The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(4)
“I still need to place the party orders,” I say, opting to ignore his question completely.
“Right,” he says, his lips pushed into a tight, flat line.
I add two more trays of shrimp and up the number of platters of meat and cheese. Houston notes it all on the order sheet. I wait at the register while he walks to the office and tucks my ticket away again. When he comes back, he slides a bottle of tea toward me—the same sweet tea I drank the last time I came.
He remembered. It makes me smile.
Propping my purse on the counter, I pull out my wallet and unsnap the clasp so I can pay for my lunch, but Houston stops me. The warmth of his hand is surprising against mine. I don’t jerk or flinch; I only freeze. It takes me a second or two to look up at him—to register he’s stopping me from paying for my lunch. I don’t like that. I don’t like being beholden to someone. Favors—they’re like making a trade sometimes. The last favors I gave away cost me too much.
“It’s on me,” he says, and I refuse quickly, shaking my head no. His hand squeezes mine tighter. “I won’t take your money. Not for your lunch…or his. It’s on me.”
“I can buy my own lunch, thank you,” I say, resenting being pushed around. I shake his grip from my hand and hold out my card. He takes it and swipes it hard along the register, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.
“Damn, you mean that * can tell you to do something, and you just obey, but me—an actual nice guy—I can’t buy you lunch without getting your foot up my ass?”
“I’d like my receipt,” I say, ignoring him again. He rips it off and crumples it in his hand and throws it along with my card on the counter. “Thank you,” I say, stuffing it in my purse and clutching my sandwich bag in my other hand.
I can feel the force of his eyes on me as I turn to leave; my heart is kicking the insides of my chest in anticipation of his voice. The closer I get to the door, the stronger the sensation. I almost make it outside when I feel his hand on my shoulder. I spin around, ready to lay into him—my fire flickering.
“You can do better,” he says before I can open my lips to speak. His gaze is direct, and it halts me, if only for this moment. “That’s all I want to say. I just thought you should know. You. Can do. Better.”
His face is serious. There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s flirting. But it doesn’t feel like a pick-up line. Houston—his being here today, his words—this feels more like a rescue.
I smile, perhaps a little indignantly, and turn and step through the exit. When I round the building, I tuck my purse higher on my arm, and I clutch my sandwich and tea to my chest, running my hand along the cool spot on my skin where Houston touched me seconds ago.
Save your heroics for someone else. I have a plan. I’m sticking to it. And I don’t need rescuing.
No, I don’t need rescuing.
* * *
I used to think that I lucked out having a room of my own at the Delta House. So many of the other girls shared, but I had a room all to my self—a big corner one with two windows and a desk with a huge credenza nestled into the corner. But lately, I feel like I’m alone because nobody here really wants to room with me.
I never thought about it before; I was distracted by this fantasy I dreamt about for so long. I’ve always been dazzled by things. This desk—it dazzled me. I’ve been staring at it, at the various pictures I have stuck to the cork board in the back, and those propped up on the shelves at the top. Most of the photos are of Chandra and me, sometimes together with our boyfriends.
Chandra—she hypnotized me too.
The house is empty. It’s a weekend, and everyone has something to do. Chandra is at the stadium, watching her boyfriend practice. I guess she’s watching mine practice too. We have one football game left—it’s homecoming, and we’re going to lose. I don’t really see the point in practicing, but I’m also glad that’s where Carson is.
I feel like I’m waiting for a rocket to launch through my window, for an earthquake to happen. I really shouldn’t assume things will unravel that way. Maybe there’s a chance the photo won’t get picked up. I sent it to the student media, and to a few of the social sites that post about the campus who’s who. Maybe they aren’t interested? Of course they’re interested.
The longer I toss around in my brain what I’ve done, the more I start to regret sending the photo in the first place. Then, I feel guilty for regretting it. This cycle—it’s stupid.
I grab my backpack, stuffing it with every single book I own. I’m a design major, and my finals aren’t really something I need to worry about. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit around this empty house waiting for the sun to fall. Hell, I might just study right on through Saturday night. I’m sure the party will be at our house again, and drinking seems to turn my subconscious into a superhero—out to save the world and correct all the bad shit Paige Owens does when she’s sober. It’s pretty sad when the good version of yourself is the drunk one.
“Ugh, finals,” I huff, rolling my eyes as I pass two of the upper-class Deltas sitting in the common area downstairs. They nod and smile, but don’t say anything while I open and close the door behind me. Why didn’t they say anything? Do they already know? Have they seen the picture? Are they talking about what to do with me—the traitor? They’ve never really talked to me before, so why would they now?