by Ginger Scott
I wince when her innuendo hits my ear. As many questions as my mom has, she also likes the idea of a girl catching my interest. Which must mean there’s something about Paige that’s okay with my mom.
“Thanks,” I say, leaving before we get into any more detail. I plan on looking good. But I’m not going because I’m full of hope—I’m going because Paige is going to be ticked as hell when I show up.
Which…gives me goddamned hope.
Paige
If 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.
Chapter 11
Houston
Her 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?