The Girl I Was Before

by Ginger Scott

  “I want to be the guy that you tell your secrets to—who’ll give it to you honest, and who won’t care if you give it right back,” I say, noticing that Rowe is hearing most of this a few rows away. I don’t care, because now Rowe is right up there with the purse strap for things I need to thank for bringing me Paige.

  “Just…do me a favor, Paige,” I say her name and pull her hand into mine, the touch of it so amazing, her fingers shaking, but so damn soft. I breathe out once just from the feel of her. “Just…think about it, because I know what being all of that with me means. I know being some other guy’s girlfriend doesn’t come with that extra little caveat of all the other hats I have to wear—including the father one. But thing is, with anyone else, you’d just be their girlfriend, and with me…you’re kind of my world.”

  I stand, letting her fingers fall away from mine slowly, and I tell her I love her one more time before letting her go. I walk away, and I’m taken back to my life more than five years ago, when I was just some cocky football jock who refused to let the pretty girl say no. I never thought anyone else would be worth all of that rejection, over and over, but this one…she’s worth walking through fire.

  And I know she might make me.

  Chapter 20

  Paige

  It didn’t take Rowe long to move back to the seat next to me. As soon as Houston turned the corner through the stadium gate, she was at my side. The look on my face must have been enough, because all she said was “Go.”

  I left the game without even saying goodbye to my sister. She’d understand. Fuck, they probably all heard his speech. And I told Rowe she could tell them anything she wanted. If I put this thing with Houston and me out there, then that makes it real—and it’s so real. I’m ready for it to be real.

  But before I tell him any of that, I need to make a few things right.

  I rush back to our dorm and gather every last bucket of paint left in the closet from the time we painted the rooms pink. There’s still a can of white from when they all had to repaint, so I take that too. I grab anything I can get my hands on, and I let myself into the boys’ room to take all of their things too.

  I have to stuff things into a blanket and throw it over my shoulder just to get it downstairs. I’ll never be able to walk it all the way to Houston’s house. I ask a girl with a piercing through her nose and eyebrow smoking out front if she has a car. She looks at me like I’m about to break out in a flash mob, checking over her shoulder for the rest of the joke. When she realizes I’m not kidding, she shrugs, stomps out the butt of her cigarette, and tells me “Sure.”

  We don’t talk, other than me telling her “Thank you,” when I get into the passenger side, and her telling me to pay her ten bucks for the gas it takes to drive point two miles. Rather than arguing, I decide it’s a bargain, and flip a ten on the center console when I get out of the car.

  Hitching a ride was easy compared to this next part. I drag my blanket full of supplies up Houston’s driveway, bundling it all in my arms before I lean in to ring the doorbell. This move…it’s strategic. I feel like a physical barrier between Joyce and me might somehow make me braver.

  When she opens the door, I feel a little doubt, but I stand tall and breathe deeply, smiling anyhow. “Hi,” I say, pushing to the back the tears I know she’s cried since the last time I was here. There is no forgetting the warning she gave me though. That’s why I’m here really, to prove my worth. When she lets me in, and even helps to tug my load of junk through the door, I feel like I might have led with the right foot forward.

  “Paige, hi,” she says, sounding genuinely happy to see me. “Houston’s…he’s working.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. He said…”

  I’m not sure how to explain everything. There’s just so much. I unravel the blanket, letting the cans of paint roll out, the pillows unfurl, and the scraps of material and rollers and brushes fall loose.

  “He wanted to fix up Leah’s room, but he didn’t quite get to it. I thought maybe I’d surprise him,” I say, standing on one side of the blanket from her that’s now stretched out like a do-it-yourself picnic between the two of us. When I glance up, I fully take her in for the first time. Her eyes are so tired as they graze over the supplies I’ve brought into the house.

  “I’ll do it all. I didn’t want to make any work for you,” I start, but she jumps in.

  “I wanna help,” she says, her lips in a soft line, the smile there when I look closely enough.

  Taking one end of the blanket while I take the other, we both walk everything up the stairs, opening the door to Leah’s room and surprising her. Leah’s surrounded by stuffed animals, and when I glance to the small television on her night table, I see her favorite cartoon.

  “Paige!” she squeals, running to me after taking a leap off of the end of her bed. Her force into me sends me back a step or two, but I hug her just as hard as she embraces me, bending down and kissing the top of her head. This is the first time I’ve ever kissed her. She feels like home.

  I glance up at Joyce again, and her smile is growing.

  “I hear you want a new room?” I ask. She runs back to her bed and stands on the end of it, bobbing on her toes, her tiny body teeming with nervous, excited energy.

  “I do!” she says, clapping.

  “Well, how about we make you one and get it all done before your dad comes home so we can surprise him?” I ask, my mind realizing the amount of work I’ve just signed up for. As creative as I am with my pencils, I’ve never really liked the doing it part of design. But I know I’ll have to embrace it one day, and I can’t think of a better way to start.

  Without pause, we all jump in and begin removing things from her room, Joyce thoughtfully giving Leah directions to do small tasks that will keep her busy and invested without getting in our way. We work for two straight hours, painting her walls swirls of white and pink, and I spend another hour drawing a castle on the wall behind her bed with whatever paint is left. Exhausted, Joyce and I finally lean against either side of her doorframe admiring our work, watching as Leah spins in circles taking in her new surroundings.

  “Do you love it?” I ask. I probably should have waited for her to say it on her own, but I’m just so anxious to know. She turns to me and grins—but then bites her lip. There’s something more; I can tell.

  “Tell me,” I urge, hoping her request is something I can pull off.

  “I was kind of hoping…that maybe I could live in the tower,” she says.

  I look to Joyce, a little breathless. Leah wants to live in my fairytale—the one I made up just for her—and it makes my heart feel happier than it has in months. That, combined with the puzzled look on Joyce’s face, makes me laugh enough that my eyes water.

  “She wants a tower,” I say.

  Joyce is shaking her head; I think maybe begging me to find a way to divert Leah. But I won’t let her down. If she wants a tower, I’ll find her one.

  Sucking in my top lip, I look around at the few things left in the hall that we pulled out of her room. When I see the hula-hoop, I know I’ve found gold.

  “I need some material. Lots and lots of it,” I say to Joyce. She nods, then heads out into the hall, into the linen closet where she begins pulling down bags of old sheets and other things. I rush downstairs into the garage and search through a few bins I remembered Houston keeping in storage—finding a bundle of rope and a few hooks left over from the ones he hung up for my towels.

  As I rush back up the stairs, I begin announcing I have it figured out, but quickly pause, noticing Joyce sitting on the floor, a pile of strips of material, all different colors, layered in her lap. Her eyes are glistening, and her lips are barely parted, her breath heavy.

  “These were Beth’s,” she says in a giant exhale, looking at me finally, showing the pain and joy she’s feeling all at once. “She wanted to make Leah a quilt. She’d spent the last month of her pregnancy just cutting these strips, and she had
planned on making it for her for her first birthday. She…she never got to sew a stitch.”

  I collapse to the ground next to her, letting the hardware fall from my hands so my fingers can touch the soft pieces of material, hundreds of squares, weighing down Joyce’s legs. I lift a stack and look to her. “May I?” I ask.

  She nods.

  I pull the strips into my lap and flip through them slowly, like a picture book in slow motion—showing nothing but lost hopes and dreams, plans never realized and heartbreak found.

  “I think we should use them,” I say. I feel Joyce look up at me quickly, and I’m scared to take in her expression—so I wait a beat before meeting her eyes.

  She’s smiling, though, her lips growing fuller with every nod of her head.

  Together, we carry the material into Leah’s room and begin knotting the strips together into a colorful rainbow of rope. Eventually, I let Joyce take over tying, and I begin wrapping the strips around the hoop, letting long pieces drape down every few inches, like a tent.

  Once we have it completely wrapped, we slide Leah’s bed out of the way and drag over the ladder, so I can stand high enough to bolt and tie the hoop to the ceiling. When we slide her bed back, Beth’s material frames it perfectly, the quilt she never got to finish, instead becoming a tower of strength—a place where Leah can escape to hide…become strong.

  “I love it,” she says, this time her voice a whisper. It’s as if somehow she knows that this new addition is more important than everything else. Perhaps one day Joyce will tell her. Or maybe Houston will. It’s not my story or my place, but I’m honored to have been a part of rebuilding something for everyone in this house.

  We leave Leah in her tower as she busies herself moving her animal friends around her bed, deciding who gets to be in the tower with her.

  I follow Joyce downstairs, and when I let my legs hit the edge of the sofa, my body follows, every last drop of energy gone.

  “I’ll make you coffee,” Joyce says, somehow still strong enough to be able to walk through the kitchen, to clean the counters, and put away dishes. I think maybe for Joyce, stopping is when things get bad—so she doesn’t stop.

  She brings me my cup, and leans against one of the arms of the sofa, never letting herself fully sit. Her gaze is lost on a clock on the mantle behind me. It’s old, carved in wood, and beautiful.

  “I love that piece,” I say. Her eyes slide to meet mine slowly, and her faint smile comes to life.

  “Thank you. My husband made it,” she says. I turn to look at it again, noticing the hand-painted touches. It’s really a work of art.

  “He was very talented,” I say.

  We both sip from our cups, looking at the mantle for a few quiet seconds.

  “So are you,” she says. She isn’t loud when she speaks, but for some reason, her words surprise me. Maybe it’s what she says that surprises me. “You’re very talented, Paige. What you did in there…that was special.”

  I nod, glancing at her then looking back at the clock, pretty sure I’m nothing compared to the man who made that. “Thank you,” I whisper, blowing on the hot liquid in my hands.

  “Houston is a lot like Michael,” she says. She’s speaking about her husband; I can tell by the reverent tone she’s using, so I give her my full respect and set my cup down, turning to face her, my hands folded on my lap. “Michael was the man of the house,” she laughs. “He was so busy. All the time, making sure everyone else was okay, that everything was running, that we were all clothed and fed and happy. When he was gone…Houston stepped right in and took over.”

  “But nobody has done that for Houston, Paige,” she says, looking back at the clock again, taking a slow drink from her cup, swallowing slowly. When she looks back at me, her smile has finally found its way to feeling complete. “Nobody…until you.”

  I’m not sure how to respond; uncomfortable under the pressure her words put on me, but thrilled to hear them. I soak in the silence between us, under the beam of her smile for several seconds, until the sound of the door sliding open startles us both.

  “Hey, Ma…I forgot to bring home chicken and milk, so I’ll…” he stops as soon as he sees us both. We look ragged, our hair matted and our arms covered in dots of paint. I can barely move, but somehow I stand.

  I bite my lip as I step closer to him.

  “I’ll pick some up tomorrow, honey. I’m heading up to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Joyce says, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek, winking at me from the side when she does.

  “It’s seven-thirty,” Houston says, shaking his head and looking between the two of us. “You’re going to bed at seven-thirty?”

  “Yep,” Joyce says, flipping off the kitchen light and sliding her half-full mug on the counter. “And I’m not even finishing the dishes.”

  Good for you, Joyce.

  Houston watches her climb the steps, then turns his focus back to me, the look on his face confused. “Why are you hanging out with my mother?” he asks, reaching forward with his hand, hesitantly. “And why is there a chunk of…Pepto?”

  “It’s paint,” I correct.

  “Right…paint. Why is there a bunch of pink paint in your hair?” he asks, touching it carefully, so cautious and afraid of pushing me too far. He’s already pushed me over the edge, though.

  I step into him, his breath catching when I do, and I hold his eyes while I move under his gaze, my fingers reaching forward to grasp the badge on his shirt. I smirk when I look at it, his name—Houston. God, I love his name. I might even love all of Texas now for giving it to him.

  I pull his badge away, then run my finger over the dent it left on his shirt, an excuse to let my hand touch the hardness of his chest underneath. I peer up to see his hooded eyes staring down at me.

  “Don’t kid with me, Paige,” he says, his voice barely a breath as he shakes his head, his eyes shutting as his head falls forward to rest on mine. I bite my lip and relish the nearness of my mouth to his, the heaviness of standing here in his arms, his height above and around me.

  Tipping up my chin, I let my lips find his, brushing against him softly, both of our lips parting the instant they touch, our tongues taking cautious tastes of one another’s mouths and skin. He sucks in my top lip, holding it between his teeth for a second before slowly letting it slide loose, his head still against mine.

  “Follow me,” I say against his lips, each minor touch feeling like the weight of castles and mountains and kingdoms.

  Hope and fairytales.

  I tug on his shirt, leading him up the stairs, and we get to his daughter’s room. I hold my finger to my lips, not wanting to disturb Leah, who I can hear humming and talking to her animals inside. I push the door open just enough for him to see, and I wait while he takes it all in. I know he recognizes the material when he swallows hard, and his eyes reflect the same expression as his mother’s.

  I’m not jealous over it. I envy it, maybe. But only because it’s so special. I’m still glad that he has those memories, and that I’m someone who he and Joyce and Leah think is worthy of sharing them with.

  “You did all this?” he asks, backing away and quietly closing her door.

  I nod, then look to his mom’s room. “I had a little help,” I say.

  “Paige…” he starts, but stops just as quickly. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “You said a lot already,” I whisper, letting my eyes fall closed so I can finish everything I came here for. “I love you,” I breathe out, my body shaking with the words. Saying this feels so amazing and terrifying, and when his hands and lips don’t find me right away, I start to cry—like a child in line for the scariest ride of her life.

  I look at him expecting to see doubt, or disbelief, but instead, he looks just as happy and scared as I do.

  “Say it again,” he says.

  “I love you,” I repeat, my heart starting to feel the adrenaline from the words. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  I can�
��t stop, and my smile gets bigger each time I let it out.

  Houston steps into me, lifting me in his arms until I slide against him, our mouths finding each other, unable to stop smiling long enough to kiss as hard as I can tell we both want to.

  “One more time,” he chuckles, stepping me back one pace at a time toward his room.

  “I love you,” I laugh against him. Each time, it gets easier. When I feel his door close behind us, and his lips finally crash into mine, everything from before becomes a blur—everything. Every second, minute, day, month, and year—that was all just before. When I look at him again, his eyes so clear, so green and potent, like a dream, I can see what he sees. I close my eyes again, wanting to hold on to that part of me inside that’s strong enough, the girl who wants to be his world.

  The girl who is his world.

  The girl who broke out of her own tower.

  Epilogue

  Paige

  I’m not sure how it’s just as hot moving out of Hayden Hall as it was moving in. I suppose that’s what happens when you come full circle; you end where you began.

  I came here ten months ago with a very concrete plan—I would be popular, part of the elite, dating the kind of guy that other girls envied me for. I got everything I wanted; yet nothing is quite like I thought it would be.

  We’re all working on our last boxes of things, a line of us marching down the hallway to the front curb of our dorm. Ty is leading us, Nate behind him, Rowe and Cass in the middle. Houston is locking up the room behind me, shutting the door on my first chapter of college—maybe the most important chapter of my life.

  Houston is taking most of my things, along with Cass’s, in his car to his house. He’s storing things for us while we travel home for the summer. Our time home will be short—and I have a strange feeling that it might be our last, too.

  For all of us.

  Part of being on the school’s executive board for council is arriving two weeks early to plan orientation for the next year’s group of freshmen. I’ll be staying with Houston when I come. I’ll be moving in to an apartment nearby with Cass, Ty, and Rowe a few weeks later, though. I’m not ready to stay with Houston again full-time yet. The next time I move in for good with him, I don’t want to have to feel the pain of moving out. So I’m going to take it slow.