Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
LORELAI
After leaving Rosemary’s, I drive over to the market to pick up a few things. I know Luke said he was going to stop as well, but I don’t expect him to buy all the food for the house. In addition to loading up my cart with necessities, I add a few extras. I saw an enticing recipe on social media for cinnamon rolls that I want to try out on Luke. It’s a definite step up from Toaster Strudel and it starts out with a tube of biscuit dough, so I’m pretty sure that even I can’t screw it up.
My next stop is the Yarn Barn. I go through their clearance bin at least twice a week hoping to get enough matching yarn for my baby blankets. When I can’t get all of one kind, I settle for a bunch of different skeins, and I donate those blankets to the Humane Society. Stray dogs are not picky, and they are extraordinarily grateful.
On my way into my house with my purchases, I notice that Luke’s bags are still at the foot of the stairs. I’m tempted to carry them up to my room for him, but I don’t want him to think I’m overstepping. Even though I would normally consider that being a good hostess, my feelings for Luke leave me a bit conflicted and I don’t trust my instincts.
Going upstairs, I stop at my room to make sure everything is in order for my guest’s stay. The queen-size bed is covered in a frilly white duvet and decorated with piles of girly throw pillows. I take off the heart shaped one, the flower-shaped one, and the big red lips, which leaves the solid-colored pink square ones. Even though they’re pastel, the whole setting seems much more man-friendly this way.
After putting the pillows under the bed, I pull two of my homemade Afghans out of the cupboard in case he gets cold. Then I gather some towels from the linen closet and place them on my dresser. The bathroom is right across the hall, but I don’t want Luke wondering if the towels in there are for his use. While I’m in the closet, I grab a couple of scented candles that are still in the box. They’re pine, which ought to give the room more of a masculine vibe.
Once I’m done creating the best guest room I can, considering what I’ve started with, I go into my walk-in closet. Inside, I take a box down from the top shelf before placing it on the floor. Sitting next to it, I lift off the lid and start to go through the contents.
I pull out a photo album from my thirteenth birthday party. The cover says “My Teenage Years.” I feel the same thrill I did when my mom gave it to me. I was finally a teenager, which in my head somehow meant the gap between Luke’s and my age had narrowed. Even though thirteen and seventeen were still a big distance, it felt light years closer than twelve and sixteen. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
Opening the album, I’m greeted with a five by seven photo that causes me to shiver. My awkward phase didn’t end until twelfth grade. I blame that on the fact that my teeth refused to straighten, and I needed braces until the middle of my senior year. Add to that the very real problem that some redheads have finding the right color palette. I grew out of being carroty red, but my complexion was still so pale that any kind of bright color made my skin look almost translucent. Too pale a shade washed me out completely. This left me wearing a lot of black, which subsequently made me look vampirish. And not in a cool Twilight kind of way either.
It wasn’t until I went to college that my hair started to darken to a deep auburn. With that change came the confidence I needed to experiment with my makeup and clothing. By the time I was nineteen, I was a different person entirely. And while the girl I was in my younger years wasn’t malformed or anything, the new me was finally appealing to the opposite sex.
Flipping through the pages of my thirteenth birthday party makes me sad for the girl I used to be. I always thought I was the perfect “before” picture from a Seventeen magazine makeover. The truth is I wasn’t horrible looking, I was just uncomfortable in my own skin.
On the third page of the album is the photo I was looking for. Allie and I are sitting at the dining room table with my birthday cake in front of me. I’m wearing a sweater I made for myself. I was so certain that sewing a bunch of potholders together would look great, that it never occurred to me that I could be mistaken for a Romanian refugee from another century.
Behind us in the living room are Luke and my brother. They’re laughing at something, and the upturned expression on Luke’s face profile makes him look like a movie star. If you added up all the time I spent staring at this picture during my teen years, it would probably account for an entire month of my life. Thirty-one days, seven hundred and forty-four hours, forty-four thousand, six hundred and forty minutes … I’d do the seconds, but I’d need a calculator for that.
After putting the photo album down, I unearth my diary from the same year—the book I named “Luke” for obvious reasons.
Opening it to a random page, I read:
Dear Luke,
Today bit. Dillion McMillian (a stupid rhyming name for a stupid boy) called me Big Red in class. Big Red. I’m not even that tall! Then he asked me if I tasted like cinnamon like the gum. My face burned so hot I thought I was going to burst into flames. Of course, that made things worse, because Dillion asked if I wanted him to pour a bottle of water on me to put out the fire.
Boys suck monkey butts. I’m so sick of the immature losers in the eighth grade I could spit. Why can’t all boys be like you?
I skip down a couple of entries and read:
Dear Luke,
You came over to our house today and stayed for dinner! Mom made her tuna surprise and you and Noah talked about your latest basketball game. You even looked across the table at me and asked if I had a good day at school. I didn’t, but I told you it was fine. I didn’t want you to think I was a loser.
Then you and Noah started talking about some girl in your class and I got so mad I wanted to kick her. Why can’t you see how much I like you? Why can’t you stop looking at other girls until I’m old enough for you?
My stomach twists into the all-too-familiar knot it was tied in during my youth. I wish I could go back in time and be a different person. I wish I could tell myself not to pine for a boy that far out of my league. I wonder if I might have had a boyfriend in high school had I not compared every guy to Luke and then found him lacking. Having said that, I’ve mentioned my total absence of fashion sense and lack of confidence, so the answer is probably still no. Whatever. I didn’t want them anyway.
I wish someone would write a book for teenage girls that encourages them to believe in their own worth. But the sad truth is that even if such a manual existed, it would be hard getting young girls to accept their own power. Why is that?
I pick up my diary and move over to my bed. Climbing on top of the covers, I lay down and close my eyes. It’s not so much that I need a nap as I’d like to discover the magic cure for adolescent angst. Instead of conjuring it, I fall into a deep sleep and don’t wake up until nearly five.
On my second hard wakeup of the day, I wonder what I’m doing in my own bed. Then I remember unearthing my teenage memories. Luke Phillips, the heartthrob of my younger life, is staying in my house and once again wreaking havoc with my emotions.
I genuinely thought I was over this man years ago. And while I have cyber stalked him, I’ve chalked that more up to curiosity than any tangible interest. But now that he’s here, I’m having second thoughts. It’s not that I’m drawn to his personality— who doesn’t love Toaster Strudel? —as much as I’m physically attracted to the guy. Tall, dark, and mega fine doesn’t begin to cover his more subtle attributes. Those dimples! That butt!
Sitting up, I sternly tell myself to get a grip. Luke is a big-time chef with a big-time life in Chicago. I’m his best friend’s little sister who still thinks knitting potholders is a great time. Not only are we in different leagues, but our lives are worlds apart. His is glamorous and mine is well—potholders.
I still want a Pop’s cheeseburger, so I force myself to get up and get ready to meet Allie. As I brush my hair and change into a more stylish top, I think about my friend. I wish there were something I could do to make her happier. Allie’s changed a lot since we were kids. She used to be vibrant and outgoing, funny and full of life. We weren’t exactly part of the popular crowd, but everyone liked us—other than Dillion McMillian, that is. He was a turd through and through.
Allie got a scholarship to Michigan State which means she headed to a Big Ten school with all the opportunities that entailed. I was a B student, so I was going to the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. We stayed in touch the summer following our freshman year, but after that Allie remained at school and worked a summer job there instead of coming home.
I was thrilled when I ran into her at Rosemary’s a couple of months ago. But I was also surprised by the change in her. Instead of being confident and daring, she’s become introverted and borderline sad.
I vow that tonight I’m going to try to find out more about her story. I’ve been cautious up until now because she seems so jumpy anytime I ask a personal question. But we were once best friends which means that I have some rights. Tonight’s mission not only includes hopefully seeing Luke again, but also finding out how I can help my friend.