8. Paige
8
Paige
F or he’s a jolly good felloooooww…that nobody can deny!” Randy ends his tune with a bow toward Don—an impressive feat with a leg cast and crutches—who is crossing his arms and scowling.
Randy doesn’t notice.
I think we’re all just thankful he decided to sing something other than his garage band’s one hit wonder, Sex Hair .
“Should we cut into the cake?” he asks, already hovering a large knife over Don’s face.
His face printed on the cake, that is.
The edible print reveals white hair slightly askew and Don’s signature mustache. But more telling than any of this is the surprised expression—bordering on I’ve been kidnapped —on the cake photo, leading me to think Don was not expecting it.
“I don’t eat cake unless it’s made of bacon.” Don is not taking this well.
The break room has gotten smaller, which is shocking since it was never that big in the first place. Fitting all of the employees in here isn’t easy. But this is the surprise retirement party Randy insisted we throw for Don, so we’re all making it work. And holding our breath.
Delia, my coworker, leans against the wall beside me and says loudly to Randy, “Does that sign say Happy 40th Birthday ?”
Don is not forty. No one even knows when his actual birthday is.
Randy makes the first cut then licks each of his fingers before wiping them on his corduroy pants. “It does, but don’t touch it.”
Don rolls his eyes.
“Why?” Delia presses, twirling the red streak of hair on the left side of her face.
“Because I’m borrowing it from our stock. I have to put it back on the floor after this.”
Delia gives me an exaggerated side-eye, her black liner really intensifying the look. Randy has a way of weaseling out of paying for just about everything. He even had Don pick up the cake, which meant he probably had to pay for his own face on frosting.
I have to keep my gaze trained on the opposite wall, or I will lose it. I can’t wait to tell Rhodes all about this in freaky accurate detail later when he picks me up.
Randy hands Don the first piece, but he doesn’t take it. “Cake is from the devil.”
The two men stare at one another. I fear someone will explode—one with confetti and glitter, while the other in actual flames since Don is half made of whiskey anyway.
Randy is the first to crack a smile—because smiling is his first language—and starts laughing. “Nobody hates cake.”
Somehow, by the end, Don ends up holding the piece he doesn’t want.
Well played, Randy .
Once everyone has a slice of Don’s head—I got his ear—we eat in awkward silence. It’s so quiet I can hear Delia chewing. But what’s worse is watching Fred from payroll chew. It is just as bad as hearing it .
“So, Don,” I start to say. “What are your plans for retirement? Are you going to get a parrot, maybe a piercing?”
I thought this was funny.
He didn’t. “Parrots live for thirty years and piercings are for people who like to be stopped in the airport—I do not.” His voice is flat, and he’s still crossing his arms with his piece of cake. “I’m going to travel. Alone .”
The emphasis on alone isn’t missed.
“Where are you going first?” Delia stabs her plastic fork into Don’s eyebrow.
“Greenland.”
Delia nods but leans to whisper something only I can hear. “Are there any people who live there? I thought it was just all ice?”
I nod and whisper back out of the side of my mouth, “That might be why he chose it.”
“I’m going to study woodworking practices from a master carpenter,” Don states. “Alone.”
Delia makes an aha sound like this makes total sense. I suppose for Don, it does. Nothing says vacation like wood shavings. Maybe I’ll stitch this on a tea towel as a parting gift for him.
I admire Don for going and doing something he loves. He and his wife divorced in the 90s and with only his daughter and a set of maniacal grandkids in the area—who are off to kindergarten next year—he has time to give to his passions, which apparently include more than bacon and frowning. They now include Greenland.
I’ve barely seen most of my own country, let alone someone else’s. We didn’t grow up taking road trips or going somewhere for spring break. Mom hates flying, and Dad can’t sit still for long. A fourteen-hour car ride would be equivalent to prison plus a straight jacket and maybe some balls and chains. I didn’t think I wanted to travel, but I don’t know, hearing Don’s plan makes me think maybe I should go somewhere. Anywhere, really. A different grocery store in town would probably do. But ideally, a place outside of the state.
There’s The Itch again .
Gah. I just can’t stop thinking about doing something different with my life. I have no plans, no way forward—I might take sideways if it were available. But I need to do something. I’m feeling like a stale potato chip that’s been under a couch cushion for too many years.
Randy pulls out his favorite Mad Libs book, and Don groans. This party would continue for the rest of the day if it were up to Randy. Mainly because working is a relative idea to him.
“Hey, how’d the meet-the-parents-dinner go last night?” Delia turns to face me, her shoulder to the wall.
“Oh.” That’s right. I’d almost forgotten the evening from hell. Not really, though. I could never forget. “It was terrible. I was too much for him.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he left so fast, he forgot his scarf…”
Her brows lift in unison. “Was it Cashmere?”
“Silk,” I reply. I gave it to Cleocatra out of sheer spite. “It’s been seventeen hours since my family scared Tucker off, and I don’t think I’ll be hearing from him ever again.”
“You don’t seem very upset,” Delia says plainly.
Because I don’t have any tears left .
Not like they were over Tucker anyway. Just me.
I stand straighter, balancing my half-eaten cake while taking another bite and speaking around a mouthful. “I’m…processing.”
“You didn’t really like him.”
I’m shoveling more cake into my mouth so I don’t have to respond. I’d been avoiding it. After talking to Cleocatra and Rhodes last night and filling a river with my tears, I realized I’m not upset about losing Tucker, but rather, the fact I don’t have a Tucker at all. Being single is a terrifying place. Having a boyfriend means I’m moving in a direction and hopefully closer to what I really want—a partner, the love of my life, someone who will make me dinner midweek and go thrifting with me on Saturday mornings.
I shrug. “I didn’t not like him.”
“That makes no sense.” She shakes her head and the two ponytail braids at her temple sway with the movement. “You need to stop dating losers.”
I look at her like this is the first time I’m seeing her. “I’m not trying to. But when I see an attractive man, especially one who seems interested in me, it’s like I get stuck in their cloud of good qualities, and I ignore the less desirable ones like being able to hold a conversation or talk about anything other than themselves or their prized guinea pig.”
Delia flicks her wrist. “I’m not even going to ask about that one.”
“Good,” I say. “It was possibly the worst and best date I’ve ever had. That guinea pig was adorable.”
I can hear Randy ask for an adjective and Fred offering the word ravishing . I don’t even need to look at Don to know he’s hating every second.
“You know what you need?” Delia asks, calling my attention back.
I eat another bite of cake in case she asks me another hard question.
“You need to meet a man you’ve never seen before.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, but this town is only so big and dating apps are so—”
“No, no, no.” She cuts me off. “I mean, you need to meet someone without seeing what they look like. Even dating apps make it too easy to dismiss someone based on how they look. You need to find someone with all the internal qualities you’re after.”
I shift on my feet, finding myself agreeing with her on this one thanks to an unknown experiment I’ve been conducting called: my dating life .
“And how am I supposed to do that? We’re like a step up from animals. We see something we think is attractive, and we pounce. What happens if I meet someone, start talking to him, and then I’m not physically attracted to him?”
She hands her plate to Ethel, who sorts clothing once a week, and focuses back on me. “I’m not saying you’ll never see what he looks like. I just think it shouldn’t be the first thing. Talk to someone first and then, if you have a connection, meet them, get engaged, and marry them.”
I’m almost out of cake and nerves. “And how am I supposed to find a guy willing to talk and not go on a date? What if they don’t like the idea of not seeing me first?”
Her smile grows, and I know she’s already got a plan. “I’ll vet them.”
My mouth gapes and crumbs fall from my mouth. I wipe them away. “You can’t…I can’t…no.”
“Listen,” she says. “You give me a couple physical attributes and internal qualities to go off, and I’ll find the guys. It will be like that dating show that’s really hot right now.”
“Don’t they sit in pods all day and talk? I have a job…a life.”
Delia raises her brows and lowers her chin to her chest to study me.
“Okay, I have a job.”
The lines on her forehead soften. “You said you want to find someone you have a stronger connection with rather than just the physical stuff. Well, this is how you do that. I’ll find a few men, run the plan by them with a couple basic rules to make sure the experiment works, and then you talk to them.”
“Like texting? Calling?”
“Both, I guess. Just no video calls or sending nude photos.”
I miss my plate when I try to spear another bite, almost dropping the whole thing. “I don’t send nude photos.”
“Never?”
“It’s just…I don’t…I mean…what constitutes a nude photo?” I lick my fork clean.
She glares. “Being nude.”
My brows relax. “Oh, well then, no. I haven’t sent those.”
“Good. Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Except it does feel like a problem. I don’t know if I can do it. Talking to a few different guys at the same time to see if there’s a connection without ever seeing them feels risky. It’s why I haven’t gone on any blind dates my family has tried setting me up on. What if I really end up liking someone only to realize I’m not physically attracted to him? That’s half of liking someone. I don’t know if I trust Delia enough to find them.
But as I look down at my plate, void of the cake now drying my mouth out, I note the words over the hill with a side profile view of a man with a mustache. It holds a striking resemblance to Don, but all I can think of is how I’ve spent almost my entire adult life dating chumps. This is the year I was supposed to change all that. But with only a month until my 30th birthday, I’m still floundering like a goldfish stuck in my aquarium decor. I still live at home, I haven’t found a career I love doing enough for the next fifty years, and I can’t escape dating the same emotionally unavailable men .
I want to be with someone I enjoy, someone who pushes me to be great. So what if they don’t have abs? I could probably get over that. I think.
Maybe I should tell Delia that’s a requirement…
It seems totally nuts to be considering this, especially allowing Delia to pick the men, but maybe this is exactly what I need to get out of the dating rut I’ve been in all my life. My picker has been on the fritz since I can’t seem to choose someone I can actually talk to.
I fold my plate in half and tell myself I’m an adventurous person, even if it feels like I’m snorting sparkles and positivity.
“Okay. I’ll do it. You can pick a couple guys, and I’ll talk to them.”
Delia squeals and starts to walk out of the break room.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to get started.” Her pleather high-tops howl as she goes.
My heart races so fast. “Right now?”
“Yes.” She rolls her eyes and says over her shoulder, “I have a lot of work to do to find the love of your life.”
The love of my life . It’s a nice thought. One of fairytales and happily ever afters. But real life? It doesn’t work that way. I’ll be shocked if she can find even one guy to agree to this.
But then again, I only need one.