The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(12)
“It seems to me if you can predict it’s coming, then you can probably prevent it,” he says, taking the seat across from me, kicking his feet up on the block table in front of us, and resting his backpack on top of his knees.
“Not this one, I can’t,” I retort, laying my head to rest on the hard wood of the chair. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for another response from Houston. There isn’t one, and the longer we sit in silence, the more I wonder why the hell he’s still here in the first place.
“Do you need something?” I ask as I flip my head forward, my eyes on him wondering why he’s looking at me. Has he been staring at me this entire time? God, I hope my chin doesn’t look fat. Is that what he was looking at? And why do I care what he thinks about my chin? He’s…he’s deli guy. I mean, he’s hot deli guy, but he’s still the stupid deli guy.
“No, uh…no,” he says, pulling his feet back to the ground in front of him and moving his bag along his shoulder as he stands. He runs his hand forward through his hair, into his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just saw you and wanted to thank you. You know, for studying? Then you looked kind of sad…”
“I’m not sad,” I fire back. Am I sad? I’m worried, and I set off a chain reaction that is bound to ruin my social life, but…f*ck. I’m sad.
“Oh, well I guess that’s good,” he says, and his eyes fall to his feet. He doesn’t believe me, and it’s irritating me. I don’t care if I am sad; I don’t need the guy who makes my sandwiches coming in and making things better.
Before I can open my mouth, my phone buzzes at my side. I pull it out to check who’s calling—it’s Carson. I let my phone rest on my leg long enough for Houston to notice. I can tell he does by the way his right cheek lifts with his slight smirk, just before he gestures for me to go ahead. I answer in front of him, smiling tightly and raising eyebrows so he’ll get the hint: we’re done here, and I’m not sad as far as he’s concerned.
“Hey, baby,” I say, laying it on a little thick. Houston holds up a hand and nods before turning and heading out the main door. I’m left to talk to Carson in privacy, and now that I’m alone, I wish I could hang up.
“Hey! Get the f*ck off of my bike!” Carson yells at someone in the background. “Sorry, babe. Douchebags don’t know how to leave my shit alone.”
He rides a motorcycle, some Ninja something or another. It was sexy the first time he took me out on it. Now, it’s just one more thing he obsesses over.
“Right, so…you called me,” I say after a few long seconds of silence. He’s probably still death-staring someone for touching his bike.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.” He says this a lot. Three yeahs. It’s so goddamned annoying. I bite my tongue and wait for him to find his rhythm again, remember his point. “Party, tonight at Smokey’s. Sigmas are buying, and I know how much you like their fruity drinks.”
“I do,” I smile, remembering the first time Carson took me to the cowboy bar at the edge of town. It’s this huge indoor-outdoor barn-looking thing, and there’s an enormous dance floor. I was glued to it for three hours, my body drenched with sweat by the time Carson took me home. He spent that entire night watching me, and I loved his attention. We’d only been seeing each other for a few days at that point, and everything was new and sexy. Maybe a trip to Smokey’s was all I needed.
“Cool, so I’ll pick you up at the house. Be ready at nine,” he says, before holding the phone away from his mouth and screaming more obscenities at whoever was still touching his bike. “I gotta go.”
He hangs up without another word, and I’m left right back where I started—alone in the library, brushed off by my boyfriend who makes me feel embarrassed sometimes, and regretful others. I might be pathetic.
My phone buzzes again; this time, with a text from Ashley.
You were right. They looked at my phone and Facebook page, but only for a few seconds. I think Chandra’s looking for you. Where’d you go?
I begin typing, but then delete quickly, turning my phone off, and zipping it away in the bottom of my purse. There’s no sense in putting this off any longer; I’m going to have to confront Chandra eventually. For a while, I thought I might lie. But she’d see right through that. I don’t want her thinking I’m afraid. I’m not. I feel sick about everything I know I’ll have to give up, but losing Chandra isn’t something I’ll regret. I’d regret lying more.
My pace back to the house is nearly as fast as it was when I ran away. As a kid, I used to hate getting shots or pulling off Band-Aids. My mom would make me count backward from ten, and after I got to seven, she’d always rip the bandage away or tell the nurse to proceed with the needle. My pain was always over quickly that way. I love my mom for giving me the false expectation that something painful would take longer than it really did. I’m thinking of this now—my steps coming quicker. By the time I count down to zero in my head, I’m at the front door of the Delta House, my hand rested on the ornate iron handle, and the only sound I hear is the blood rushing over my eardrums as my heart rate climbs.
When I step inside, Chandra is sitting right where I left her—waiting for me. She’s alone, not because she wants to give me privacy; this has nothing to do with her respect for me. This is about her, and wanting to make sure I don’t spread the poison. I won’t. It will spread on its own; it’s just a matter of time.