The Girl I Was Before

by Ginger Scott

  “If I’m the girl in that video?” I finish, my chest burning.

  “That’s…not what I was going to say,” he says, stepping closer. I take one more away.

  “Yes it is,” I argue. I hate that I argue. I always argue.

  His hand reaches for my arm, sliding down to my hand, pulling it loose from my pocket until his fingers find mine. God, they fit together so well. They shouldn’t, but they do.

  “No, Paige. It’s not,” he says, his voice stern. “What I was going to say is what do you care if you have to carry the spotlight all on your own, no guy to do it for you?”

  I freeze at his words, my tongue literally feeling numb.

  “Look, I am never going to be the guy doing a keg stand at some party. I’m not a Sigma Theta Kappa whatever. I’m probably not going to be a CEO, because frankly, I don’t want to work that hard. And I’m never going to throw a touchdown pass, unless it’s to my daughter—who, by the way, I believe has every right to catch one. I’m just a guy with a kid trying to figure out things as they come, trying to hang on to my youth where there’s a little bit left. I’m trying to figure you out, because I have to. I’d like to date you, Paige. And it’s weird, because now we’re roommates. And it’s weird because I have a kid. And it’s probably weirder for you than it is for me, but who cares anyway? I like you, and that’s what this all is to me—it’s me liking you and being perfectly fine with being the guy in the background, beyond your spotlight. That’s what I got out of that story your sister shared. I heard that you’re a leader, that you’re the one people gravitate to—people adore you! How have you forgotten that? I want to see that girl, more of that girl—the girl who rules the playground. This place needs her.”

  I love the way he looks at me. I don’t think I breathed once while he spoke; I didn’t want to make a sound, do anything to make him stop. As much as the attention hurts, it also soothes. He’s so right. Where did that girl go? And since when did she need some guy with a title to define her?

  Squeezing his fingers tightly, I reach up on my toes and brush my lips against his, my hand resting on his face.

  “That was a pretty good speech, huh?” he says, his lip quirked up on one side in a half smile.

  “It was okay,” I joke, shrugging and turning to walk down the main road back to Houston’s house, his hand still linked with mine.

  “You’re just playing tough,” he says, with a sniffle. “That speech was bad-assery.”

  “Oh…my god,” I roll my eyes. His playful arrogance is adorable. But yes, it was…bad-assery. Bad-assery at it’s finest.

  We continue to make jokes all the way home. Making jokes is easier than being serious—it’s something we both have in common. This morning, I had myself convinced that Houston and I were a fling, something that would stay secret until I moved out for the summer, moved on. But we’re not a fling. And the closer we get to his house, the more aware I am of the fact that he’s ready to tell his mom about us, to talk to Leah about us, to be a real us. That feels fast and intimidating, but I still want it.

  I do…want it?

  Leah, Leah, Leah. That word still feels heavy as it drums in my head.

  What I’m sure of is that I want to be that girl in his speech. That’s partly why when he opens the back door and leads me into the kitchen, I don’t fight to loosen his hold of my hand. I let him hold it, and when his mother sees it, I ignore the flash in her eyes and the heat of her stare.

  “Houston?” she asks, her voice not really upset, but more concerned…cautious.

  Leah, Leah, Leah.

  Houston scratches the back of his neck, then lifts our linked hands in the air, looking at them, looking at me beyond them, his nervous smile falling into place. His dimple. His eyes sparkle. Did I ever really stand a chance?

  “I know,” he sighs, letting our hands fall together back to our sides. I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to speak. Please don’t apologize; please don’t say you’re sorry for us.

  “Is this a…new thing?” Joyce asks, gesturing her coffee cup toward our hands. Houston lifts them again, smiling again.

  “This part,” he says, shaking our linked hands between us, “is a new thing, yes. But the idea of this part…it’s been there for a while.”

  His eyes skirt to me as he smiles, sweet and bashful. He looks like a teenaged boy, caught—in trouble. I can’t help but compare my thoughts to what it must have been like when he and Beth came to Joyce and his father—telling them about the baby. I squeeze his hand in acknowledgement and encouragement.

  “Have you talked to Leah?” Joyce asks. I know this is her concern, and she glances at me, giving me the same look she did this morning.

  “No, but I will,” he says, every word, so sure. There’s a small blip in my chest that feels like nerves; I ignore it. The chant of Leah’s name is softer now.

  Joyce looks between the two of us, then slides from her chair and stands, passing by us without any expression at all. With her back to us while she rinses her cup off in the sink, she speaks. “Leah’s upstairs, coloring Paige a picture,” she says.

  I swallow.

  “It’s just…dating. We’re only…dating,” I hear my voice and wonder why it’s making a sound. Houston looks at me curiously, maybe a little hurt and offended. I nod at him, my eyes widening, telling him I’m sorry. I’m nervous. I panicked.

  “Cee Cee’s coming over for dinner, so maybe you two can hold off your…dating…until tomorrow?” Joyce says, her back still to us. I let my eyes fall shut, embarrassed that I’m not as brave as Houston.

  His grip loosens, but he still hooks his pinky around mine. “Probably smart, in case Leah has questions,” he says. He doesn’t look worried at all. In fact, his face is nothing but calmness, like one of those soldiers standing guard outside the palace in London. Inside, I’m still working to keep my fingers on the holes in the dam that is every fear I have over what this all means. I like Houston. I like him a lot. But telling Leah—making this a thing that’s not just a secret is so very big. I haven’t even worked out what to tell Cass in my head. I might be okay with us waiting more than a day. He though…he seems ready to roll.

  When Joyce finally turns, she doesn’t speak, but her expression says volumes. This isn’t how she saw this step going for Houston, but she’s never going to tell him not to take it. I let go of Houston’s hand completely, nodding toward the stairs, toward Leah’s room, partly as an excuse. He smiles, and leads me up the stairs. With every step we take, I realize I let go of his hand because I’m afraid it’s my last chance—to let go.

  “Hey, are you really okay…with waiting? We should probably talk about it before we talk to Leah,” he whispers, his hand brushing into mine, tempting me to grab hold again. Something holds me back.

  “Yeah, we should get on the same page…with what to say,” I smile. He leans in to kiss my neck quickly, and I keep my breathing in check, careful not to show how terrified I am of this step. He moves to his door, and I let the air slowly escape my lungs, quietly, so he can’t hear the breath I’ve been holding.

  I’m that girl—the strong one. People follow me.

  “Dinner won’t last long. It never does with Cee Cee,” he says, pausing at his door. “She’s…” his lips twist on one side, his eyes gazing down at the floor before coming back to mine, a touch of sadness suddenly added to them. “She’s Beth’s half sister, but she’s nothing like Beth at all. She’s not even really family—honestly. She wanted to know Leah, though. And Leah gets a trust from Beth’s dad when she turns twenty-one. That’s the only reason we do this, because Cee Cee likes to visit with Leah. And Leah seems to love her. She comes over once every few months.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling sicker now that Beth’s memory has entered into this equation. I feel selfish for wanting Houston, and I feel guilty for wanting to keep him my secret. “Sure, I understand. If it’s family, I could just…you know…go hang out with Cass or something? She’s already texted me because
she feels bad about today.”

  “No, please stay…I mean, I think my mom would love you to stay,” he pauses, looking downstairs. He bites his lip, holding in a chuckle. “I mean, I know it doesn’t seem like she wants you to stay. But she does. She’s just…we’re…dating. Just dating, apparently,” he says, holding both hands up, playing offended by my little display downstairs.

  “I’m sorry. I freaked out. That’s going to happen. If we could just…call this dating?” I say, my fingers finding my scalp, ruffling my hair, scratching at my head that suddenly feels full, hot, and itchy. This is overwhelming.

  “Sure, Paige,” Houston says, stepping to me again. He puts one hand behind my head, steadying it and cradling me to him. He kisses my forehead, his lips brushing against my skin. “We’re dating.”

  His eyes stay on mine as he backs away. He gets my fear. I so don’t understand his lack of fear. Maybe things are less scary on his side. He already has the kid. I’m eighteen. Those three years between us—sometimes they feel massive.

  I back into my room, and when I close the door, the enormity of the last hour hits me. It seems a decision was made. Maybe I made it. Maybe it was made for me. I’m excited about it. I’m terrified. I both want to cry and laugh at the same time.

  I’ve gone mad.

  I realize suddenly I haven’t spoken to my mom in more than a week. And at some point, I’m probably going to have to share where I’m living with her. Unless I move out. Would dating be more appropriate if I moved out?

  I consider texting Cass. There’s so much to catch her up on. I know Cass won’t tell my parents. My sister keeps secrets. Yet one more thing she’s better at than I am. But I’m the leader.

  I’m the leader.

  I decide instead to keep my worries to myself. For the next hour, I freshen up, changing into a white-lace dress and cowboy boots. I touch up the ends of my hair, spraying curls into place. I opt for the pink lipstick, a subtle shade for me—different from the bold red I usually go with. This color says youth. But it also says strong.

  The longer I look at my reflection, the more I remember how I used to feel in high school and before. That girl is still in there. There’s a knock at the door downstairs, and I listen to Leah sprint down the steps. I hear the formal voice Joyce uses with their guest—and it makes me smile, because now hearing her talk to someone else, I realize how informal she is with me.

  Houston’s door is still closed when I step from mine, so I head downstairs before him, a tiny part of me also a little jealous that Leah is hugging another girl about my age, excited by someone other than me.

  Leah, Leah, Leah.

  And then the visitor stands tall, her jet-black hair clearing her face, the shiny red of her lips like a bullet, aiming for my artery. She aims to shoot me dead. And she did not come here tonight to visit Leah.

  She did not come here for Leah at all.

  Chandra came here to see me.

  Chapter 13

  Houston

  I know we said we’d wait to be more public about…things, but then she put on cowboy boots. And a white lace dress? There’s symbolism in that—something about virginity, and NOT virginity. Her legs make me bite my knuckles. I bite them every time she walks by. She’s walking by…a lot.

  She’s being…weird. Flirty maybe?

  Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just nerves.

  She keeps moving around the living room and kitchen. It’s like she can’t get settled. She’s like a damn feral cat. She doesn’t seem to know where to stand, or where to be. Damn, I think that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have made revealing that there’s an us such a big deal, shouldn’t have let my mom make it a big deal.

  But it is…a big deal.

  Of all days for Cee Cee to show up—I’ve been in a room with her maybe five times in my life. The first time I met her was when Leah was born. She was the only one from the other side of the family—from Beth’s dad’s side—to show up. Martin Campbell’s name means oil around here. He’s a bigger deal in Texas, his name on buildings and rigs off the coast. I remember the first time Beth told me who her father was. She was sitting in the passenger seat of my shitty-ass car, coming home from a football game, and one of her father’s trucks drove by, with the silver and black CAMPBELL logo on the side.

  “Fuck you!” she screamed as it passed. She didn’t talk the rest of the way home, and when she got out of the car, she slammed the door. I waited in her driveway for two hours until she came back out, shutting herself inside the car with me again. She proceeded to tell me the saddest story I’d ever heard—at least until our own story happened. Her dad had a mistress, and another daughter, and then one day, he decided to pick them instead.

  As much as they share a father, they’re nothing alike. Martin Campbell passed all of his traits down to Cee Cee—harsh, abrasive, entitled; the litany of unflattering yet confidence-boosting attributes goes on. Bethany was always completely her mom—generous, cautious, and fragile. I’ve never met Cee Cee’s mom, so I can only guess she sways more on the Martin Campbell way of living.

  Beth’s dad—Cee Cee’s dad—has never met Leah. I offered, a few days after she was born. My dad was my world, and I felt like it was important. I kind of thought maybe, if he just saw this beautiful little girl, he’d get it, that his heart would soften a little. He told me, in not so many words, that he wasn’t interested in meeting “some bastard granddaughter” of his. What irony that his bastard daughter was now standing in my house. A few days later, paperwork showed up at the door for our signature. He wasn’t interested in knowing her, but by god he would buy her. The trust paperwork was pretty straight forward, bestowing her with nearly half a million dollars when she turns twenty-one. Bethany wanted to say no, but I’m not a fool. I know Martin Campbell’s money means a good life for our daughter. That money means more than college—it means she gets to be whoever she wants. I talked Beth into signing. And I can handle seeing Cee Cee once or twice a year to make sure it comes to her.

  That’s my penance. Cee Cee shows up because—as much as she’s Beth’s opposite, I think maybe she also always wanted to have a real sister. And maybe having a relationship with Leah is her way of remembering Beth. Or maybe, she just feels guilty for not knowing her enough.

  “So someone has a birthday coming up,” Cee Cee says, putting on this high-pitched little kid voice. It’s annoying, and a little belittling. An annual visit, I remind myself—I can survive this hour.

  “Her birthday’s not until July,” my mom corrects. She barely tolerates the visits. I don’t think my mom thinks the money is worth it. I don’t think it’s her choice though. And Leah isn’t old enough to be able to choose.

  “I know that,” Cee Cee says, rolling her eyes, but letting them glow bright again when she kneels down in front of Leah. She winks at my daughter, then hands her a small gift bag. “I was just looking for an excuse to spoil you.”

  Leah’s grin is the only reason I wave my mother off. Paige has disappeared into the kitchen, behind the counter. I wasn’t down here when Cee Cee came in, but Paige told me they made their acquaintance with one another. I hope Cee Cee wasn’t rude to her. Maybe that’s why Paige has gotten weird.

  Weirder.

  “An iPod!” Leah screams, clutching the electronic device in her hand and bouncing around in circles. It’s too much, a gift my daughter has no need for. I glance at my mom and her look reflects mine, but we don’t do anything about it. It’s not like we can take it away.

  “And guess what?” Cee Cee asks, urging Leah to repeat.

  “What?” she says, her gift pressed in her hands against her chest, her skirt swaying against her nervously excited legs.

  “It plays videos!” Cee Cee says. More jumping. More swaying.

  “Like movies?” Leah asks.

  “Uh huh!” Cee Cee says.

  “Can I watch one? Daddy, can I watch one now? Can I, please?”

  I look to my mom for help; she waves a tattered potholder at me, d
ismissing herself into the kitchen, behind Paige, busying herself with the pre-bought lasagna she put in the oven earlier. My mother didn’t put much effort into this visit, and she has no interest in helping wow Leah with Cee Cee’s non-birthday gift.

  “Oh, princess. I’ll need to set it up, but maybe later, okay?” I say. I’m buying myself time. My dad used this same line with me for dozens of toys that he didn’t feel like assembling—and I hated having to wait every time he did. That’s where Leah’s at right now, her chin dented with the dimple from her frown. If only I could tell her what this gift feels like to me and her grandma…like a bribe. I just don’t want to give it any more attention than I have to.

  “Maybe your new friend knows how to find one,” I hear Cee Cee say, her voice lower; low enough that I don’t think I was suppose to hear that part.

  “Paige? Can you help me get a video on my iPod?” Leah asks, holding her device in her hand, moving closer to Paige.

  Leah stops in front of her, her hands holding it up, and Paige takes the pink, metal device in her own hand, a strange smile playing out on her face. It doesn’t look happy, but just the opposite. Leah continues to ask, begging in her persistent way at Paige’s waist, but Paige remains silent, her eyes fixed on the iPod.

  The discomfort of the silence breaks my mom first, who disrupts it with the clatter of a heavy pan on the counter and the announcement that dinner’s ready. I move into the kitchen to help, but I give a look to Cee Cee first, and I can’t help but note the way she seems to be obsessed with Paige, and the way Paige is refusing to look at her.

  “Time for dinner. Go wash up,” I say to Leah.

  “But what about my iPod?” she asks. I don’t like that she’s taken with it so quickly. Mostly, because I didn’t give it to her, and I don’t like that I feel that way either.

  “Later,” I say, nodding her toward the sink. I’m shorter with her than I mean to be, and her frown comes back.

  I hate Cee Cee.

  We all gather around the table, and I notice Paige stalling, taking her seat last, laughing silently to herself and shaking her head when the seat at the end is the last one open, the one next to Cee Cee.