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He nods and continues with his story about a grant he procured to study ethnography in the mid-Atlantic South.
In the end, Paige settles the question of whether I tell her about Leigh. I’ve no sooner parked at home and closed the door behind me than she texts.
PAIGE:How did it go?
HENRY:Fine.
PAIGE:????!!
HENRY:I asked Leigh to dinner. She said yes. I think she liked my shirt.
There’s a long silence before the next text comes in.
PAIGE:I knew it would work. Good job.
I don’t respond. I don’t want to talk about Leigh. I want to . . .
Make out with Paige.
Which . . .
It’s unseemly.
Thirty-five-year-old men are not preoccupied with thoughts of makeouts. It’s more than unseemly; it’s absurd.
I growl at nothing in particular. Maybe my id. Then I march myself up to my room to go to bed at old people o’clock and read a soporific book on the linguistics of the New England fishing culture until I fall asleep.
I wake late for a Saturday but still early enough to stave off any testy demands from my feline overlord. I set out Cat’s breakfast of shredded chicken and wonder briefly if I’ve whetted his fowl appetite by serving poultry so often when I find a headless wren on the doorstep.
After disposing of it before Evie can see, I set out on my long run, trying to shift my mindset to looking forward to my dinner plans instead of wondering what Paige and Evie are up to today. And tonight. Especially Paige.
It doesn’t go well.
I return to find another Christmas spirit offering on my porch, this one much bigger than usual. It’s about the size of two stacked shoeboxes, and I wonder what Evie could have possibly found or made to fill it.
I set it on the table inside and open it to find it filled with an assortment of goods and an envelope with my name atop it all.
Congratulations on getting a date with Lulu!
I knew you could do it. I open at the store today, so I don’t think I’ll catch you before you go out, but I want to make sure I send you prepared.
This is a date survival kit. It has everything you’ll need to make sure the evening is successful.
Can’t wait to hear the details!
—Paige
I’m not even sure what’s in it and I instinctively hate it, but I sort through the contents, each labeled with explanations or instructions in Paige’s handwriting. It’s crisp and feminine, the kind of handwriting someone would want as a font.
There’s a tin of Altoids because “chewing gum looks trashy.” A bergamot-scented candle for “pre-date stress relief.” There’s a roll of antacids in case of butterflies, a canister of cocoa from the fine foods market “in case it goes well enough for you to show off your hot cocoa skills.”
When I pull out a small bottle of massage oil, I’ve had quite enough. I drop it back in the box and close it, not wishing to investigate further. Itisa rather fascinating inventory of what Paige feels makes an excellent date. I eye the box again then turn away. I’d rather not know.
When Paige opens, she’s usually home by 6:30, not that I’ve obsessively paid attention to her habits or anything. Sometimes you attune to other people’s rhythms without trying. However, just before I leave to pick up Leigh, she still hasn’t come home yet, and I get a text from her asking me if I’ll flip on her Christmas lights.
I do, wondering where she is, then head out for my date, trying to remember that once upon a time, not so long ago, I would have been excited about it.
Chapter Thirty
