by Ginger Scott
Perhaps too relaxed, as I let myself ask Houston one of the millions of deeply personal questions that have been pecking away inside my head since I met his daughter.
“What happened…to Leah’s mom?” The calm in our silence from before gets icier as my question lingers, Houston’s breath heavy enough to be heard through the phone. “I’m sorry. Too…that’s probably too personal.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s something I talk about. We don’t really keep secrets or hide things in my family,” he says. Maybe I’m jaded, but my mind immediately throws up a dozen flares ready to call him on that bullshit statement. It’s not possible for a family to be that honest. Everyone has secrets.
“That’s novel,” I say, not really masking my cynicism.
“I guess,” he says, with a sharp laugh. “But…it’s sort of sad that you think that. I don’t blame you. Most people do. I guess I mean it’s sad that most people think being honest is strange. I just feel like even the ugliest truth feels a whole lot better than carrying around the weight of lies.”
His argument resonates with me, and even though my instincts are still to reject it, I tuck what he said in the background, on top of that pile in my head of reasons-I-should-respect-Houston.
“In that case, I’d like to hear your story…Leah’s story,” I say, giving in to my natural tendency to charge forward and question, to test his open-and-honest policy.
“Bethany moved here her sophomore year,” he begins, and I don’t know why, but hearing her name hurts inside, as if her name instantly makes her more real to me, even though I never met her. “Her parents got divorced, and she wanted to stay with her mom, and since she had family here—”
“Aunt Jody,” I fill in the blank.
“Ha, yes. Aunt Jody, and about a dozen other people,” he chuckles. There’s a longer pause as he breathes again, almost as if he’s gathering breath to save himself from suffocating through the rest of his memories. “Bethany was pretty much the hottest girl ever to step foot in our school. She had this long dark hair, and a body…”
“Uhm okay, you can skip the locker-room talk. I’m a girl, so not really interested in hearing about her body,” I say, not wanting to get the details on Bethany’s ass and tits.
“Haha, right…well, I noticed her…pretty fast, almost the minute she finished registering for school. I saw her through the office windows, and waited in the hallway until she exited with her school map and a schedule in her hand,” he says.
“And let me guess, you guided her to her class…and asked her to the prom, and the rest is history,” I say, not really sure why I’m rushing him, or why I’m jealous. I’m jealous; mother fuck.
“Uh, no. I walked up to her, and before I could get a single word out, she held up her hand and said ‘Not interested,’” he says. Now I regret dismissing Bethany so quickly; I actually feel kind of proud of her.
“Romantic,” I tease.
“Indeed,” he says. “But I kept trying. I walked up to her every time I saw her, and every single time, she shot me down. When her mom dropped her off in the morning and I saw her outside, I’d ask. When I happened to be behind her in line at lunch, I’d ask. In biology—every single day—I’d ask. She always said no. I was relentless!” He almost seems proud of his portfolio of rejections. It’s so odd.
“Why not give up?” I ask.
“Because Bethany was the one,” he says. I can’t help it, and I laugh harshly. That whole concept of the one—it’s preposterous. And the one, when you’re what? Sixteen? Uhm, no. Just…no.
“I know it sounds crazy. And really…at the time, I wasn’t thinking she was the one. I just knew there was this really hot chick at school that I couldn’t stop thinking about, and the fact that she didn’t want me was killing me,” he says. “And then one day, she said yes.”
“Just out of the blue, just like that?” I respond, suddenly hooked on this melodrama from Houston’s past.
“Just like that,” he says, practically holding his breath before letting out another laugh. “Okay, so maybe she had a flat tire in the school parking lot, and no one was around to help…and maybe I said I would if she agreed to dinner.”
“So you extorted her into dating you,” I say, sitting up again in my bed, and smiling. I’ve been smiling through most of this conversation, and it strikes me that I haven’t smiled much since I’ve been home.
“Wow, that sure makes me sound like a creep,” he says.
“If the shoe fits…” I tease.
“Anyhow…” he shrugs off my remark, but his voice is a little more guarded when he continues, and I feel badly that I took things too far. But he’s still sharing, so I admonish myself in my head and vow to be good for the rest of his story. “I had these big plans. I was going to take her to this big fancy restaurant on the top floor of the Marley building downtown. You know…one of those places that has waiters standing behind you the entire time, waiting for you to need anything. Only the day I went to pick her up, my shitty-ass car blew up.”
“What, like a battery or something?” I ask.
“No, I mean it literally blew up. Something caught fire in the engine, and the thing was smoking in my parents’ driveway,” he says, chuckling at the memory.
“What’d you do?” I ask, now totally invested in how this ends.
“Like any respectable sixteen-year-old, I got on my bike with a backpack filled with lame-ass picnic food and rode to her house,” he says. “She was dressed in this really nice outfit, and here I was in Dockers and a shirt that I sweat up on my way to her house. It was a truly pathetic display.”
“It sounds sweet,” I say, surprising myself when I hear my voice speak. That…that was meant for my thoughts. Houston remains quiet for a few seconds, and I lie back down, rolling my face into my pillow, wishing like hell I had the power to reverse time.
“Thanks,” he says finally, his voice soft. “She…Bethany…she thought it was pretty sweet too. We sat in her front yard, eating crackers and cheese and weird Hostess snacks, and then…she kissed me.”
My smile fades when he says this part, but I force it back on my mouth. I don’t know why; no one can see me. But I shouldn’t be upset hearing about Houston kissing his late…wife? This…it shouldn’t upset me, so that smile—it’s staying on my damn face, even if I have to hold it there with my fingers.
“So, when did Leah happen?” I ask, getting to the part I really want to know.
“About six months later,” he says. “We started dating near the end of sophomore year. Junior year I was on the football team. We were pretty good, and every Friday, we’d have these huge parties. There was a lot of drinking, and other…stuff.”
“So you and Bethany…did some of that other…stuff?” I say it like him, amused that he can’t just say we had unprotected sex and whoops!
“Yeah, pretty much. I mean, we were always really careful, but I was coming off a huge win, and Beth and I were doing shots, and we were at my friend Casey’s house. It was late, and we just got caught up in it,” he says. “About three weeks later, Bethany started throwing up. She tried to keep it from me for the first week, I think because she was afraid to find out for sure. But I could tell something was up. She was really emotional, and she’d get so pissed at me, out of nowhere. She finally got sick in front of me, and she just broke down and started crying. I knew the second she looked at me.”
I’m rapt now. This scenario scared the hell out of me in high school. It’s why I was always in charge, why I was careful about who I gave it up to—why I always have condoms in my purse. The thought of something going wrong and me ending up pregnant with Carson’s baby runs through my mind, albeit briefly, and my stomach sours fast.
“Was there ever talk of…of maybe…not having Leah?” I ask, biting my lip, hoping I asked that delicately enough. The longer Houston takes to respond, the worse I feel for asking. I’m about to take it back, to tell him it’s none of my business, when he breaks in.
“There was,” he says finally. He doesn’t elaborate, and his tone—it’s flat and emotionless and broken, as if the fact that he ever had that thought at all kills him. After long seconds, I hear him let out a heavy sigh, the kind weighed down by a past made up of nothing but life-altering, complicated decisions. That single admission shows that Houston wasn’t kidding when he said he believed in honesty. That right there—that was honest. And I think it might have been a little painful for him to say aloud, too.
“How did you lose Bethany?” I ask, after rehearsing this question several different ways in my own mind. It’s not like me to be sensitive, but I feel maybe Houston deserves it.
“Drunk driver,” he says. This time his words come fast, and there’s an edge, an angry edge. I’ve gotten the sense that Houston’s wife has been gone for a while, but the way he sounds right now…his voice reacting as if it happened yesterday. I think of all the times Carson drove home from parties drunk. And I think of the times I let him drive me home that way too. I’m struck with a sudden sense of fortune.
“Leah was a month old, and Beth and I had just gotten married. Getting married—having a real family—that was something important to her. Her dad pretty much disowned her when he found out she was pregnant—not that he’d been much of a part of her life in the first place,” he says, his anger still obvious. He slowly lets it go as he continues, as his setting shifts to his world, away from Bethany’s. “We were living with my parents. My mom and dad were supportive, and my mom always wanted more kids, so I think in some weird way, she loved having a full house. I don’t even think she minded helping with Leah those first few weeks.”
I let Houston continue without interjecting. He’ll tell me what he’s comfortable with me knowing. I nestle deep into my covers, pressing the phone tightly to my ear so no one else could ever hear his story. Every word he speaks feels intensely private.
“Beth was smart. I know what you’re thinking…smart girls don’t get knocked up. But Beth…she was crazy smart. She was on her way to being our valedictorian, and she had tons of scholarship offers. She had one night with me where we both…we didn’t think, but just acted, in a moment of weakness, and she got pregnant…but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t smart.”
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.
Chapter 7
Houston
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.