The Girl I Was Before (12 page)

I open my mouth a few times, before I finally find the right words to respond. “I would never think otherwise. We’ve all made mistakes,” I say, and Houston interrupts.

“Leah wasn’t a mistake,” he says quickly, his voice still kind, but his intention direct and maybe also a bit of a warning.

“Right…right,” I whisper. “I only meant I wouldn’t assume something about Beth.” My heart is starting to beat faster, and my forehead is damp; I’m feeling my nerves, and I think it’s because somehow I’ve gotten to a place where I care what Houston thinks of me.

Mother-fuck!

I swallow hard and close my eyes, regrouping and breathing in deeply through my nose. “How did you find out?” I ask, wanting him to finish his story, needing to know how this sad-beautiful tale ends.

“Leah was sleeping. She had just started taking naps on a schedule, and it was the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. My mom and I stayed at the house while Beth and my dad ran to the store. When they were gone for an hour, we started to get worried. I was just grabbing my keys and stepping through the front door when the officer was walking up our driveway…”

His words trail, and his breath catches. I can’t see him, but I know he’s crying. He’s doing his best not to make a sound, but I can hear those small nuances, the way he swallows, the movement of his hand over his face, the rustling sound in the phone as he moves. “The guy veered over two lanes and hit them head on. Everyone died on impact,” he says all at once, as if he had one breath left to get those words out. I know that’s it—that’s where the story ends for Houston.

The silence that follows is long, and there’s no way to break it. I mouth
I’m sorry
a few times without making sound, imagining it each time, and knowing that me saying sorry isn’t what Houston wants to hear. He doesn’t want to hear anything. He doesn’t need condolences, and he doesn’t ask for them. I asked him a personal question, and he gave me an honest answer—just as he promised.

I hate myself for asking him to tell me. I hate that I had to know. And I regret agreeing to live with him now. Because when I move in, all I’m going to be doing is looking for ghosts, wondering what Houston and his mother see in rooms that are just going to be nothing more than rooms to me.

But I’m also grateful for him—maybe even a little more grateful now that I know. And I also don’t want to let him go. I think maybe…maybe I sort of like him. And I don’t want to like him, because Houston is
definitely
not according to plan.

“Thank you for telling me,” I finally decide on saying. It’s the only thing that seems…
safe.

“Thank you for being interested,” he says, his words just as careful as my own, and followed by more silence.

“Merry Christmas, Houston,” I say, my heartbeat finally back as it belongs.

“Merry Christmas, Paige,” he returns, and for the first time all day, I feel the sentiment of this holiday in my heart. “Call me…if you need anything.”

He hangs up first, and I linger, my eyes entranced on a small stitch of fabric on my blanket. The sun set only an hour ago, but I think maybe I should end my day now, shut my eyes, and protect my ears from hearing anything more. Tomorrow I’ll go back to being the girl in a makeshift porn, with an arrogant, self-centered ex-boyfriend who misses her when he’s drunk and sends her pictures of his body parts. Tonight, I will enjoy knowing that nice guys do exist. I’ll let myself smile because I’m the kind of girl who nice guys trust enough to share their secrets with. And maybe I’ll indulge in the fact that I have a crush—a crush on a guy whom I under
no
circumstances really want to be with—but a crush all the same.

And it feels pretty damn good.

H
ouston

I
’m honest
.
I didn’t lie when I told Paige that. But…I also haven’t told anyone about Beth, about that night, about much really. My life is simple, and the people in it are small in number. There’s Leah, my mom, Casey, Chuck, and Sheila—that’s my immediate family. So the need to
share—
doesn’t come up often. I guess I’m glad I still can, but ever since…I’ve felt a little bit like I’ve somehow pulled that pain closer, dug it up from the grave and dusted it off so I could feel it again.

The only thing that’s made it go away again has been talking to Paige. I called her the next night, as soon as I got home from work and once Leah was bathed and fed. I had no reason to call her, other than…I wanted to. I shouldn’t want to, and my head kept screaming to me what a bad idea it was. Paige and I live on different planets, and she is nothing like the girls I date. When I date. Not that I
ever
date. Which is also the point—I don’t date. There have been the occasional late nights at the bar with Casey…resulting in me being at some girl’s apartment or dorm room, usually by his prodding and with the fuel of alcohol. Then there’s the eventual awful conversation the next morning where I leave early, so I can go back to my
real
life full of responsibilities. I never talk about being a dad, because it doesn’t matter. Sober, I’m no longer interested in whoever’s bed I wound up in. Instead, I just deliver the overplayed
it’s not you, it’s me
speech that has gotten me slapped and thrown out, sometimes both. Usually both.

Always deserved.

But Paige got the story. She got the story first. She got the story without me even having the thought of
something else.
No, that’s not true. I’ve thought about it. I’m a man and she’s gorgeous. But the thoughts have been fantasies, almost jokes I tell myself. Nothing I plan to act on—
ever!
Yet she asked me about Beth, and I told her everything. I
wanted
to tell her everything. It was like I couldn’t help myself.

I was prepared never to call again, just to wait for her to show up for the beginning of the semester, to make our relationship business only. But there I was, dialing. Then she answered, and she started talking the second I called. I started listening, and there was this weird give and take. It was as if this was what we did. That conversation, it was far less heavy. We talked about music, about food, about those stupid things you talk about when you’re flirting with a girl at summer camp and you want to kiss her. Damn, I was thinking about kissing her, too.

I did it again the next day. And the next. And each time, I think more about kissing her. I look forward to talking to her, to making her laugh. I want to hear the sound of her laugh. We’ve fallen into a comfortable routine—making plans every night to talk the next. And she texts me during the day. Sometimes, she asks me questions, about things that I know nothing about—like shoes, or is it better to fly into Oklahoma in the evening.

The last time we talked, it was about her sister, Cass. She’s sick. She has multiple sclerosis, and she’s been having an episode. Paige gets weird when she talks about her sister. She’s worried about her; I can tell. But she won’t go on about her long, and she dismisses things. I guess for a while, Cass was having trouble walking, but Paige said it wasn’t a big deal. I could tell she didn’t mean that, but when I started to question, she grew short with me and ended our call a few seconds after.

We haven’t talked for two days now, and I’ve missed her. But maybe it’s better that she doesn’t call, better that
I
don’t call. I want to get along with her. It’s good for Leah if we’re friendly. But she’s still a tenant—my roommate. I need to keep the line there, and even though it hasn’t moved, I’ve been more aware of it. I shouldn’t be
aware
of anything when it comes to Paige. I should just know when her rent check comes in.

School starts next week, and I know Paige is flying in later today. She at least sent me a text about that. I’ve already got Casey prepped to help me move her things. I have a feeling Paige comes with
a lot
of things. Just like Barbie, she has…accessories.

The store has been busy this week, with the students returning. A lot of people are stocking up on things like beer, bread, and peanut butter—pretty much the college-diet staples. The beer thing stresses Sheila out. Freshmen buy more beer than anyone, but they are also the ones not allowed. Sheila cards everyone, and I know most of those IDs are fake, but she gets overwhelmed, pulling her glasses down her nose and trying to match up the photos to the faces. I took over that duty today, and so far, I’ve been called a
dickhead
and a
pussy
for telling two guys to beat it.

“Hey…sandwich guy,” his voice fills the store before he even makes it to the counter. Paige’s ex-boyfriend is an asshole. She hasn’t talked about him once, so I’m assuming that’s done. It better be. I think I’ll kick her out if it’s not.

“Hey, asshole,” I say. I’m feeling brave, and now that I stand here, a little more prepared, I realize we’re the same height. I’m pretty sure I could take him if he threw a punch at me while I was looking.

He spits—on the floor of the grocery store—and looks back up at me, his six-pack of beer in his hand. I shake my head and grab the mop rag from behind the register and round the counter. Holding his gaze, I drop the rag on the area he just spit and wipe it around with my foot. I don’t pick it up again, instead kicking it into the corner behind the register, next to the trash.

“Dude, this place has bad service,” he says. “I’ve been standing here for almost five minutes now.”

“Oh that’s because you spit on the floor like a fucking douchebag so I plan on ignoring you now,” I say, internally noting he’s only been waiting for thirty seconds, at the most. Lying douchebag.

He shoves his beer forward with his fingers, as if somehow moving it closer is going to inspire me to do something about it. I lean back, pulling out the magazine Sheila has stashed under the register, and I flip through a few pages. It’s one of those chick magazines, about diet and organizing your life. It only takes a few seconds for him to reach over the counter and grab it from my hands, tossing it to the side.

“What’s your fucking problem, bro?” he asks, tossing a twenty down on top of the beer.

I look at it, then to him, then back to the money. Placing my finger on the bill, I slowly slide it toward me, lifting it with two fingers and holding it up between us.

“What’s this for?” I ask. I catch Sheila watching us beyond his shoulder. She’s shaking her head, but she’s not worried. She knows I can take him too. And she’s sick of being pushed around. I’m sick of watching her be pushed around.

“Listen, jack-off! Just ring up the beer, and I’ll get out of here,” he says.

I fold the bill into quarters and hand it back to him, letting it linger in my hand waiting for him to take it.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,
bro,”
I say, and I hear Sheila snicker behind him. When he turns to look at her, she busies herself quickly, pretending to straighten the deli display. Chuck is now peering out of his office. He’s…
less
amused.

Carson—I think that’s his name—pulls the bill from my hand, crinkles it and tosses it against my chest. I let it fall to the ground.

“Keep the change,” he says, picking up the beer and tucking it under his arm. I pick up his money quickly and round the counter, confronting him—chest to chest. I grab the beer before he has time to react, shoving his crumpled money back at him.

“You’re not of age. And I
know
you’re not. I read the football roster, and you’re a sophomore—a
true
sophomore. That makes you…twenty at the most?

“Dude, fuck you! Give me my beer,” he says, reaching for it. I tug it away, toying with him. I can actually see his face growing red. I step back behind the counter and drop his beer in a cart to restock later. I turned my back for a fraction of a second, and in that time, he’s raced around the counter and has the collar of my shirt in his hand. The sensation of him yanking me backward chokes me a little. I see Chuck step out from his office with a bat in his hand. No way am I letting this guy kick my ass again.

I push hard, using my legs to shove him until his back is flat against the rack of firewood and propane—the lock digging into his shoulder blade. He works his arms around to grab more of my shirt, but I’m so full of adrenaline now, it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to get me off him.

“I don’t know what your deal is, but you need to leave this store…right now!” I seethe. “If I
ever
hear you are in here—that you’re trying to get away with your shitty-ass fake ID, or that you’re being a disrespectful asshole—I will find where you live, wake your ass up in the middle of the night, and drag you into the middle of the street to make sure your pleas for help echo for all of those nobodies that give a shit.”

My face is close to his. I sniff once, and lean my head to the side to crack my neck. The more I stare at his smug face, the more I wonder about how he treated Paige. I wonder if he ever hit her…or if he just treated her like shit with his words. Neither is acceptable, but if he touched her—hurt her
physically—
I will kill him now, without any more reason.

“Whatever, dude,” he says finally, pushing out from my arms, his muscles relaxing their hold on me. As he walks away, I keep my muscles flexed; I’ve learned he fights dirty. He’d turn around and clock me when I wasn’t expecting it. I watch him walk all the way out the door, down the sidewalk, and around the building.

“Houston,” Chuck says, his voice carrying a sense of scolding. Chuck doesn’t like problems. Part of owning a business in a college town is dealing with young tempers. I just became one.

“Sorry, Chuck,” I say, looking down at the dirty rag crumpled on the floor and the wheels of the cart with ten bucks of beer inside. “That guy pushes my buttons, and I sort of let it get to me.”
He gets to me, and I’m tired of letting him get to me. I’m tired of not acting like a twenty-one-year-old.

I stare up into Chuck’s eyes, silently apologizing, but showing him how tired I am of everything. He walks over and looks at the rag, bends down, picks it up and drops it in the basket. He leans his head toward the cart. “Go on and put that back, then throw the rag in the washer. Maybe this is a good time for your break, yeah?” he says, patting me twice on the shoulder.

“Yeah…maybe,” I say, pulling my clothing straight, turning my collar and re-tucking my shirt.

I get to the back of the store, my heart still pounding from almost getting punched in the face, when my phone chirps. I pull it from my pocket, my nostrils flaring with my heavy breath as I sit against the stack of cardboard bundled along the wall.

Paige needs my help. I notice those words first, and my heart kicks into action. I’m standing and reading again when I get the rest of the message—what she needs is
stupid.
She needs me, and I jumped. That’s…that’s probably not good.

I text her back.

It takes her a while to write, and eventually I get back to work, now restocking shelves and cleaning the aisles. Seems Chuck thinks I should stay away from people for the rest of the day. I’m just finishing the last aisle when Paige finally messages me.

I start to write back, but I have too many questions. I give up on the last aisle and pull my apron and badge off, rolling them as I walk into Chuck’s office. I stuff them in my cubby and pull out my keys and hat. As I turn to leave, I catch Chuck’s attention on me, his feet on his desk and the bat still in his hands. He’s trying to be intimidating. He’s in his sixties, but the man has several tattoos from his years in the Navy. I’ve only heard the stories behind a few of them, but the one’s I’ve heard have all ended with a guy with a broken arm, nose, or face at the end.

Deciding it’s better to just own up to my outburst, I wipe my hand dry along my pants and walk over to where he’s sitting and reach out my hand. He pats the bat in his hand a few times before finally resting it on his desk and leaning forward to grab my hand. We shake once.

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again,” I say, looking down as I slide my hat on. Old man or not, I still don’t want to make eye contact and deal with facing his disappointment. That shit sucks.

“Sounds good,” he says, returning to his resting position, picking the bat up again.

Once I’m in my car, I dial Paige, and she answers quickly.

“You didn’t have to call,” she says. I smile at her greeting, and then I laugh over the fact that
this
is what I’ve missed for two days.

“And hello to you. Yes, I had a fine day, thank you for asking,” I tease.

“Oh, don’t be an asshole. I’m at the airport, about to get on a plane. What do you want?” she asks.

“Uh, you need
me…
remember?” I say. She’s being a little meaner than usual.

“Oh,” she says, and I can tell she also means
sorry.
“Hang on,” she says. I hear someone speaking over the loudspeaker at the airport, and the voice grows quieter until I can barely hear it. “Okay, I’m in the ladies room.”

“Sexy,” I say, knowing it will piss her off.

“Gross! This is not sexy, Houston. We pee here; that’s all,” she says.

“Well, maybe that’s all
you’ve
done,” I tease. I should probably get to the point, but I haven’t talked to her for a few days, and the last time she was pissed at me. Joking with her is kind of fun.

“Right, like
you’ve
had sex in an airport,” she says, her voice so sure. She has that
I-know-I’m-right
tone. I’m going to shock her.

“
I’ve
had sex lots of places…Paige,” I say, and there is no mistaking my innuendo. There’s a long quiet between us. That…saying that…to her…it felt strange to do. That was me—completely obliterating the line I thought was so important this morning. Mentally, I draw it right back in place, and check myself to make sure I don’t let
that
voice slip out again. It also felt kind of good, which is an even bigger reason to draw that line again—this time in permanent marker.