cooler. It feels familiar.
“It’s fine,” I say, opening the cooler and rinsing out the debris that’s collected in it.
“Are we taking a trip?” she asks, sliding back on her stool. It’s like her perch, where she can look down at me—it’s how she sees when I’m lying, I swear.
“No. I’m taking Paige on a picnic,” I say, rushing through the pantry, grabbing bread for sandwiches, looking for anything else. I drop the bag of bread on the ground and two slices slide out. Swearing under my breath, I pick them up and toss them in the trash. The only pieces left are the heels—who makes sandwiches out of heels? I toss the bag on the counter and look back to the pantry, for crackers or anything else. My mom’s hand slides on mine as I’m fumbling the peanut-butter jar, halting me. I look up at her.
“Let me,” she smiles. “You go put something nice on.”
I stare at her with a blank face, trying to read her, wondering what her motive is, but she just pats my hand twice and starts spreading peanut butter on the last good piece of bread, cutting crust and blowing crumbs into the sink.
“Thank you,” I say, looking down at my shirt that…damn, does have a stain on it. I run up the stairs and toss out whatever’s clean in my bottom drawer, pulling together a dark pair of jeans and the black sweater I wore the last time I went on a date. Everything looks new—like I just went out and bought it, like I’m trying too hard. I am trying hard!
I’m staring at my reflection, second-guessing myself, when Paige’s door opens. She pauses across from me, her light still on behind her. It’s the same dress, same boots—I’m sure she’s done something to her hair, or maybe it’s just the jacket slung over her arm. Whatever she’s spent the last two hours doing, she’s somehow more beautiful, yet exactly the same.
“I like the sweater,” she says, her lip tucked in her teeth.
Good. Settled. Sweater and jeans it is.
“You ready?” I ask, giving her my arm at the steps. I guide her down, and just the simple squeeze of her arm linked through mine is enough to remind me how she felt two hours earlier. My mom is no longer downstairs, just the packed cooler, a rolled up blanket, and an extra jacket—which catches Paige’s eye.
“Did your mom leave this?” she asks.
“I might have gotten a little…help,” I say. Paige swallows, and her face flushes for some reason.
“I didn’t think your mom really cared for me,” she says as her eyes drift back to the blanket, her finger running along the fringe on the edge.
“Why would you think that?” I ask, pulling her chin to me, her gaze following a fraction behind.
Paige shrugs, and looks down to her feet.
“My mom is just a little protective. And I haven’t really…well I don’t…date?” My words come out unsure, maybe embarrassed. The last time I dated someone my mom knew about, I was in high school—and that resulted in Leah.
“Look,” I say, pulling her hand into mine, running my fingers through hers. God, I love the way they look together. “My mom wouldn’t let you live here if she didn’t like you. You saw how she was tonight, playing hostess to Cee Cee…or Chandra. My mom hates her, and I don’t think she’s very subtle about it. And you have to understand…she and Leah have been the only women in my life for about five years—at least, that she knows of.”
“And I don’t need to know about any others either,” Paige interrupts, pulling the blanket into her other arm and flashing me what I now recognize as her jealous smile, her cheeks blushing. She’s given me that smile before, and I love that she has. She’s actually jealous that I’ve dated—both sweet and ridiculous at the same time. I lift the cooler and carry it in both arms out the door, Paige following behind me. We both walk to the car silently, and the nervous sensation of everything makes me smile like a schoolboy about to meet up with the popular girl in the tree house for a first kiss. Only we’ve already kissed. Which, of course, makes me about a million times more freaked out. I take the blanket from Paige, and tuck it in the back seat along with the cooler, opening the door for her and waiting while she climbs in so I can watch her skirt slide up her leg. I’m not even discreet about it.