The Girl I Was Before (2 page)

P
aige

I
’m only
half listening to Chandra bark orders over the phone.

“We’re going to need more food. The homecoming parties are always crowded. Sigma is coming, and they’ll easily push us over five hundred. And get more shrimp. You didn’t get enough shrimp…”

Somewhere along the way, she hung up. I must have said
goodbye
. I’m sure I said goodbye.

I hate her.

I hate her for what she did to my sister. I hate her for this invisible power she has over me because she’s the president of our sorority. I hate her because her boyfriend is friends with my boyfriend.

I hate her because part of me wants to be like her, and I hate her because the weaker part of me doesn’t.

And I hate the person I am when I’m around her. When I sent that photo, I hadn’t counted on the weekend. My wits were with me enough to do the right thing—for once in my goddamned life—but not with me enough to think about
timing
. The anxiety of everything unraveling is killing me, and every time Chandra calls, I expect it to be about that—about the photo.

The one
I
sent.

“Seventeen!” My number is called. Great…it’s the same guy working the deli counter today. He was the one who took my order for the party last week. Carson was with me. He was drunk…and an asshole. This guy, he knew Carson was drunk—and he judged me for it. Or at least, it felt like he did.

“I’m seventeen,” I say, stepping up to the glass case and handing over my number.

“I don’t really need the number,” he smirks. Maybe he doesn’t remember me. “Adding to your order?”

Shit. He remembers me.

“Yeah. Party just got a little bigger,” I say, smiling. I can’t help but smile at him—he has one of those faces. It’s like a forced reflection, and I want to mimic whatever he does.

“Okay, hang on. I’ll get the file from the back,” he says, patting the counter once and winking.

Houston.

I noticed his nametag the last time, too. I like the name. That’s why I noticed—not because he’s tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair that flops over the top of his visor and green eyes practically glowing under the shadow.

I like the name. That’s it.

“Okay, let’s see…Paige. Right…I’ve got you here,” he says, pulling the pen from behind his ear and clicking it to take more notes. “What are you adding?”

“You better not have ordered yet!” Carson’s voice bellows from behind me. “Did she order yet? Get mine in on this ticket. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“I haven’t gotten lunch yet. This was just the party order, relax,” I say, turning to face him, dreading turning back around to Houston, the guy with the cute name. I turn anyway because I have no choice, and Houston is wearing that same look—the judgmental one.

“Order that crap second. I’ve got practice, so I only have a few minutes. Hey, yeah…get me one of those burrito things,” Carson says, leaning over the counter and pointing down as if Houston wouldn’t know what he was talking about. When he leans back on his heels, he lays his heavy arm over my shoulder and pulls me into him tightly.

“I guess I’ll have one of those too,” I say, my eyes on Houston’s nametag instead of his eyes. I don’t want to see the look in his eyes. I don’t even like burritos.

“We only have one left,” he says. Of course they do.

“Oh,” I suck in my top lip and look into the case of food for an alternative. I’m not hungry anymore. “I’ll just take a sandwich then. Tuna.”

“Right…okay,” he says, reaching to the side for a bag. He pauses, though, before picking out one of the pre-made sandwiches for me. “Or…maybe
this guy
could pick something else and let
you
have the burrito.”

“Fuck that, bro! I ordered first. Give me the burrito. She’s fine with a sandwich,” Carson says, his voice actually echoing. He’s so…loud. His phone rings, so he steps to the side and answers the call. “Yo, what up, man?”

I can still hear his entire conversation even though he’s twenty feet away. Everyone can hear him.

Houston is standing still, his arms propped on top of the counter and his brow bunched while he stares at my boyfriend. Carson is pacing and talking so loudly, he’s starting to interrupt others eating lunch at the small tables in the corner of the market.

I used to like his big personality. His confidence was what turned me on when we first met at the Sigma-Delta mixer. He’s a starter on the McConnell team, a fullback, and year older than I am—I liked that too.

Houston is moving again, wrapping the burrito and dropping it in a plastic bag. He lets the burrito hit the counter with a thud, and he watches Carson pace the entire time. When he sees his burrito is ready, he reaches across my body and grabs the bag, holding his phone to his chest and kissing me with nothing but forceful indifference. “I gotta run. You got this?” he asks…sort of.

I nod, only because he’s already gone before I could answer.

“That guy’s your boyfriend?” Houston asks, finally packing up my sandwich. Normally, I’d respond with something snarky, a confident quip would put him and that damned disapproving look in its place. I can’t seem to find that fire today.

“I still need to place the party orders,” I say, opting to ignore his question completely.

“Right,” he says, his lips pushed into a tight, flat line.

I add two more trays of shrimp and up the number of platters of meat and cheese. Houston notes it all on the order sheet. I wait at the register while he walks to the office and tucks my ticket away again. When he comes back, he slides a bottle of tea toward me—the same sweet tea I drank the last time I came.

He remembered. It makes me smile.

Propping my purse on the counter, I pull out my wallet and unsnap the clasp so I can pay for my lunch, but Houston stops me. The warmth of his hand is surprising against mine. I don’t jerk or flinch; I only freeze. It takes me a second or two to look up at him—to register he’s stopping me from paying for my lunch. I don’t like that. I don’t like being beholden to someone. Favors—they’re like making a trade sometimes. The last favors I gave away cost me too much.

“It’s on me,” he says, and I refuse quickly, shaking my head
no
. His hand squeezes mine tighter. “I won’t take your money. Not for your lunch…or
his.
It’s on me.”

“I can buy my own lunch, thank you,” I say, resenting being pushed around. I shake his grip from my hand and hold out my card. He takes it and swipes it hard along the register, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.

“Damn, you mean that asshole can tell you to do something, and you just obey, but me—an actual
nice
guy—I can’t buy you lunch without getting your foot up my ass?”

“I’d like my receipt,” I say, ignoring him again. He rips it off and crumples it in his hand and throws it along with my card on the counter. “Thank you,” I say, stuffing it in my purse and clutching my sandwich bag in my other hand.

I can feel the force of his eyes on me as I turn to leave; my heart is kicking the insides of my chest in anticipation of his voice. The closer I get to the door, the stronger the sensation. I almost make it outside when I feel his hand on my shoulder. I spin around, ready to lay into him—my fire flickering.

“You can do better,” he says before I can open my lips to speak. His gaze is direct, and it halts me, if only for this moment. “That’s all I want to say. I just thought you should know. You. Can do. Better.”

His face is serious. There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s flirting. But it doesn’t feel like a pick-up line. Houston—his being here today, his words—
this
feels more like a rescue.

I smile, perhaps a little indignantly, and turn and step through the exit. When I round the building, I tuck my purse higher on my arm, and I clutch my sandwich and tea to my chest, running my hand along the cool spot on my skin where Houston touched me seconds ago.

Save your heroics for someone else. I have a plan. I’m sticking to it. And I don’t need rescuing.

No, I don’t need rescuing.

I
used
to think that I lucked out having a room of my own at the Delta House. So many of the other girls shared, but I had a room all to my self—a big corner one with two windows and a desk with a huge credenza nestled into the corner. But lately, I feel like I’m alone because nobody here really
wants
to room with me.

I never thought about it before; I was distracted by this fantasy I dreamt about for so long. I’ve always been dazzled by things. This desk—it dazzled me. I’ve been staring at it, at the various pictures I have stuck to the cork board in the back, and those propped up on the shelves at the top. Most of the photos are of Chandra and me, sometimes together with our boyfriends.

Chandra—she hypnotized me too.

The house is empty. It’s a weekend, and everyone has something to do. Chandra is at the stadium, watching her boyfriend practice. I guess she’s watching mine practice too. We have one football game left—it’s homecoming, and we’re going to lose. I don’t really see the point in practicing, but I’m also glad that’s where Carson is.

I feel like I’m waiting for a rocket to launch through my window, for an earthquake to happen. I really shouldn’t assume things will unravel that way. Maybe there’s a chance the photo won’t get picked up. I sent it to the student media, and to a few of the social sites that post about the campus
who’s who.
Maybe they aren’t interested?
Of course they’re interested
.

The longer I toss around in my brain what I’ve done, the more I start to regret sending the photo in the first place. Then, I feel guilty for regretting it. This cycle—it’s stupid.

I grab my backpack, stuffing it with every single book I own. I’m a design major, and my finals aren’t really something I need to worry about. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around this empty house waiting for the sun to fall. Hell, I might just study right on through Saturday night. I’m sure the party will be at our house again, and drinking seems to turn my subconscious into a superhero—out to save the world and correct all the bad shit Paige Owens does when she’s sober. It’s pretty sad when the good version of yourself is the drunk one.

“Ugh, finals,” I huff, rolling my eyes as I pass two of the upper-class Deltas sitting in the common area downstairs. They nod and smile, but don’t say anything while I open and close the door behind me. Why didn’t they say anything? Do they already know? Have they seen the picture? Are they talking about what to do with me—the traitor? They’ve never really talked to me before, so why would they now?

I need to get to the library before I die from paranoia.

H
ouston

S
ix shifts wasn’t enough
. It wasn’t even close to enough. Chuck was good to me when he could be; I knew it—I hated to be that guy who begged. I hate begging. It feels like I do it a lot, though.

I keep checking my watch while I pace outside his office in the front of the grocery store. The glass is reflective; it’s security glass and Chuck’s seeing me pace.

I’m about to sit down on the small wooden bench by the ice and chopped wood bundles when Chuck steps out of his office. He pulls his ill-fitting jeans up over his round belly and tucks the pencil behind his ear with his other hand. The small tuft of hair he has left on his head almost makes it look like a quill.

“Best I can do is add on some produce and cart time. That should bump you up ten more hours though. That do?” It will help, and I don’t want to make him feel bad; I nod and smile, shaking his hand and folding my apron up to tuck under my arm.

“Thanks, Chuck. I’ll be here bright and early to open.” I pull my keys from my pocket. An old, bent stick of gum falls to the ground, so I pick it up and toss it in the trash.

“Houston, here—” Sheila calls after me, pivoting around the butcher counter. It’s a family-run grocery store, and she and Chuck have kept me employed for three years, through every up and down. “You have enough time to stop by the house?”

“I do,” I smile, taking the large bundle of steak she’s wrapped for me. “Thanks, Sheila.”

I don’t really have time, but I learned you don’t turn down Sheila’s kindness—especially when it comes in the form of ten-ounce porterhouses. Thankfully, Mom’s home when I pull into the driveway. I don’t even bother turning the car off. She must have just sent the neighbor home from watching Leah.

“Mmmmm, smells good. Whatcha cooking?” I ask, kissing Leah on the head while she slurps alphabet noodles from her bowl. My mom is standing over a large pot my nose recognizes to be her chili. Leaning over, I kiss my mom on the cheek and flash the handful of steak in front of her.

“That from Sheila?”

“Who else?” I say, tossing it into the freezer and grabbing a spoon from the drawer next to my mom. I dip into her pot, and she smacks my hand playfully. When she rolls her eyes, I go in farther, pulling out a spoonful of steaming, red awesomeness. “Oh man. I love it when you make this.”

“Well good, because I’m making enough to freeze for the week,” she says, going back to stirring and adding dashes of whatever bottles she has before her on the counter. My mom cooks everything by instinct; it’s what makes her food so damned good.

“Well, I’m gonna need a lot of frozen meals this week. I’ve got thirty hours at the store, and finals,” I say. I can feel her lecture boiling under the surface as she sets the spoon down on the counter, rolling her hands into the dishtowel and leaning on her hip, turning to look at me. “I know. I know. But this semester’s almost done. I promise; no more than two classes at a time from now on.”

“You do too much,” she says, her lips pursed and her eyes worried. Funny, I feel like I don’t do enough.

“I need to pay my way,” I say, tearing off a corner of the bread and dipping it in the pot for one last bite.

“I’ve got money, Houston. I pay the bills. And I can pay your tuition, too—” I interrupt her before I have a chance to agree with her.