The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(24)

CASEY: That’s what she said.

CASEY: Dude, where are you? I just stopped by your house?

ME: I have things.

CASEY: There’s more to this. To be continued.



I don’t write back. Instead, I flip through the pages of the notebook while I wait, peering up every few seconds to check the status on the girl at the other end of the porch. When she seems lost again in her own studying, I slip the pencil out from the spiral part of the notebook and draw a few doodles in the margins of the first few pages.

Once I reach the middle pages, I start to draw arrows at a few of her graphs, making commentary on her diagrams.

“What is this supposed to be?” I write next to a penciled sketch that I think is a cell. I draw legs, a tail, and a pig nose on another, and add a few more artistic additions to the page until I’ve basically left her with an elementary sketch of various farm animals.

I spare one more glance to the girl, waiting for her to look up at me. When she doesn’t, I write one more note to Paige.

Your own room, bathroom, regular meals, and someone who may or may not leave random works of art for you when you least expect it. Just…think about it, okay? You would actually be helping us out.



I pause for a few more seconds before finishing my note, adding in my phone number so she can call me. Now she has it twice. I read the note back to myself, each time thinking I sound more desperate, my attempt at humor becoming less and less humorous. By the fifth read, I poise the pencil’s eraser over my phone number and get ready to erase.

“What are you doing here?” As if she just announced the end of time for my SATs, I put the pencil down, folding it in the pages of the notebook. I push my phone back in my pocket and stand, my feet squaring with Paige’s as she steps out from the main door of the house. She looks so pissed at first, but then she glances over her shoulder at the girl I was just speaking to. This girl is way too invested in our conversation.

“Biology notes. Thought you might want them,” I say, holding up the notebook with one hand, handing it to her, and glancing over her shoulder noticeably so she knows this conversation—it isn’t private.

“Oh,” she says, sucking in her bottom lip, smile tight. She got my message. “Thanks.”

An awkward pause develops over the next several seconds, and it feels a lot like torture—no, it’s actual torture—long seconds that tick by slowly, like the way everything feels when I’m sick with the flu and drugged on Nyquil. Paige is looking at me, but not quite in the eye, thankful I brought her notebook back, and perhaps also glad I gave her the option of moving into our house. She’s also staring at me like she can’t match up my roles as both deli guy and dad.

And then there are these little flits of moments in between where she’s looking at me in a different way, like maybe she’s looking at me and liking what she sees. Now that I’ve had that thought play out in my head though, in a full sentence, I feel pretty stupid.

“Yeah, so…I’m just gonna…go,” I say, pointing over my shoulder, pushing my hands into my pockets and backing down the steps. I should turn around, but now I’ve walked backward for a good six or seven strides, and I know I’m at the stairs; I’m going to gamble I won’t trip and fall on my ass in front of her. I could turn around completely, but I’m also keeping an eye on that other girl, the one very much interested in Paige.

Once I clear the steps, I spin around and pick up my speed, pulling my phone out to text Casey back:

ME: Nothing more to anything. I’m all done. Just had to deal with some personal shit.



It’s sort of a lie, and Casey’s been my best friend for years; he knows I have mountains of personal shit to deal with—I’m usually buried by it.

CASEY: Whatever. I’m coming over for dinner later.

ME: See you at 5.



When he doesn’t write back, I figure he must have gotten busy. I move to put my phone in my back pocket, but stop when it buzzes one last time. I’m expecting a note from him, something snarky written back. But instead, the number is unknown. The small portion of the message I see tells me who it is.

Clearly you are not majoring in art. And your farm animals messed up my graph. Not cool.



I smile, and I smile big, and I feel stupid walking down the street with the growing grin on my face. But I can’t help it; I love that she wrote back.

Damn. I’m actually glad she wrote back. I type a quick response.

ME: Actually, I am an art major. That’s a major style movement, and I can’t believe you don’t recognize it.

PAIGE: Yes, stick figures. Very expressive.

ME: Clearly you haven’t been exposed to enough stick figures.

PAIGE: I’ve met you, haven’t I?

ME: Ouch.



I keep staring at the phone, waiting for her to write more, but almost a minute passes without hearing back from her. I’m close to our neighborhood by the time she writes back.

PAIGE: Thanks.



At that rate, she spent about eleven seconds on each letter she typed. I wonder how many messages she started and finished before settling on that one simple word.

ME: You’re welcome.



I try to keep it simple back, but before I step inside my house—into my world of layers upon layers of responsibility, I add a little more.