The Girl I Was Before (17 page)

P
aige

I
f there is
one thing I’ve always liked about Cass’s boyfriend, it’s his willingness to help me get drunk when I need to. There’s a very loose ID policy at Sally’s, and when Ty orders up rounds, the questions never seem to come. He’s twenty-two—and he’s in a wheelchair. If he wants a pitcher for the table, nobody’s arguing with him. Wrong as it is, it’s still a fact. And I’m cashing in on it tonight.

I need to be drunk to have this conversation with Cass.

“So let me understand this better—Chandra basically kicked you out of the house?” Cass is shouting, and I can’t help but look around the crowded bar, sure someone heard her. I hate that I’ve become so paranoid.

“Yes,” I say, taking a big gulp from my mug, emptying it, and filling it more. Not drunk enough. Nowhere near drunk enough. “No,” I continue, waving down a cute guy walking by. He has four shots in his hand; I take one from him, then stand to kiss him on the cheek. It works, and he lets me drink another. “Yes, no, sort of,” I say, waving the guy away so I can get back to my sister.

“Sorry,” Cass shrugs at him over my shoulder. I turn around and the guy is still standing there—I stand up and kiss him one more time, a little sexier, but still on the cheek. Who knows, I may need him for more shots later tonight. It seems to make him happy, because he walks backward toward the bar and keeps his eyes on me. Like there’s a shot in hell of that going anywhere.

“Yeah, I’m way confused,” Cass says, shaking her head. She’s feeling her buzz; I’m jealous. “I thought you and Chandra were like…” she holds up her fingers, crossing them, and makes a clicking sound. “You know…tight.”

“We were never
tight,
Cass. Not really,” I say.

“Fuck that. You were tight enough to tell her my personal shit,” she bites. She’s been trying really hard to forgive me, but sometimes—it just comes out. I wish she wouldn’t
try
all the time. If I’m pissed at someone, I let it all come out. And then when I’m done, that’s when I go back to being nice to them. Wishy-washy isn’t me. I’m hot or I’m cold. Lukewarm is stupid.

I grimace at my sister, and take another drink.

“Anyway…” I say, knowing if Cass knew
everything
she’d drop the wronged act and start kissing my ass. “I saw some…things, and despite what you think, I’m not really happy about how she treats you, and I stood up to her. In my own sort of way,” I say. Part of me wants to just pull out my phone, show her the pictures of Chandra passed out, the drugs, tell her about the blackmail—I take another drink instead.

“Okay, okay…” she slurs. I could always hold my shit better than her. “But
why
are you living with that guy? I mean, you could have just come back to our room.”

I don’t answer, instead, swishing my last gulp of beer around my mouth without making eye contact. At the time, going back to live with Cass felt impossible. But now that I’m where I am—living with Houston—I think the impossible with Cass may have been smarter. Harder, perhaps, but definitely smarter.

“I have to pee,” I say, leaving my sister without an answer.

Sally’s happy hour during the middle of the week is…interesting. The college crowd is usually a mix of freshmen that look nothing like their fake IDs, and grad students more than ready to help freshmen girls get drunk. Add onto that the really creepy old guys who are waiting to give a girl a ride home, and it’s a bad mix. I may be drunk, but I’ll never be
that
drunk.

The line for the women’s bathroom is wrapping down the hallway and out the back door. By the time I get to the end, I’m actually near the trash bins where a guy is peeing in the alley. I cover my nose with my long sleeve and retrace my path back inside. The men’s room door is closed. No line. There’s never a fucking line here.

I look around, then duck inside. There’s only one stall, but I’ve been in worse bathrooms, especially at the beach. I’m careful not to touch anything, washing my hands and grabbing a fistful of towels to turn off the faucet and open and close the door as I leave the restroom.

“I saw that,” he says, scaring me so badly I swing at him, punching him in the gut.

“Fuck, who does that?” I say, holding my other hand on my heart. It’s beating wildly. My head is spinning, and it takes me a second to regain my bearings. Part of it’s the shots, but most of it is the adrenaline from having the shit scared out of me. Houston is bent in half, coughing.

“Punches the guy they’re living with? I know…who does that?” he grunts, still a little out of breath.

“I hit you hard,” I say, now noticing the tightness in my knuckles. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually punched someone. I flex my fingers in and out, and they tingle.

He brings his gaze up, his hand flat against the wall next to me, and for a second his eyes pause on mine.

“Yeah…you did,” he says.

A few more seconds pass of him looking at me—me looking at him, and things begin to feel weird. Good. I can’t feel good being this close to him. And his breath is tickling my face. And it smells…good.
He
smells good. I need to get back to my table. I’m about to dodge beneath his arm, when his lip curves up on one side.

His hand is still next to me, his fingers rapping once along the wall. I clear my throat and adjust my posture. Houston’s head falls forward and he pushes back, stepping in the opposite direction, clearing room for my escape.

Thank god!

I make it most of the way back to the table I’m sharing with my sister, when I notice Houston is only a step or two behind me. Spinning fast, I lose my balance, and he catches me by my elbows, his grip on my arms steady—fast. His hands are strong, and I get caught up looking at them, at his arms. Shaking my head, I shirk his grip.

“I’m fine!” I yell, causing a few people sitting at tables near us to turn and look at me. I stretch my arms out in a
WTF
stance, and they all turn around, back to their own conversations. “You!” I point at him. I’m expecting him to be shocked, to start in with his defensive mode, but instead he smirks again—that same cocked-lip smile that had me feeling dizzy in the hallway by the bathroom. “You were not invited. I
disinvited
you!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I don’t work that way. You know, taking orders from you?” Houston says, folding his arms, the black shirt he’s wearing stretching tight along his chest. And then I see his arms, and I get lost again. Until he dips his head lower, catching my gaze, and snapping me out of this stupid puppy-crush I seem to suddenly have on his hot arms.

Shit. He has hot arms.

I’m drunk; that’s all. I’m just a little buzzed, and I’m feeling it.

“Dude, you made it. We have a pitcher, come on over,” Ty says, pushing past us toward the table we’ve taken over in the corner of Sally’s. He begins to pour a beer for Houston, but stops short of full when Houston holds his hand up.

“Thanks, man. But I’m sticking with water tonight. I’ve got…some things,” he says, and I laugh under my breath. He has things, like a kid. His head twists fast to look at me, and his eyebrow cocks.

“Sure, whatever man,” Ty says, taking the glass he poured and sliding it over to his brother Nate, who’s just stepping up to our table.

“Awe, for me?” Nate says, winking at his brother and taking a drink from the mug.

“Yeah, well I spit in that one,” Ty says. Nate swishes his sip around in his mouth and swallows.

“I figured. Thought it tasted weird,” Nate says, shrugging and taking another drink. Even though Ty is in a wheelchair and four years older, he and his brother look so much alike.

“Hey, this is Houston. Houston, this is my brother, Nate,” Ty says, and Houston reaches his hand across the table, shaking Nate’s.

“Nice to meet you,” Nate says, looking toward his brother and slapping him on the chest. “Oh, and hey, I meant to tell you—scouts are coming Friday. As in Astros, Marlins, Cardinals, and Nats.”

“Scouts?” Houston asks, waving a waitress over and requesting a water. She looks at him with a smile. I take one step closer, leaning my arms on the table next to his, so our arms are touching.
That’s right, bitch—those arms you’re smiling about are touching mine.
What the hell is wrong with me?

“Nate plays ball for McConnell,” Ty says.

“I’m the catcher,” Nate shrugs.

“Uh, he bats in the four slot, and he came in with a four-twenty average,” Ty says. I have no idea what any of that means, but it seems to impress Houston.

“Nice! So…scouts. Congrats, man,” Houston says. A silence falls over the table for a few minutes while everyone looks around the bar. Cass has pulled Rowe out to the dance floor, leaving me here—with this.

“So, how do you know Ty?” Nate asks. I catch the smirk on Ty’s face, and I shoot him a warning glance not to fuck with me.

“He’s Paige’s new roommate,” Ty says, a tiny hint of that smug arrogance he wears all the fucking time in his tone. He’s loving teasing me. I’ve been hard on Ty; when he started dating my sister, I didn’t trust him—and I told him as much. I trust him a smidge more now, and I was starting to like him. But if he’s going to be a dick about me moving out of Delta, I’ll move him right back into the “asshole” box.

“Roommate?” Nate asks, glancing at me sideways, then looking back at Houston, who isn’t helping the cause at all. He’s standing there, arms folded, looking all…hot. Have his arms always been that big?

“Yeah, whatever. Deltas were bitches, and I needed out, and he needed a roommate. It’s temporary. So drop it,” I say, pulling Nate’s half-gone beer into my own hands and downing the rest. I smack the mug down on the table and huff, then turn to face Houston’s chest.

“If you’re going to be here, at least dance with me,” I say, tugging on the taut fabric of his shirt, ushering him out to the dance floor. The song playing isn’t really a slow song, but it’s too slow to dance apart, so Houston holds out a hand like he wants to
dance-
dance. I stare at it like he’s holding a dead cricket.

“You’re the one who dragged me out here,” he sighs. I look up at him, his smile soft, and his eyes tired. “You know what? Forget it. I’m going back to the table…”

“No,” I interrupt, catching his hand before he has a chance to put it in his pocket. I run my fingers up the back of his hands, up his arms—
oh my god those arms—
until both of my hands meet around his neck. I feel Houston’s hands nervously search for my hips, and when he lets them rest at the small of my back, I let out the air I’ve been holding since I ran into him in the hallway. After a few awkward turns of dancing like eighth-graders, I grow more comfortable, finally resting my head against his chest, and when his chin lays on top, completely cradling me to his body, I close my eyes.

Everything right now feels so nice. It feels
more
than nice, and I admit that to myself. It’s so different from the chaos and the constant chase of guys for the wrong reasons. This feels simple—the longer the song lasts, the more perfect everything feels.

For two full songs, we dance in silence—the only movement the small twitches and repositioning of our hands, until I feel him slide one up my back, following the line of my spine under my hair until his fingers are at my neck. My lips part as my eyes open.

“Temporary,” Houston says, and even though he said a word, all I hear is the way the sound reverberates around his chest, like a deep echo that somehow scratches my every itch. He’s not whispering, yet he’s talking only to me.

“I’m sorry…what’s temporary?” I respond finally, not bothering to pull my ear from his body, not wanting to let my face feel any second of air parting from its very comfortable home along his chest. I am definitely drunk. But even sober, I’m pretty sure I would have a hard time leaving this place. Right. Here.

“When Ty introduced me to his brother and said you and I were…roommates,” he says, and I register more words this time. Still not all of them, but enough. “You said it was…temporary.”

“Mmmm, yeah…I did,” I breathe, my eyes no longer able to open, my voice coming out in an amusing hum. I like the way I sound right now. But Houston sounds sad. Why is he sad?

“Is it because…of the video, and the fight we had?” he asks. Video? Oh, yeah…there’s a video. And he wasn’t happy about it. He didn’t believe me when I told him it wasn’t me in the video, at least I don’t think he did. My feet aren’t moving anymore. I don’t think we’re swaying, but the floor feels like it’s moving.

“Paige? Do you want to move out?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly, reaching my arms around his body and squeezing myself to him tighter. I don’t want to move at all. I just want to sleep, standing up, against his chest.

“Then why say
temporary
?” he asks. His hand moves slowly upward until his fingers find my head and begin stroking my hair.

“Because I like you, Houston,” I exhale, letting the smile sit comfortably on my lips, nestling in for more of his warmth. “I like you. I don’t wanna like you. But I do.”

His hand moves faster all of a sudden, and his arms swoop under my legs, and then all I remember is blackness.

H
ouston

H
er room is dark
. I’ve been waiting for a light to come on, for a sign of something to shine through the small inch of space underneath her door. I’ve been up all morning. I’ve been up all night.

She never got sick, but I have a feeling Paige is going to have a wicked hangover today. I’m also pretty sure she’s not going to remember a word she said. And that’s probably a good thing.

I won’t mention it either. Doesn’t mean I didn’t like hearing it, that I don’t like
knowing
it—how she feels. I like it a lot. But last night was like being in a time out—like summer camp, where stupid things you do
don’t
count. I went to camp when I was twelve and kissed a girl three years older than me. It was camp. Free pass for her to do something she never would anywhere else in a million years. I benefited. That’s what Paige got last night. She got lit, and her mouth said some things I know she would never let slip out otherwise. She likes me, and she doesn’t want to. That last part…it’s the reason I’ll keep my mouth shut, pretend it didn’t happen. That and whenever I think about the idea of being something more I also think of the never-ending list of reasons why it’s a bad idea, why it would end badly.

I think of Leah.

But I like knowing it all the same.

Mom took Leah to work with her already, and she grilled me a little at breakfast.

“That girl seems to have a lot of drama,” she said this morning. All I could do was shrug because yeah, she does. I didn’t want to add on to my mom’s conclusion—or defend Paige. Whatever move I made would have brought my mom down a new path of questioning, one I wasn’t ready for. So I kept my mouth shut. But the entire time, I kept thinking about how Paige said she likes me and wishes she didn’t. It stings and feels awesome at the same time.

Life is such a tease.

I have about ten minutes before I need to leave for class when Paige’s door opens, her body backlit by the small lamp in her room. Her hair is matted to the side of her face, and her makeup is in all of the wrong places.

“Ugh. Why are you here?” she asks, holding a hand up to block my line of sight, like I’m a cameraman.

“I live here,” I chuckle, getting to my feet from the spot I’ve been sitting in the hallway outside my door. “How you feeling?”

I know how she’s feeling—like shit. It’s confirmed when she bunches her lips and sends me a sour expression like she wants to be sick.

“Don’t let me mix beer and shots ever again,” she says, rubbing her fingers into her temples.
Again.
As in, I’ll be there the next time she does that. It catches my attention, and I dwell on it while she’s saying something else.

“I said…” she’s shouting now, so I turn my attention back to her. “Would you drive me to class today? I don’t think I can walk without it killing me. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

I laugh again, because I’ve seen her routine a few times now, and I think the fastest she’s ever gotten out of the house is forty minutes. “I’m pretty sure you’re being dramatic—it won’t
kill
you. But…I leave in ten, so if you’re ready then, sure,” I say, stepping into my room. I hear the shower on the other side of my wall. Pausing, I stand next to it, thinking how we’re only a foot apart right now.

I like you. I don’t wanna like you. But I do.

I smirk and step out from my room, dropping my bag at the edge of the steps. Standing outside the bathroom door, I let my head fall forward onto it, and I listen to the water; I hear the shower curtain slide and listen for the change in the pattern of the spray when I know it’s hitting her body.

I like you. I don’t wanna like you. But I do.

I have been repeating her words in my own head since I heard them. I’ve been saying them like a mantra because of that part of me that doesn’t want her to like me either. Because if she likes me, then maybe how I feel is okay too, and maybe acting on it is okay, and then shit gets real.
What does that even mean? Shit gets real?
Shit gets hard—that’s what it means. Real hard. I have to make time for someone else; I have to have conversations with Leah; I have to take a leap of faith and risk that my world will fall apart again. That’s what that means.

“I like you too, Paige,” I whisper. “And fuck if I don’t want to. But I do.”

I take a few seconds to jog in place, stretching my neck from side to side like I’m about to step into a fight. Maybe I am. But fuck it, shit got real a long time ago. What do I have to lose now?

“I’m not looking, I swear,” I say, keeping my eyes at the floor as I barge into the bathroom. I cannot believe I’m doing this.

“Out!” she yells from behind the shower curtain. “Not even funny. Not even clever. Out, you fuck stick, out!”

Her anger makes me laugh, and
fuck stick? Really?

“I have to brush my teeth. We’re pushing it close on time. I’ll be fast, and I’ll keep my face forward. I swear,” I say.

I’ve already brushed my teeth, but she doesn’t know that. I turn on the water and load up my brush. I hear the curtain slide behind me, and I know she’s looking at me. I don’t have to turn around or look into the reflection to know what her face looks like—her brow is furrowed and her lips are tight, and she’s making sure I’m keeping my promise. Don’t worry Paige; I won’t look. But I know you want me to.

I’m spitting into the sink and reaching for the towel by feeling, careful not to glance up, when I hear the water switch off and the curtain slide open. There’s no towel near her or the tub; I know it because I see them hanging on the rack several steps away. She’s cheating.

I notice her shape move into my periphery to my right, and I glance briefly to catch her hand reach for the towel. When I see her back is to me, I go ahead and look long enough to take a mental picture. Her hair is soaking wet and dripping a line down her perfectly sun-kissed skin, a trail of water I let my eyes follow down her shoulder blades, to the small of her back, to an ass that is so perfect I wish I were the kind of asshole who would reach out and smack it at a time like this. I just hold my breath and memorize it instead. I turn back to the sink, lay my towel down, and move to leave.

“You looked,” she says, and I pause with my hand on the doorknob, the curves of her body now ingrained in my memory. I smile.

“Yeah, I did,” I say, before stepping into the hallway and shutting the door behind me.

P
aige is
true to her word, and she’s dressed and ready to leave within five minutes, her wet hair twisted and tucked into a McConnell hat. She meets me at the bottom of the stairs, and I expect her to be blushing. The fact that she isn’t is somehow sexier. I’m playing with fire, but I think I’ll be okay getting a little burned.

“Hey, so…I have to confess something,” I say as we step through the door. I pull out my keys to lock up, and when I turn, she’s already marched to the car, not waiting for me, or caring what I have to confess it seems. I can’t help but laugh quietly.

I open the back door to drop my bag in the back seat, but before shutting it, I unzip the laptop pouch and slide her computer out, bringing it into the front seat with me.

“I borrowed your laptop last night,” I say, holding it out for her to take. She stares at it, her face questioning why I have it in the first place. It’s heavy, so after a few seconds I rest it on her lap, my fingers grazing the tops of her thighs as I pull my hand away. She looks at me fast, almost offended, but I avert my eyes. “Relax, it’s just a laptop.”

I stare forward long enough to feel her scowl at me from the side; I turn to face out my window, not wanting her to see my smirk.

We drive in silence for a block or two, and she finally slides her laptop into her own bag, slowly pulling the zipper. Letting myself glance in her direction, I see the worry lines on her forehead as she keeps her gaze on her bag, which she’s now hugging in her lap. She knows I took it to watch the video.

“You said it wasn’t you…the other night,” I speak carefully, not saying the word
video
or even admitting out loud that I watched it. She already knows, but keeping the conversation less direct might make her more willing to talk about it. Especially after I shut her out the first time she tried.

“You…watched it?” she asks. “The whole thing…”

I nod.

We pull into my lot. I don’t like to spend money on parking fees since I live close, so we’re still a bit of a haul away from the main part of campus. Sometimes when I’m running late, though, even getting this much closer saves me precious seconds in my carefully-timed life.

“I saw it the first time, on Casey’s phone,” I say, glancing at her. She’s frozen in her seat, her normal fire gone.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes lost out the front window at the row of cars parked in front of us.

“You’re right,” I say, expecting her to smile. Expecting…something. Instead, she inhales slowly before turning to face me. “It isn’t you—at least, not in the bad parts. That’s not…you.”

I didn’t make a copy; not one I saved. But I did run her video through editing software so I could look at sections frame by frame. Whoever did this was sloppy.

She lets her head fall against the headrest, her eyes focused just beyond me at first, then moving to mine. She shrugs. “I know. But what good does that do me?”

I sigh heavily, but I don’t have an answer for her.

“Is this why you left Delta? Why you had to move out?” I ask.

“It’s…part of it,” she says. Everything about her looks defeated. I’m sure the alcohol is partly to blame for dragging her down this morning. But this sadness…it’s more than that.

“Cass doesn’t know?” I ask, and her eyes flit back up to mine for a second. She shakes her head
no.

“I won’t tell her,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says, a smile there for me, if only for a second.

“Maybe no one else will see it,” I say, trying to give her hope.

“You saw it,” she says, the tears welling in her eyes. She takes a sharp breath, and in a second, they’re dry. I know she’s hurt, but I also know it’s more important to her to act this way—to be strong.

We both step out of the car, bags slung over our shoulders. I watch her transformation, the way she shuffles her posture, tucks the few drying strands of hair under her hat, and touches up the lipstick in the corners of her mouth. Nobody would ever guess how broken she is inside. When she turns to face me, she smiles as if nothing’s wrong. It’s the same expression she wore the first time we met, when she slid an order ticket over the counter to me at the store.

“Don’t look at me like I’m pathetic,” she says, her lips forming a tight line, the slightest curl masking her hurt. She’s a politician. “I’m not, and I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”

I nod once, and she turns to walk away. After a few steps, she twists and takes a few steps backward. “Oh, and Ty sent me a text. He wants you to come play poker with him and a few of the guys tonight—early, at like six. You should go. Ty…he’s a good guy. You’d like him. I’ll hang out with Leah.”

She’s still looking at me, slowly walking away, waiting for my approval. This is a test; I can tell. She wants to know if I trust her to stay home with Leah. Will I put my heart in her hands?

“Sounds good,” I say, careful to keep the pounding of nerves in my stomach away from my expression. “Text me his info.”

She smiles again, and this time, it’s different. It’s not painted on, or pretend. It’s real. And I put it there. Because I trust her. Because I believe her. And she might not think there’s anything she can do about the video, but I’m not giving up quite so easily.

I
finished
my coding for class in record time, and I got to work an hour early. It was an inventory day, and because I started early, Chuck was fine with me leaving a little early too. I wanted to be home before my mom, in time to prep Leah. I didn’t want my mom stepping in, taking over. I wanted Paige to have this chance to prove she could do this.

I want her to succeed.

My mom gave me the face she’s famous for, laced with warnings to be careful and be guarded in trusting Leah in the care of just anyone. Dating is one thing, but getting Leah attached to someone is something else entirely. I get it. But she still left and went to her bunko game-night. I think it helped that she’s only down the road. I think knowing that helped Paige a little, too.

Paige looked nervous. Leah looked excited. The second I told my daughter that Paige would be babysitting her tonight, she proceeded to pull out every single game in her closet—digging into the depths to find the ones she hasn’t played with in months. She’s showing off. That’s part of showing off when you’re a kid—you don’t have much of your own, but you’ve got toys. And Leah pulled them all out and put them on display.

I could sense the nerves in Paige’s voice when I told her I wouldn’t be late. And I saw the relief when I held up my phone and told her to call if she needed anything. But she hasn’t called. Not once.

We’ve gone through two hours of Texas Hold ‘em, and I’ve lost forty bucks to Nate, the king of poker faces. I’m down to my final chips, and as much fun as I’ve had being a regular guy for once, I’m sort of itching to get home.

“One more hand, and I think I’m out, guys. Sorry, this is late for me,” I say, realizing mid-sentence how strange that probably sounds. They don’t know about Leah, and I feel like maybe I should talk to Paige before I let them in on it. Ty met her, but as far as he knows, she’s my baby sister.

“Dude, it’s like, what…nine? Nine-thirty?” Ty says, shuffling, then dealing out another round of cards. There are five of us here; Nate brought two of the guys from his team.

“Yeah, but I work crazy hours, so my clock’s sort of messed up,” I say, glancing at my hand and trying to hide two poker faces now. I have a pair of jacks. I also have more than just a messed-up work schedule. This table doesn’t need to know either.

“I feel ya. I guess that’s why you can live with Paige. I bet you hardly see her,” Ty says, looking up at me as he takes a long sip from his beer. He’s studying me, waiting for my tell.