Paige Torn Read Online Free Page A

Oreos. Or whatever the preferred idiom is.
    â€œGreat, great,” Mark says, turning back to his desk. “Thanks for heading that up, Paige.”
    I ask Peggy and Candace if they want anything from Sonic and they decline, telling me how they are on days twelve and fourteen of their new diets. If they eat something now, they won’t be able to splurge at Christmas this coming year.
    â€œAnd, Paige, I am eating my pecan pie,” Peggy declares, then swallows her Special K shake and reaches for a Ziploc bag of raw almonds.
    â€œIt’s January,” I say.
    â€œRegardless.” Peggy waves a hand.
    I drive to Sonic and yawn while sitting in the drive-through line. I was up until one doing laundry. I hadn’t done it in almost three weeks, and that meant I had three loads. And with the ancient dryers in the apartment Laundromat, it takes an hour each load.
    I’m pretty sure I fell asleep for a few minutes on one of the folding chairs in there, but it didn’t last long. Thankfully. I think our Laundromat is creepy, and it creeps me out worse that I actually fell asleep there.
    My phone buzzes right as I get to the speaker to order. It is Layla, so I answer and yell at her to hang on.
    â€œSure, just let me know when you’re ready, ma’am,” the voice over the speaker says.
    â€œOh, not you, my friend on the phone. I know what I want.” I tell the speaker my order and get a staticky total back.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I say to Layla, tucking my phone between my shoulder and my ear while counting change from my wallet.
    â€œI hope the chicken sandwich is yours,” she says.
    â€œYeah, why?”
    â€œBecause,” she says in a duh tone of voice. “You have to fit into a bridesmaid dress in nearly ten months.”
    â€œOh gosh. Please don’t tell me you are going to be one of those brides,” I tell her, because it is Layla and I can.
    She laughs. “Only a little. So here’s the thing. I am thinking we could do this whole girls’ night thing tonight, and you can help me pick out invitations for my parents’ anniversary.”
    â€œI thought you were going to send an e-vite?”
    â€œOr we could do that, too.”
    I sigh, away from the phone’s speaker, and hand a woman who looks about as tired as I feel my cash and accept the bag and two drinks from her. “Thank you,” I say.
    â€œFor asking? Sure, no problem,” Layla says.
    It seems pointless to correct her. “When should I be at your apartment?” I ask instead, mentally calculating how much money it will cost to eat out every meal since I still haven’t made it to the grocery store.
    â€œJust come after work. And bring those gross black heels of yours.”
    â€œWhy?” Layla has made no secret about her hatred for those shoes. At one point, I think she even composed a ballad about how she would rather walk across hot coals in Crocs than wear my heels to a concert benefiting research for some horrible intestinal disease.
    I think she was kidding, but I have been very careful to avoid wearing those shoes around her ever since. They aren’t bad shoes. They just apparently look like something her great-aunt has been seen wearing.
    That makes them awful.
    â€œBecause they’re your only heels.”
    I know that already. I am five foot eight. She is lucky I own even one pair of heels.
    â€œAnd they just might be nice to have with us in case we happen to come across any wedding dress shops and want to look at bridesmaid dresses. You know. For the length.”
    â€œOkay, first, your wedding is almost ten months away. We are seriously going to already start looking at dresses?”
    â€œI didn’t say we were going right now. I just said to have them with you in case we come across a shop. The practical bride is always prepared,” she says an octave higher than her regular voice.
    â€œWhere did you read