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quality food, then I don’t know what is.”
    I shake my head. “You are quite the gourmet.”
    â€œI try. Sometimes, I’ll even add freshly chopped scallions on top.”

“E arth to Paige! Earth to Paige!”
    I blink and look up. I am sitting in the back row of the singles’ Sunday school class. Tim Miller led the class today and spent the entire time talking about the verse on how man was not supposed to be alone, which led into how much he missed his ex-girlfriend.
    It’s been rough since the pastor in charge of singles, Pastor Dan, left on his sabbatical three weeks ago. So far we’ve heard lessons on why we should all convert to being vegan from Dave Rightfield, who looked exceptionally slender that day, a look at the genealogy of Abraham from Cal Hanson, and then today’s lesson from Tim.
    Pastor Dan can’t get home soon enough.
    Layla elbows me. “Paige?”
    I blink at her in the chair next to me. “Sorry. Guess I zoned out.”
    â€œDude, we all did.” Layla lowers her voice. “If Pastor Dan isn’t back next week, I swear I’m going to strangle someone. And these guys wonder why they are all still single.”
    Peter walks over carrying a donut that someone brought. “I got you one with sprinkles, Layla.” He sits on the other side of her.
    â€œThanks, baby.” She takes the donut and looks back at me. “So, are we going to look at invitations for Mom and Dad today?”
    â€œI thought we still needed to nail down a venue.”
    Layla waves a hand. “We’re camping out at the park. I want to have it at the gazebo. Peter even said he’d sleep there so we don’t have to.” She sends a brilliant smile toward him. “Right, sweetie?”
    â€œHmm? Oh. Sure.”
    Somehow, I know that isn’t going to stick come the night before the party. I might as well start looking into how much a warm sleeping bag will cost. And maybe take a few lessons in a self-defense class.
    â€œOkay,” I say slowly. “So, invitations.”
    â€œRight. You’ve got the best handwriting I’ve ever seen, so I want you to address them, if you don’t mind. And I am even thinking handwritten invitations will be really pretty. What do you think?”
    I think it sounds painful. And I still like the e-vite option the best. But I don’t say that. Layla is doing a very sweet thing for her parents. I rub my right hand, wincing. “How many people are you inviting?”
    â€œOh, just a small, intimate crowd,” Layla says, offhand. “Only Mom and Dad’s best friends. And then we’ll have dinner and dancing and celebrate until dark. Mom and Dad are really into dancing. They won the county dance-off back when they were dating.” She sighs sweetly.
    Layla is a romantic. Romantics don’t often think with all of their brains.
    â€œWhat time do you want to have the party again?” I ask, because a few nights ago on our fruitless search for a venue that ended with us having coffee at Starbucks and me listening to Layla’s ideal party setup, it seemed that she wants the party to be at dusk.
    If that is the case, the celebration will only last about twenty minutes. And knowing Layla, that’s not going to be the case.
    â€œOh, around seven or so.” Layla waves her donut casually.
    I pull my phone out. Last year, the wireless service salesman talked me into getting a smartphone, though goodness knows I don’t use it to nearly its full capacity. I still like the feeling of a real Bic pen and a real piece of paper. I click over to Google and find the sunset time for February.
    â€œSo, your whole party is only going to be an hour?”
    Layla shrugs. “I figure the toasting will be around forty minutes to an hour. I’m having an open mic. And some of Mom and Dad’s friends are a little long-winded, but I figure they will like hearing nice things