The Girl I Was Before

by Ginger Scott

  My mom wastes no time, scooping helpings of food onto everyone’s plate, wanting to get through this ransom dinner we’re beholden to. The last time we had Cee Cee for a visit, it was Leah’s actual birthday, and Cee Cee showed up drunk. My mom asked her to leave, but she said she had a right to see her niece—unless we’d like her to call her daddy and tell him we kicked her out. I’m surprised my mom agreed to this dinner when Cee Cee called. I wasn’t here for that call though, so maybe she didn’t.

  For several minutes, the table is filled with only the sounds of Leah’s humming and forks scratching at the surfaces of our plates. Despite all the noise, I seem to be the only one actually eating—everyone else opting to push their food around in pretense. I shrug and lean forward, scooping another helping onto my plate. No sense in wasting what’s a pretty decent frozen lasagna.

  “You seem so familiar,” Cee Cee says finally, holding her fork out, pointing at Paige.

  Paige sets hers down carefully, taking time with her napkin against her lips, not that she’s eaten a single bite. She places it next to her plate then pushes back from the table slightly, giving her legs enough room to cross underneath. She turns her body to the right—her head cocked so the curls in her hair slide down her shoulder.

  “Wow,” she says, her lips wrapping around the smallness of that word, making it sound so much bigger than the three letters it is. “You’re really going to take this thing far, aren’t you?”

  Not that anyone was actually eating before, but nobody is chewing now. Even Leah has stopped humming.

  “Am I missing something?” I ask after a few painful and long seconds of silence as we all watch the showdown at the dinner table. I feel stupid that I’m still smiling. Clearly, by the tone in Paige’s voice, I shouldn’t be smiling. Whatever this is—isn’t something funny. But it’s damn sure uncomfortable.

  “Oh sweetie. You’ve always been the one in control of how far this thing goes,” Cee Cee says. I watch as both women level one another with similar looks. It’s pretty obvious they know each other. And it’s pretty obvious they hate each other. The only part I’m missing is why.

  “I have, haven’t I?” Paige says, her eyes never leaving Cee Cee’s face. I glance at Leah, and my mom is a step ahead of me, leading her from the table, distracting her with her new iPod and accompanying her into the other room. I’m left in here, on the set of the Bold and the Beautiful.

  “Okay, I’m going to need the full story on this one,” I say, folding my hands on the table. I may as well be invisible, because Paige is standing now, walking to the door. She pulls it open, pressing her back against it, her eyes giving Cee Cee a challenge.

  “You’re going to get a call from the Herald Tribune. You’re going to tell them you were wrong. Understand?” Cee Cee says, standing, moving closer to Paige until each of them flanks one side of the open door.

  “Yeah, so I’m pretty sure I’m not. What happens in that scenario?” Paige asks, and even though there’s a certain swagger to her defiance, I can also see she’s nervous, her fingers rubbing anxiously on the doorknob behind her back.

  Cee Cee smirks, letting out one of those breathy laughs I thought chicks only did in teen movies. Is that what scoffing sounds like?

  “Thanks for dinner, Houston. You might want to do better background checks on your renters, though. Just sayin’,” she says, leaving without even acknowledging Leah in the next room.

  She wasn’t here for Leah.

  She never really is.

  “Paige?” I ask.

  Her head falls to the side along the door, her gaze on my daughter at first, then finally sliding to me. As long as I’ve known her, she’s never looked nervous—she’s never looked scared. She’s wearing both right now.

  Paige

  That was unfair. That was so fucking, unbelievably, horribly unfair.

  Houston is waiting for an answer. His mom is just over his shoulder, distracting a beautiful, innocent little girl, but her eyes are on me, too—waiting. I don’t know what to do.

  “Paige?” This is the second time he’s said my name like a question.

  “I’m sorry, Houston, but I can’t stay here any more,” I say. I shuffle past him up the stairs and close my door, careful not to slam it. I don’t want it to look like I’m throwing a tantrum, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m so rattled—thrown by her level of crazy. I don’t know who told her I was here, but she knew. That…all of that…tonight? It was all orchestrated for me, for her to get at me. I hate that I let her get to me. Chandra might actually be dangerous, and right now—I need my sister. I need to call her. We’re broken, but we’re still stronger together.

  I knew he’d follow. There’s a soft knock at my door, and when his eyes ask if he can enter, I nod for him to come in.

  “Mom took Leah to the park. We have…some time,” he says, wanting me to know I can feel comfortable being honest. It’s not the people in the house, though, it’s this mental game I’ve been roped into.

  “I don’t know…ha—” I stop, a look of surprise on my face because I literally don’t know what word to say next. I shrug, then move to my bed and sit on it, looking around at my few sparse things. It should be easy to move out; I’ve barely made this room my own.

  “Just tell me. Whatever it is, whatever that was. Just tell me, I won’t judge you…I promise,” he says.

  I’m the girl who rules the playground.

  I let my lungs take in as much air as they’ll hold. My mom always says that a deep breath is like a giant reset button for the body. I’ve been breathing a lot lately, and somehow I keep waking up to the same shit.

  He doesn’t make me talk until I’m ready. And we spend almost fifteen minutes in silence—me trying to open my mouth to make words, then just as quickly shutting it again and putting my hands to my head, trying to figure this out.

  My lips are parted, and I feel Houston’s hand slide over mine, his touch trying to give me strength, when my phone begins buzzing on the bed next to me. The number reads UNKNOWN.

  I pick it up and hold it in my hand, not sure if I’m going to answer or not. Then Houston moves his hand to my wrist, relaxing my grip and taking my phone from me.

  “Hello?” he answers.

  My eyes lock open staring at his mouth.

  “Hold on, let me see if she’s here,” he says, bringing the phone down to his lap, cupping it.

  “Are you here?” he whispers.

  I look to the phone in his hand.

  You’re going to get a call from the Herald Tribune.

  I nod yes, and Houston hands my phone to me, careful with the exchange, like we’re passing a bomb. He has no idea that we are.

  “Be that girl,” he whispers. “I swear to god I’ll still think she’s beautiful.”

  My lips twitch into a smile from his words. He’s ridiculous. Lovely and ridiculous.

  “This is Paige,” I say. Long, deep breath. I straighten my posture, rolling my shoulders back. I look the part—confident and strong—on the outside.

  “Yes, hi…Paige Owens, correct?” The voice on the other end of the line is an older woman.

  “That would be me,” I say, every muscle in my body growing tighter waiting for her to get to her point.

  “Great, thank you. I’m Roberta Flynn, and I’m the managing editor here at the Herald Tribune. A couple months ago, one of our reporters received an email with some pictures that pretty clearly show a woman named Chandra Campbell in a room with a large amount of illegal drugs. Is this sounding…familiar?”

  Familiar? It’s on repeat in my goddamned memory—those pictures…in my hand, on the phone pressed to my face.

  “Yes, it does,” I respond.

  “I’m going to be frank,” Roberta continues. “We don’t do gossip here. And my gut instinct was to dismiss these photos and not get involved. But one of our reporters has been working on a story for years involving the Campbell family. When we got a call from their lawyer—pretty much t
hreatening to sue every single person who works here for reporting these photos—we were a little less inclined to dismiss them.”

  “Okay?” I say, in a question. I’m still not certain how this affects me, but I’m also not anxious to get to that part.

  “I know you took these photos, Paige,” she says, like a punch in my stomach—so much for sending something anonymously. “I need you to go on the record. We will protect your name, as best we can, as an inside source. But we’re at a point with the other stories…we have to have everything nailed down and buttoned up. If we open this, we have to be ready to fight.”

  I heard her question. Houston didn’t. He’s still holding my other hand, his thumb rubbing softly over my knuckles. His thumb feels so nice. Why can’t I just sit here and feel his thumb? Why do I have to go on the record? Why am I even in a situation where I have to think about records? For a brief second, I think about how easy it would be to do what Chandra asked—tell her I was wrong. But I wasn’t wrong. And as much as I jumped into this for the wrong reasons—for revenge—I still feel like I’m the good guy in this one.

  “I’ll still think you’re hot,” Houston whispers, one eyebrow raised. He’s being playful, and I’m pretty sure he’s clueless to how serious this all is. He might think this is just Greek-system politics, but it’s not.

  “You won’t use my name?” I repeat. Houston’s cheek dimples with his smile.

  “Not unless they take us to court and a judge tells us we have to,” Roberta answers. I think for a few long seconds—not so much about the name—but about the ways Chandra and her family will attack my credibility the second this story goes live. It doesn’t really matter that the Herald protects my name; the Campbells will be sure everyone knows who this unnamed source is and just how not credible I am. I move my eyes to Houston’s, looking for courage. He already knows the girl in the video isn’t me, but the rest of the world won’t. How much do I care?

  “Paige, this story goes today or it doesn’t go at all,” Roberta says, as if any more pressure is necessary.

  I’m the girl everyone looks up to.

  I close my eyes, and allow myself one more deep breath. The air is cool, and my lungs grow full; I relish the feeling, because I don’t think they will feel that way again for a while.

  “I’ll go on the record,” I say. “I saw it. The drugs, her—I saw it all.”

  Houston’s smile slips away.

  “Thank you, Paige. What you’re doing—it’s very brave,” she says, her voice sounding through a tin can. I feel dizzy, so I lay back. Houston stays sitting, he doesn’t join me.

  “If you say so,” I say, hanging up. I let my hand fall to the side, the phone sliding out of my grip. His thumb has stopped. Why has his thumb stopped?

  “How do you know Cee Cee?” he asks finally, his back is still to me. He hasn’t let go of my hand, but that feeling—the one that was a little like love? That’s gone from his grip. I think he’s worried about the trouble I’ve brought into this house.

  “You know her real name is Chandra, right?” I say, and he shrugs.

  “Her family always called her Cee Cee,” he says. “Honestly, I know very little about her. Her and Beth—they had this weird connection. They were so different, and sometimes I was sure Beth hated her. But sometimes she would act like she didn’t. She’d call; they’d talk. I think Cee Cee leaned on Beth. When she came to see Leah when she was born, Beth cried—and I could never tell if her tears were happy or sad that Cee Cee had come.”

  It grows quiet while I wait to see if he has more to say. When he doesn’t, I begin to let him know everything else I have left—nothing more to hide.

  “She goes to McConnell. Did you know that?” I say.

  “Business major, or something. Her dad’s name is on a building, so I just assumed. I don’t go out of my way to see her. Kind of the opposite, really,” he shrugs, turning his body to face me more.

  “She’s the Delta president. She’s also on the soccer team. And my sister’s better than her.” I lift myself to my elbows, looking at him so our eyes meet, and I smirk. “Chandra hates that.”

  His smile comes again, not as full as before, but it’s back. Houston isn’t disappointed in me. He’s disappointed in Chandra, and maybe a little disappointed with the fact that he lets her near his daughter.

  “She used some things I told her in confidence…well…all right, maybe not in confidence, but…you know…” His brow is pinching. “I didn’t think she was that mean.”

  Houston chuckles. “I don’t know her well, but I know she’s mean,” he laughs.

  “Right, well, you get the award for being a better judge of character. Good for you,” I say. I start to feel guilty that I’m snapping at him, but he picks my hand up again, his thumb stroking the knuckles, so I don’t apologize. “I told her things about Cass, and she used them to spread rumors and hurt my sister.”

  Houston nods in understanding. “So when you saw her…” he leads me.

  “Naked in a bedroom passed out and nearly OD’d?” I give it to him straight, and his eyes flash as he winces. “Yeah, I snapped some photos. It was a party. I was a little buzzed, but not that buzzed. I knew what I was doing. I sent them. To. Everybody.”

  “And the video?” he asks.

  “I have no proof, but…” I don’t need to finish it; Houston has it all put together.

  “And that phone call…that was the paper?” he asks.

  “Story goes live this afternoon,” I say, my eyes losing focus, the edges getting bright. I lie back down and close them, the anxiety of everything overwhelming me.

  I feel the weight of his body slide next to me, his finger sweeping my hair behind my ear as I turn into him. When I open my eyes again, he’s looking at that hair, watching his hand move slowly. I watch him watch me for minutes, neither of us talking. For a small window, everything feels…okay.

  “So, there’s this park,” he says, his hand still stroking, his eyes still on everything but mine, his smile full of sympathy. “It has a slide. And I mean, like, a REALLY big slide. I think it needs a queen. And…it’s been years since I’ve taken a girl on a picnic.”

  His hand stops. His eyes drift to mine, and stop. As much as Beth isn’t here, she’s very much here right now. I’m both melting and terrified at once, and when I finally look into his eyes, I feel myself fall into the green layers that grow dark around the edges and are golden in the middle. I swim in them. I drown.

  “Are you asking me on a date?” I bite my lower lip. Within hours, I’m going to be the porn star who threw stones at the millionaire’s daughter because she was jealous. I might as well let myself get wooed a little before everything becomes cheap and sensational.

  “Yeah, Paige. Like I said earlier…I’d like to date you,” he says.

  “Good, because I didn’t eat a damn thing at dinner,” I say, putting on a pushy voice. I can’t hold it, though, and I let myself laugh. There’s also a little sadness that escapes with the sound. It’s one of those desperate laughs, and Houston can tell. He sweeps me into his arms and rolls until I’m on top of him, holding my hair from my face so he can kiss me. I look for any sign of doubt in his lips, but it isn’t there. He literally. Knows. Everything. And he’s still kissing me.

  “You still think I’m hot?” I tease. His hand slaps my ass hard at my question, and I squeal a little as he squeezes, his fingers mostly on bare skin where my dress has ridden up enough to leave me exposed.

  “You have no fucking idea,” he says against my mouth.

  “How committed are you to this picnic thing?” I tease, not really tease. His hand—it’s on my bare ass.

  “I’m not committed to the picnic at all, but my mom gave me half an hour of alone time in the house, and I’m pretty sure the non-picnic thoughts I’m having are going to take a lot longer than that,” he says, pressing his forehead into mine, his eyes shut tight, his smile enormous and embarrassed.

  “Okay,” I say, mine closed t
oo. “But just so you know, that line I was holding at kissing…”

  “Mmmmmmm?” he questions.

  “It’s moved,” I grin, letting my eyes blink open to see his fully staring back at me now. I lean back against him, my palms pressed to his chest, and his hands grip my wrists—tightly.

  “We’re home!” Joyce is using the sing-song voice, like an alarm sounding, so we know that whatever intense conversation we’re having needs to lighten up now that Leah’s here. She probably thinks we’re still talking about Cee Cee. But the longer I lie here, against him, the less I give a shit about Cee Cee and what she can do to me.

  Do your worst, Cee Cee. Playground Paige is back, and she’s a little pissed you’ve made her take this dumb-ass detour through your shadow.

  Chapter 14

  Houston

  I let Paige leave her room before me. It took me a good ten minutes to get things back…well, in place. I’d like to blame the boots and the dress, but I’ve been with a few women over the last year with boots and dresses and bodies almost as good as hers, and they’ve never made me want to do the things to them that were running through my head when Paige looked down at me.

  It definitely wasn’t her boots and dress. It’s just her.

  My mom is watching me scurry around the kitchen. I look like a maniac. I think I might look like an asshole too. She hasn’t directly asked what the story is—just if we had an okay talk, if Paige is okay. I want to fill her in, maybe warn her a little. I think she’d like Paige more—trust her more—if she knew just how much she despises Cee Cee. But then that’s the thing—I’m caught in that weird place where Cee Cee is who she is and can call her dad and tell him I haven’t been keeping up my end of the bargain and all he has to do is snap and Leah’s money is gone.

  My mom would be fine with losing it, cutting the few strings he holds, never letting Cee Cee into our house again. But I’m not okay with my daughter not getting what’s hers.