by Ginger Scott
Before I let him in that little bit more.
Before he believed me.
Before my heart latched on to the feeling it gets when he comes home, when I see him, when he calls.
Oh my god, somehow I’ve turned into one of those girls, the kinds who have crushes! I’ve been hot for guys. I’ve chased guys, flirted, won them over, made them mine. I’m like a conqueror when it comes to making boys obey. But Houston is like…he’s like an invasion! I like him more than I’m ready to admit. Maybe I just admitted to it. Damn it—that thought is in there now. I admit it. If I had a girlfriend left to talk to, she probably wouldn’t be able to shut me up about Houston. There’s one benefit to being shunned—no witnesses for my descent into happily-ever-afters and fairytales.
My lab class is biology, and the lecture room is very clinical. Clinical—yes, I need the white board, the sterile metal chairs. Nothing in that room looks like hearts and flowers. If only the lecture promised to be interesting enough to distract me. I’ve only been to a few this semester, but so far, the lessons feel like everything I already learned in high school. It makes me wonder what my parents are paying for, and why I can’t just move into studying what I want to be doing. I take the long route to class whenever I can, just so I can pass the architecture and design building. I love watching the students in the design lab work with colors and textiles. As I pass by today, they’re working with mood boards on giant monitors, which makes the building look even more like a real interior-design shop—just like the ones on the same street as my mom’s bead store in Burbank. I’ve already been promised internships there for the summer.
I wouldn’t mind spending the summer here either.
That thought comes out of nowhere. Staying here—in Oklahoma? That’s never even been a consideration for me. Like…ever. This thought. It’s Houston’s fault. I will forever keep it to myself. I’ll probably just go home, stick to the plan, so no harm. No need to ever let that thought pop into my head again.
Butterflies.
Fairytales.
Motherfuck!
As I step into the lecture room, my pocket vibrates with my phone, and I pull it out quickly to take the call—glad to have something extract me from that weird fantasy of staying here, of a more permanent here. Of…here…with Houston.
Leah, Leah, Leah. I repeat her name in my head before answering my phone. That’s the only word that grounds me. Leah’s all about reality—big time reality.
“Me and Rowe want pizza. Lunch. Ditch the class,” Cass says the second I answer. I look up at the clock, and it’s not quite yet ten. My lab goes until one—it was either this class or a night one, and I hate the idea of school ruining my evening. Of course, when I made my schedule, I had planned on being at parties on Friday nights or out with the girls.
Plans change.
Somehow, my first year at college was revolving around school and studies, and less on social things.
“It’s still breakfast time. My palate is not ready for that,” I say moving to an aisle seat near the middle. I’ve learned the routine—about a half an hour of lecture then we move to the lab for the day’s project. The stupid sterile, metal chairs snag my clothes when I walk through the rows. Aisle seats are the only way to go.
“You and your uppity, snooty-ass palate. Palates don’t have anything to do with pizza. Boo, I’m super hungry, and I can’t wait until one. I went six miles this morning,” Cass whines, accentuating each word just to irritate me.
“That voice? That’s never going to work on me, just FYI. Look, wait until twelve thirty or so, and I can meet you. I’ll be done by then with whatever lame thing we’re doing in here today,” I say.
“Fine,” Cass huffs. “But you’re eating pizza then. None of that salad and rabbit food crap you pull.”
“Whatever,” I say, clicking my phone to silent and slipping it in the side of my bag. I turn to face the seat and my legs come square with another set, and when I look up I realize they belong to a pair of khaki pants and a plain button-down, tucked in to perfection—the bearded chin trimmed neatly as if to mimic the perfect lines of the horn-rimmed glasses that sit above. It’s the professor.
“Glad to know that my lame plans for the day aren’t going to interfere with whatever that was,” he says, circling his finger in the air, pointing to the pocket I stuffed my phone in. I’m not a big fan of being made an example of—clearly.
“No, they shouldn’t,” I say, lips tight as I take my seat and pull out my notebook and pen.
“Shouldn’t what?” he asks. Heads are turning now. He picked the wrong example to make.
“Your tired, decade-old lesson plans for class shouldn’t interfere with my lunch plans,” I respond. He remains in his place for a few seconds, brow lowered—then chuckles to himself and raps his knuckles on my desktop as he continues his path to the front of the class. A few girls sitting a row in front of me are still turned my direction. I don’t look up again, only raising my finger and twirling it so they know the show is over and they can face the front again.
The professor begins speaking and writing notes, most of which I recognize—from high school a year ago—about the various parts of the spine. The few times we make eye contact, there’s a silent acknowledgement of our brief interaction. Yes, young lady, I know this lesson is lame. But you’ll pass this class easily, and still others will fail.
My phone chirps again, the vibration triggering against my leg. I pull the phone up from the bag to my lap, glancing at the screen to see a text from Houston.
Nate invited us to his tournament this weekend. Cass wants you to go. I was supposed to tell you that a few days ago, but I got…distracted.
Biting my lip to hide the smile Houston puts on my face, I glance back up to the front of the class, the professor now engrossed in his own voice, the entire row in front of me staring at him with expressions of blankness—which match the notes they’ve written on their many empty computer screens. He’s right; a lot of these people are still going to fail.
I write back to Houston.
Ok. We’ll go.
I hit SEND and get a response from him almost immediately.
What are we doing here, Paige? What is this thing between us?
I liked his first question better. Yes, I’ll go to a baseball tournament with you. That’s an easy answer. The second question, unless he is expecting me to respond with we’re texting, that’s what we’re doing, which I very much doubt, is the kind riddled with expectations and pitfalls. That question is full-blown butterflies and fairytales. And I just kicked that shit out of my head. Okay, so maybe it was five minutes ago, but I kicked that shit out all the same.
Leah, Leah, Leah.
My finger is hovering over the response area when another message from him sneaks in.
Shit. That was not one of those SEND texts. That was supposed to be pretend.
Too late, Houston. It’s out there now.
Guess I can’t really take that back though, huh?
I write back quickly, because at least this part I can answer.
No.
Thank god he doesn’t text again. I check about a kajillion more times anyhow, because fucking butterflies and fairytales! But my answer is always the only thing left to see.
No.
That’s the only word I see. No, no, no, no, no! I close my eyes, morphing it into Leah, Leah, Leah, Leah, Leah.
The class begins to shuffle notes and students are getting to their feet, which means it’s time to switch rooms and move to the lab. For added measure, I pair myself with the girl who usually sits up front and asks lots of questions. She’s one of those thorough students, and even though I don’t need her help for my grade, I do need her to stretch out this dissection assignment. I also need to see my sister—and her friend Rowe—for lunch, to talk about boy problems, which makes me want to throw up. Not because I don’t like talking about guys, and plotting and gossip. I just don’t like talking about feelings. I’m actua
lly a little grateful Rowe will be there. She won’t pry like Cass. She’ll let me pretend things are hypothetical. I wonder if I can find a way to get my sister to leave? Probably not.
I stretch my lab project to the very end, and by one, Cass is texting me, demanding my drink order for the pizza place at the other end of campus. She’s also sent a picture of the greasiest pizza I’ve ever seen. I type that I’m on my way and have no intention of eating that insult for food.
Good, because it’s already halfway gone. Oh, and Houston’s here ;-)
As unappetizing as the pizza was to me, it’s the second part of her text that has my stomach in knots. It’s going to be pretty hard to talk about him when he’s actually there. Not to mention, he’s only there because of his stupid text fuck up.
With every step closer I take to the restaurant, the less I want to be there. I can see my sister’s smile through the window; she’s laughing at something Houston said. He’s funny; of course she’s laughing. And Rowe is gazing between the two of them. Bonding is happening inside—they’re bonding. Houston is being charming, and my sister is going to like him, and she’s going to want there to be a me and him.
There is a me and him. But I also think maybe it only works if we keep it a secret. Otherwise, it becomes a me and him and a whole lot of other people.
“So lots of cold showers, huh?” Cass says through laughter as I step up to the booth. What the fuck? Cold showers?
“You wouldn’t believe how many,” Houston says, startling when I drop myself into the booth next to him. His leg slides toward mine a second later. I kick it.
“Who’s taking cold showers?” I ask, lips pursed, my face ready to accuse Houston of sharing too much.
“Houston is,” Cass says, pulling off a piece of crust and eating it like a carrot. My face feels hot, and Houston suddenly looks guilty.
“And he’ll be taking more,” I say, my lips pursed. I glance up to the counter to wave the waitress over, and when I glance back, Houston’s eyes are wider.
“You’re planning on taking even longer showers to drain the hot water tank?” he says, the words coming out slowly, his eyes signaling mine that I got that wrong—so fucking wrong.
“I am,” I say curtly, turning to the waitress and keeping up my persona. Frankly, it’s not unlike me to be a bitch just because I heard someone complaining about me. “Diet Coke, with a slice of lime, please.”
“She’s high maintenance,” Cass says, her mouth still full with her crust bite. “But I think you’ll find she grows on you.”
I smile into my lap and glance to the side at Cass, who winks. It’s been a while since she’s said something nice about me. It feels good.
“What do you study, Houston?” Rowe asks from the corner seat. Rowe always sits in a corner, her back to the wall. There was a shooting at her high school a couple years ago, and some of her friends didn’t survive. She’s only talked to me about it once. It strikes me how much she and Houston have in common.
“I’m in the Computer Science program. I’m a geek,” he shrugs.
“Oh, well that’s good,” Cass laughs, winking at me again. It doesn’t feel good this time. “My sister only falls for meathead athletes. You should be safe.”
I can’t stop the instant sour face I make at her statement, but I catch it quickly, before she notices. Not before Rowe, though.
“There’s nothing wrong with meatheads,” Rowe says through nervous laughter. She doesn’t like confrontation, and I think she might be changing the subject for me.
“Oh, no…I didn’t mean Nate,” Cass continues, putting her hand on Houston’s arm as she shifts her body to face him more. My eyes lock on that small touch, and I know the sour face is back. When I look at Rowe, she’s looking at me still. Double shit. “You see, Paige had a thing for Nate when school first started, but he was into Rowe. It was a little awkward, because we were all living together then. But turns out Nate wasn’t really her type anyway, wouldn’t you say Paige?”
I nod in agreement, reluctantly, my stomach sick. I’m too worried about where this conversation is going to be insulted by it.
“And what’s her type?” Houston asks. I kick him again under the table, and I don’t care that both Cass and Rowe see it.
“Well…” Cass smirks.
“Be nice,” I point at her, relieved when the waitress drops my drink off at the table. At least I can busy myself with the straw.
“Paige needs someone who has a spotlight,” Cass starts. I feel Houston shift, and I keep my eyes at my drink. I should argue with her, be offended or defend myself. But the old me, the girl I was before, wouldn’t. She’d agree. “Paige has always been a leader. Ever since grade school. I think maybe it started when the principal let her cut the ribbon to unveil the new playground equipment. Do you remember that?”
I nod, the face I show on the outside a little proud, my inside face nothing but worried about where this is going—and what Houston will think of me the more he learns.
Leah, Leah, Leah.
“Paige got to be the first one to go down the slide, and after that, it became known as her slide. She didn’t name it, the other kids did. They wanted her in charge,” Cass says. I know she’s sharing this because she’s trying to show how proud she is of me. But I also sound like a diva. “It’s always been like that—the kids at school looking to Paige to see what to do next. And if she decided a guy was the it guy, he became the it guy. And then he was hers. And every girl always wanted him. Even when she was done. Because Paige Owen’s exes were still better than any other guy in school.”
“So we’re talking like quarterback, homecoming king stuff, huh?” Houston chuckles. He’s amused by these stories about me. I fear he won’t be for long.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Cass says, chewing with her mouth open. All I feel is embarrassed. “She’s never dated a computer geek, unless of course he was on his way to being a tycoon.”
Maybe it’s her laugh that follows that makes me react. It’s not any different from her normal laugh, but for some reason—at this moment—it strikes me like a cackle. It’s harsh, and I feel small.
“So as you can see, I’m super shallow,” I butt in before Cass says anything more. I speak through a tight smile, my heart sad to hear how my sister sees me. This is how everyone sees me. And they all think I’m fine with it.
“Paige, that’s not what I meant…” Cass says quickly. The laughing has stopped.
I step out from the booth with my purse in my hand and my backpack looped over my shoulder. “I know,” I say, smile still tight. Always. Tight. Everything always perfect. “Stories about me just sort of come out that way, though.”
The table falls silent. I just made things uncomfortable. I’m not sure what she was expecting. That I’d laugh along with her? Or maybe that I’d tease back. That’s all this was—teasing. I guess I’ve outgrown being in the mood for it. Or maybe it’s the fact that Houston was here for it. Maybe…maybe I’m worried about the butterflies and fairytales.
“I’ve got a lot of homework, so I’m going to head back,” I say over my shoulder. “Cass, you can buy my drink.”
I pick up my pace as soon as I exit the building, disappointed in myself—in the person I am, the person I was, and the person who just let that all play out inside the restaurant. My phone chirps, so I pull it from my pocket. It’s Cass.
That all came out wrong. I’m so sorry.
I don’t respond. I know she was just telling stories, trying to be funny, but fuck if it didn’t hurt.
I’m rounding the corner, ready to walk down the fraternity row when I stop in my tracks. The sidewalks are busy, and for a second, I swear I see Carson walking with Chandra. When I focus, though, I realize it isn’t them.
“Hey,” I hear Houston’s familiar voice, his hand brushing against mine. I push my hand into the pocket of my jacket so he can’t touch it again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to just bail like that,” I say, still unable to
meet his eyes.
“I get it,” he says, his eyes going to my hand, the one I put away. I don’t want to be touched right now. And why would he want to? “I, uh…I’m an only child. So sorry if I’m a little off-base here, but was that what they call sibling rivalry?”
A breathy laugh escapes me.
“Something like that,” I say, my gaze quickly falling to my feet. I can’t seem to shake feeling small.
“You know,” he says, kicking one of his feet into mine. My hand twitches, wanting to be touched, too. It’s betraying me. “Just because computer geeks weren’t your thing before…doesn’t mean they aren’t now. I have a way of converting people, just sayin’.”
I laugh again, this time a little harder, and finally I let myself look at him. His eyes are so kind. He’s so kind. And he sees me so differently.
“Yes, you are the Mr. November of the Computer-Geek Calendar,” I joke. Houston quirks an eyebrow and strikes a ridiculous GQ pose. Any girl on this campus would turn their head when he walked by. In fact, they do—they do all the time. I hate them when they do. As much as he’s nice-guy, computer geek on the inside, his outside is pretty damned opposite. He’s a paradox. Before I can react, he puts a hand on each of my hips, squaring me to him. My heart halts, and I start to look around to see who’s noticing.
“What do you care?” he asks, bending lower, bringing his line of vision to mine. I keep trying to look around him—worried our secret is going to be uncovered, when he brings his hand to my chin, pulling my face to look at his. “What do you care who sees us? Who cares if I’m not some beefcake quarterback or if you…”
He stops before he says it and I step away.