The Girl I Was Before (6 page)

I feel his shove come from behind, and I falter a few steps in her direction, catching my balance with my arms stretched out on both walls. She sighs heavily, handing her drink to her friend.

“Carson, knock it off! What are you doing?” she says, looking around me. Her hands are on her hips while she confronts her unleashed boyfriend.

“I’m telling sandwich boy here to keep his hands off of what’s mine!” he yells. Out of everything he says,
sandwich boy
is actually what pisses me off the most. I spin around quickly, catching him by complete surprise, and punch him squarely in the nose. The blood comes fast. I shake my hand at my side, and flex my fingers. That felt both good and really fucking terrible at the same time.

“She is not your property, asshole! And you’re way out of line. I’ve barely talked to her tonight…in fact,
ever
! So if you could just get the hell out of my way, I’d like to go take a piss now,” I say, pointing to the men’s room door behind him. There’s blood on my shirt, and that ticks me off, too. I have, like, four really nice shirts, and this is one of them. I hate this guy!

“Then why am I getting texts all night from people telling me you and her have a thing going? This one had these pictures, of you and her meeting up at the library.” He’s holding the phone out, like I can actually make out a postage-stamp sized photo from six feet away…after taking a few punches.

“Let me see your phone,” Paige says, brushing past me. Carson pulls it away at first, but she grabs his wrist and jerks the phone from him. He doesn’t fight her, but he looks at her with such contempt, I almost want to punch him again for no reason. Or maybe she is my reason. Why am I so involved in this?

“Who sent you this?” she asks, and Carson bunches his brow, pulling his eyes in and shaking his head.

“I don’t know, but I’ve gotten six or seven of them, just in the last half hour,” he says, grabbing the phone back from her to slide to another photo. He hands it back and she taps on his screen, her lips moving as she says the number. She takes over, tapping on his phone more, and holding her hand up when he reaches in to stop her. Putting the phone on her ear, she cups the other side so she can hear clearly. After a few seconds, her eyes close. She shuts the phone, and hands it back to him, shoving it at his chest, then turns to walk away. Her eyes catch me as she passes. For a split second, I think she’s telepathically apologizing for all of this.

“Hey!” Carson yells. I don’t turn to him, instead keeping my eyes on her. She downs the rest of her drink and hands her glass back to the girl standing next to her, then adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder, never acknowledging the shouts coming from the guy who thinks he owns her.

“I said
hey
!
”
he shouts again, and I can tell by the tone in his voice that he’s embarrassed that she’s ignoring him. Paige is incredibly calm, smoothing out the back of her dress, pulling it lower on her legs, careful to make sure she’s still covered. She may be hot, but she’s also a lady. I think that’s what I notice most. She whispers something to the girl standing by her, then takes a few steps toward the bar, toward the exit. “Hey, you stupid bitch!”

That one gets her. It gets me too, and I flex my raw fingers, testing the burn of my knuckles, readying my arm to let this guy feel something that will stick with him well into tomorrow. I don’t take my eyes away from Paige though. She stops on her heels and turns slowly, brushing her long, blond curls from her shoulders and raising one brow at him in question as she meets his eyes.

“Who the hell was that? Who did you call? And where the hell do you think you’re going?” His intoxication is picking up steam, his words linking together to form new words. Paige leaves her eyes on him for several long seconds, and the hallway around us grows quiet, waiting for whatever she could possibly say to this insensitive asswipe. I’m pretty sure we’re all rooting for her to make him look like a fool.

“That—” she lowers her eyes to his phone, still clutched in his hands, “is my problem, and has
nothing
to do with you. And as for where I’m going, I’m going home.”

“You can’t just…what…leave? Fuck that, you owe me some answers. Who the fuck is this guy? And what the hell’s going on between you two?” Carson asks, still trying to show his control, as if he ever had it.

Paige starts laughing before he even finishes speaking, and by the time he’s done, she’s laughing out loud, her shoulders rising and falling, her arms once again crossed in front of her body—everything about her is calm.

“This guy?” She points at me with her thumb, barely unfolding her arms. “He’s the one who told me I could do better,” she says, and my eyebrows raise a little, feeling the spotlight of, well, everyone. “And ya know what? He’s right.”

She turns around fast. She’s moving through the hallway quickly, people stepping out of her way, drunk faces stunned and impressed. She doesn’t even pause when she passes the high-back chair she was sitting at, snagging the jacket from the chair back, and pulling it around her body while she takes these long, powerful steps. I’m so damned impressed, my feet don’t work, and even though I want to run after her to give her a high five, maybe throw her up on my shoulder and parade her around the room, rubbing more salt in Carson’s wound, I don’t—because I’m stunned.

When I finally wake up from my trance, I don’t move after her because Carson has now knocked my ass to the floor. I’m able to get with it quickly enough to anticipate his foot coming at me. I grab and twist it, sending him into the wall, a small chunk of drywall chipping away with the impact his shoulder has against it.

He doesn’t bother with words, instead using his last pieces of sobriety to claw and swing at me wildly, grabbing at the collar of my shirt and doing his best to land a punch. But I’m filled with adrenaline now—and while he’s been drinking pints, I’ve had nothing but caffeine. I get to my feet quickly, and after four swings, I have him stumbling on his knees.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t order any more sandwiches from me,” I say, pushing him back so he’s flat on the floor. I step over him, into the men’s room, and when I come out, a few of his friends have him balanced on a stool near the corner of the bar.

My face looks like shit, and my mom is going to freak out, but I have one more hour to help Casey, and I’m not leaving here without that grand. I’ve earned it.

“What the hell, man? You look—” I hold up my hand to stop Casey midsentence.

“I don’t want to talk about it, dude. Weird fuckin’ shit went down, and I’m not quite sure what the hell it was all about. Let’s just finish this up, and I promise I’ll catch you up tomorrow.”

He stares at me, doing that slow-blink thing he’s always done when he’s baffled by me, then he pulls his headphones back up and turns his eyes back to my computer screen. A few windows have popped up, so I reach over him and click them closed, ignoring the update warnings.

And just because he could, my best friend makes a mix out of Kanye’s “Stronger” and “Eye of the Tiger”—a serenade for Sandwich Guy, the superhero.

P
aige

I
may have underestimated
my enemies. I didn’t expect Ashley to jump ship and join my cause necessarily. But I also didn’t expect her to sell me out so fast.

But that’s foolish. I would have done the same thing—probably still would, if I found something that worked in my favor. Ashley wants to be in with Chandra, to rise to the top at Delta. Sinking me—that’s the new shortcut.

Being here, in this house—it’s miserable. I came home from the party and the house was quiet. Most of the girls were in the tutoring lab or in their rooms studying, or at least that’s what I told myself. The quiet is there again this morning, and I can’t seem to tell myself the same lies. I’m being ignored.

Chandra knows she would have to beat me to the ground to get her hands on my phone. I don’t care what I signed; she doesn’t have a right to see some things. So she’s squeezing me out in other ways. What I can’t figure is who followed me to the library—who saw me talking to Houston?

“Whatever,” I say to no one. That’s me, two thousand miles from home and living with no one.

I pick up my phone and take a deep breath…time to perform.

“Paige?” My dad answers fast. “Is something wrong? Is your sister okay?”

It’s always my sister. Cass has always been daddy’s girl.

“She’s fine,” I say, packing my bag for the day, readying myself to study for my two easy tests—biology and ancient history. I turned in my English paper already, so nothing left to do but study—for the next twenty-four hours. I flop on the bed knowing I don’t have enough to fill my time to keep me out of here until my plane leaves next week.

“Good, I was worried. The case, the assault charges…it looks like everything’s going to be closed. This should all go away,” my father says, and I barely hear him. He has no idea how far from
going away
things are for me. In one spontaneous decision to avenge my sister, I swapped places with her, and just as her nightmares are fading, mine are beginning.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. I should have called my mom. But my dad’s the one who handles plane reservations. My parents don’t really know that I moved out to live in the sorority house. They know I joined, but they didn’t want me to leave Cass—that’s why I’m here, after all: to
watch her.
Funny how I wish I hadn’t moved out now, though. I’d give anything to be back in that dorm room with her and her other roommate, Rowe.

“Can I come home early?” I blurt out, hoping to catch him off guard. Of the two of us—my sister and me—I’m
the emotional one.
I used to cry to get my way, but I’ve found the tears come easier since this divide with my sister has grown. I let the threat of a cry show in my voice—I use it. I’m not fully pretending, because if I let myself, I could cry right now. But I use this awful feeling to my advantage, because I deserve to get something from feeling this way.

“Uh…sure, I…I guess. Are you done early? Can your sister come, too?” he asks.

No, she can’t. That’s the point—I need to get out of here, to get away, to come home and be on my own. This has to be about
me,
for
me—
just this one time!

“She has tests on Monday. But I’ll be done tomorrow. My semester was just really hard, and with everything that’s happened, with Cass and the assault…it’s taken a toll,” I say, my voice losing ground the longer I talk. I’m not lying—not completely, anyhow. My classes are easy, but this semester has been painful. And I know…Cass bore the brunt. She was assaulted, and it was awful. What happened—
awful!
And I’m angry about it. I want to hurt people for her. I’m also tired, and now I feel like I don’t belong…anywhere.

My dad was there for the argument between Cass and me at Thanksgiving; he’s not naïve to what’s going on. He just doesn’t want to be in the middle of it, and that’s precisely what I’m counting on.

“All right, Paige. I understand, sweetheart. Let me see what I can do. I’ll text you when my secretary finds out about switching your flight, okay?” That’s what I needed. I’m breathing. I’m hoping, and I’m thankful.

“Thanks, Daddy,” I say, ending our call.

I look at my belongings all piled up on my desk. My bag is heavy, still stuffed with the things I care about. I’m not leaving anything alone in this room. A door creaks down the hallway, and I hear feet scuffling along the wood floors. There’s a short pause near my door, and I watch as Ashley scurries by quickly, a teacup in her hand, the bag’s string dangling over the edge. She practically races to the stairs to get into the kitchen—
away from me.

“Weakling,” I whisper to myself. Maybe I’m calling myself that. I pick up my bag and close my door, walking through the deserted hallway, down the stairs and into the common room. Two girls are studying on the sofa, and one looks up at me, but quickly averts her gaze.

That’s right; I’m invisible. Mustn’t let the boss see you
seeing
me. This whole thing is stupid. I let the door slam to a close behind me when I leave.

My original intent was to go to the library again, but honestly, if I study the books in my bag for one more minute, I think I may tilt the scales to crazy. I have things memorized, and I already know my tests are going to be multiple-choice. At this point, I’m shooting for the fastest time in the testing room.

I walk past the library and through the rows of brick buildings, letting my finger run along the slick windows of the architecture college. It’s my favorite building; it’s everyone’s favorite. Made from what was once the main hall on campus, the structure has gone through several renovations over the years until now it is a cool collaboration of the old styles and the new. I love the lines and the colors, but more than that—I love the design wing on the inside.

I’ve only looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but next year, I get to sit in those classrooms—to make those rooms look as I think they should. McConnell puts students in design apprenticeships as sophomores, and it is the
one
perk I have left in coming here.

My mind goes numb for the rest of my walk, and somehow I find myself at the market just off campus. Even this parking lot is empty now that half of the town’s population has gone elsewhere for the holidays. That’s what stops me. Amidst the emptiness, Houston is jogging, hopping over the white lines where cars are supposed to sit, his green apron dangling around his neck, the knot loose behind his back. It’s nine in the morning, and he’s practically skipping. I swear he’s even whistling. The sight of it makes me laugh. I don’t know how he’s functioning, let alone looking so carefree. He was out later than I was—I know, because I left sometime after watching him get his ass kicked by Carson, who I’m pretty sure isn’t my boyfriend anymore.

He grabs for the last cart in the lot and begins pushing them toward the door in one long line, his eyes down at the wheels. I take this opportunity to move to the door with my back to him. I don’t need him to know I was watching…that I was…
noticing
him.

“That door’s locked,” he yells. I turn quickly, and his eyes are still fixed at the wheels of the carts.

“Why?” I ask. That’s a stupid response.

He smirks, and his lip makes that small quirk it does when he looks at me from the other side of the counter—the dimple in his cheek the only sign he’s laughing at me. He’s still far enough away that I could just turn to leave, and he wouldn’t be able to catch up to me—unless he ran. He wouldn’t run after me, would he?

I busy myself with these thoughts for a few seconds and lose my window. I’m kind of glad about that, though, because Houston might be my only friend.

“It’s just me and Sheila right now. When she’s in there alone, I keep one side locked. I don’t like her being alone, even if it is during the day,” he says, squinting a little from the sun shining on his face. I can tell from the cut on his lip and the bruising under his right eye that Carson took some good swings at him. I know it’s not my fault, but I still sort of feel like it is. And now that he said that chivalrous crap about not wanting to leave Sheila-whoever inside alone, I feel worse.

“Does it hurt?” I nod at him, knowing after last night, I could probably point to anything on his body and find a bruise. He takes a quick breath in, inhaling a short laugh.

“It hurts like hell,” he chuckles, pushing the carts through the door with a small grunt of force.

Houston is not like Carson at all. I haven’t seen Carson, and I probably won’t, but I can almost guarantee he’s not admitting to any pain for the marks Houston left behind. I notice the bruising on his knuckles as his hands wrap around the carts. I also notice the flexing of his forearms, and the way the blue-and-red plaid shirt he’s wearing is rolled up to his elbows, the bottom untucked. Now that I’m looking at the bottom of his shirt, I can’t help but also take in his faded jeans that hug his hips but slouch just enough so I see the top of his boxers when he turns and pulls, his muscles working and his body hard to ignore.

When he stops moving, I look up. He’s smiling at me, his lips pushed together tightly and his eyebrows raised.

“Did you need something?” he asks.

“Oh…no. I was just out walking, was going to study, but didn’t feel like the library. I sort of ended up here,” I say, my mouth jumbling the words because I’m literally thinking of them milliseconds before they come out. I sound pathetic.

Houston keeps his eyes on me for a few seconds, his smile still sweet. His face has stubble on it, probably because he didn’t have much time to shave this morning. He’s wearing a hat. He looks good in hats.

“You want a breakfast burrito? I make a killer burrito. Come on,” he says, urging me over to the deli counter. He jogs around a swinging door to the other side, leaping over a few crates on the floor.
Still skipping.

“Aren’t those super bad for you?” I ask.

“Uh, well…I guess that depends,” he says, pulling out two tortillas and reaching into a warming drawer for a bin of something that I think is eggs.

“Are those…eggs?” I can’t help but twist my face looking at a bin that’s filled with yellow, buttery…ugh, I don’t know.

Houston lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “Eggs are full of protein, and I just made these, maybe ten minutes ago. They’re still fresh. Just do me a favor,” he leaves his sentence there, his eyes coming up to meet mine while his hands work on the counter, scooping peppers and onions and some sort of meat-something into the tortilla.

“What favor?” I ask, and I know that I’m still making the face. Whatever he’s making—it looks awful.

“Don’t overthink my food. Just eat it,” he says, pulling the tortilla tight, wrapping the bottom in wax paper, and handing it to me over the counter. His hand covers mine during the exchange, and I notice. It’s not like fireworks or magic or heat…well, maybe some heat. But…I notice.

“I don’t know,” I say, looking at the most fattening thing I’ve eaten in probably two years.

“It has less calories than that pink drink you were sipping on last night,” he says, and I look up at him, getting a good look at the deep purple around his eye.

“Fine,” I breathe, opening my mouth and taking a small bite of egg, cheese, and tortilla. I reach to hand it back to him immediately, but he pushes my hands back to me. He touches me again. I notice.

“That was the most pathetic bite I’ve ever seen. Take a real bite.
Be a man!”
he says so loudly, Sheila chuckles from far behind him. I can feel my cheeks fire up. I don’t like being embarrassed, but there’s something about the way he’s teasing me right now. It’s…nice.

I look at the concoction in my hand, working the wrapper to get a better grip, and I peer up at him once more. His eyes make the smallest movement to my lips before coming back to meet mine, but I notice. “You can’t watch if I’m going to take a bite out of this,” I say, pausing with my lips right at the tortilla.

“You are strange. Shut up and eat my awesome breakfast burrito,” he says.

“I’m serious,” I say, pointing with my right hand, twirling my finger. “Turn around or something.”

“Oh my god, fine,” he huffs, turning to lean his back against the counter. I allow myself a huge bite the second he does, but he turns quickly, catching me with cheese and onion hanging from my lips.

“Stawp it, tune awound,” I mumble, my mouth way too full. His chest rises with a short laugh, and he shakes his head.

“No. It’s too late. I’ve already seen you with egg on your face,” he laughs harder, handing me a paper towel.

“Haw haw, vewy funny,” I say, chewing behind the napkin. This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten, but I can’t tell him that. I press the napkin to my lips, finishing my bite, before I swallow and hand the burrito back to him.

“Well?” he asks, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Meh,” I say. Liar.

His tongue pushes at the inside of his cheek, and he squints one eye, looking at me hard for a few seconds. This is his bullshit meter.

“All right, it’s good. Whatever,” I say, shrugging. I hate him.

No, I don’t.

He laughs and hands the plate back to me.

“Finish it then. I’m not eating a half-eaten burrito. Especially when there’s lipstick on the tortilla,” he smirks. I blush a little because he’s right; I left a pink mark on the end.

“Thanks,” I say, softer now, and take a seat at a nearby table, dropping my heavy bag into a chair next to me. I glance over to the magazine rack by the door, and the classified listing catches my eye, so I walk over and pick a copy up. I notice a corkboard by the stand, too, with lots of cards posting and looking for roommates; I pause and read a few of them.

Yeah, I’m not sharing a bedroom; at least not something in an apartment with that many people. I look over a few more cards, one looking for a smoker, one looking for someone who likes cats and another that only wants a guy, unless you’re “hot,” according to the ad. I’ll pass.