The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(36)

I’m rapt now. This scenario scared the hell out of me in high school. It’s why I was always in charge, why I was careful about who I gave it up to—why I always have condoms in my purse. The thought of something going wrong and me ending up pregnant with Carson’s baby runs through my mind, albeit briefly, and my stomach sours fast.

“Was there ever talk of…of maybe…not having Leah?” I ask, biting my lip, hoping I asked that delicately enough. The longer Houston takes to respond, the worse I feel for asking. I’m about to take it back, to tell him it’s none of my business, when he breaks in.

“There was,” he says finally. He doesn’t elaborate, and his tone—it’s flat and emotionless and broken, as if the fact that he ever had that thought at all kills him. After long seconds, I hear him let out a heavy sigh, the kind weighed down by a past made up of nothing but life-altering, complicated decisions. That single admission shows that Houston wasn’t kidding when he said he believed in honesty. That right there—that was honest. And I think it might have been a little painful for him to say aloud, too.

“How did you lose Bethany?” I ask, after rehearsing this question several different ways in my own mind. It’s not like me to be sensitive, but I feel maybe Houston deserves it.

“Drunk driver,” he says. This time his words come fast, and there’s an edge, an angry edge. I’ve gotten the sense that Houston’s wife has been gone for a while, but the way he sounds right now…his voice reacting as if it happened yesterday. I think of all the times Carson drove home from parties drunk. And I think of the times I let him drive me home that way too. I’m struck with a sudden sense of fortune.

“Leah was a month old, and Beth and I had just gotten married. Getting married—having a real family—that was something important to her. Her dad pretty much disowned her when he found out she was pregnant—not that he’d been much of a part of her life in the first place,” he says, his anger still obvious. He slowly lets it go as he continues, as his setting shifts to his world, away from Bethany’s. “We were living with my parents. My mom and dad were supportive, and my mom always wanted more kids, so I think in some weird way, she loved having a full house. I don’t even think she minded helping with Leah those first few weeks.”

I let Houston continue without interjecting. He’ll tell me what he’s comfortable with me knowing. I nestle deep into my covers, pressing the phone tightly to my ear so no one else could ever hear his story. Every word he speaks feels intensely private.

“Beth was smart. I know what you’re thinking…smart girls don’t get knocked up. But Beth…she was crazy smart. She was on her way to being our valedictorian, and she had tons of scholarship offers. She had one night with me where we both…we didn’t think, but just acted, in a moment of weakness, and she got pregnant…but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t smart.”

I open my mouth a few times, before I finally find the right words to respond. “I would never think otherwise. We’ve all made mistakes,” I say, and Houston interrupts.

“Leah wasn’t a mistake,” he says quickly, his voice still kind, but his intention direct and maybe also a bit of a warning.

“Right…right,” I whisper. “I only meant I wouldn’t assume something about Beth.” My heart is starting to beat faster, and my forehead is damp; I’m feeling my nerves, and I think it’s because somehow I’ve gotten to a place where I care what Houston thinks of me.

Mother-f*ck!

I swallow hard and close my eyes, regrouping and breathing in deeply through my nose. “How did you find out?” I ask, wanting him to finish his story, needing to know how this sad-beautiful tale ends.

“Leah was sleeping. She had just started taking naps on a schedule, and it was the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. My mom and I stayed at the house while Beth and my dad ran to the store. When they were gone for an hour, we started to get worried. I was just grabbing my keys and stepping through the front door when the officer was walking up our driveway…”

His words trail, and his breath catches. I can’t see him, but I know he’s crying. He’s doing his best not to make a sound, but I can hear those small nuances, the way he swallows, the movement of his hand over his face, the rustling sound in the phone as he moves. “The guy veered over two lanes and hit them head on. Everyone died on impact,” he says all at once, as if he had one breath left to get those words out. I know that’s it—that’s where the story ends for Houston.

The silence that follows is long, and there’s no way to break it. I mouth I’m sorry a few times without making sound, imagining it each time, and knowing that me saying sorry isn’t what Houston wants to hear. He doesn’t want to hear anything. He doesn’t need condolences, and he doesn’t ask for them. I asked him a personal question, and he gave me an honest answer—just as he promised.

I hate myself for asking him to tell me. I hate that I had to know. And I regret agreeing to live with him now. Because when I move in, all I’m going to be doing is looking for ghosts, wondering what Houston and his mother see in rooms that are just going to be nothing more than rooms to me.

But I’m also grateful for him—maybe even a little more grateful now that I know. And I also don’t want to let him go. I think maybe…maybe I sort of like him. And I don’t want to like him, because Houston is definitely not according to plan.