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“Do you want me to talk to her?” Why did I just offer that? I didn’t know anything about consoling teenagers, especially girls.
“You’re sweet to offer, but I don’t think she’d appreciate that. I should probably figure out how to get at least one of them talking to me again.”
I hated to end the day on this note, but this seemed like a good reason to do so. “I had a lot of fun today.”
“Me too.” Brooke’s smile was back. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” And almost every day that she’d let me come back. I was addicted to this. I gave her one more long kiss, and stood. “Call me if you need anything?”
“I will.”
As I was walking to my car, a horrible sound screeched out from the shed Brooke used as a workshop. It sounded like someone assaulting a robot. I followed the noise to find Paige beating on the gas tank of her motorcycle with a wrench.
“Whoa,” I shouted over the noise. “What did the bike ever do to you?”
She scowled at me. “It won’t start.”
“I wouldn’t either if you hit me repeatedly in the gut with a wrench.”
She faced me completely, wrench hanging loosely at her side. “Then again, you also wouldn’t start if I yanked out vital components and didn’t replace them.”
Did she just threaten me? “I’ll leave you alone.” I turned away.
“Are you fucking my mom?” Paige’s question hit my back as hard as I imagined that wrench might.
I really didn’t want to get into this with her. “That’s between her and me.” I faced her again.
“So, yes. Because otherwise you’d sayno.”
I made a point of clamping my mouth shut. Something told me there wouldn’t be any winners in this conversation.
“Are you fucking Deacon?” Paige asked.
I was being interrogated by a seventeen year old. “Not currently.” Though the question sent a spike of regret through me. “I’m talking to you.” And wondering what the best way was to walk away without being rude.
Paige turned back to her bike, but her arms still hung at her sides. Were we done?
I opened my mouth to wish her a better day, so I could leave.
“What do you do when people don’t act the way you expect them to?” She asked.
That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? “I wish I knew.”
Paige sank onto a nearby metal stool. “Did Mom tell you what happened at the dance?”
“No. You asked her not to.” I was not equipped to handle teenage angst. I barely knew how to handle my own.
“So you do know how to give a straight answer.”
“Nothing I do is completely straight. It’s always at least a little bi.” If I was making bad jokes, I was nervous.
The corners of Paige’s mouth tugged up in an almost-smile.
“You don’t have to laugh. No one actually likes that joke,” I said.
This time she did smile. “You do, or you wouldn’t use it more than once.”
“I pun when I don’t know what to say. Or make movie references.” I pulled up a second stool and sat across from her.
