The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(42)
No matter how adorable you are.
“It’s…it’s okay. It’s just one night. But if you can, maybe you can help me move in the morning? I’m kind of done with this place,” I admit. I haven’t told Houston why I’m leaving, but when we talked over break, I did let it slip that some of the girls I counted on as friends turned out to be ruthless bitches.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind. And Leah is excited about having a sister. Oh, yeah…by the way, she says you’re going to be blood sisters,” he says, the right side of his lip lifting, doing that dimple thing. I’m not sure what’s making my heartbeat race—the look on his face or the thought of Leah liking me.
For a few long seconds, I stare at him and consider his offer. My night can take two paths, one in a place I hate, and the other in a place I…
“I’ll be fine, really. See you at eight?” I make my voice sound definitive so he doesn’t try again. If he asks me once more, I’ll go with him. And for some reason, I feel like going with him now will make me notice those other things about him more. And Houston is a whole different life—one that I don’t want.
He meets me behind the car, and when I reach for my bag, our hands touch. He doesn’t move, and my fingers clutch around his on the bag’s handle. It’s a touch that’s somewhere between a standoff and fire.
“I can get it,” I say, my voice sounding a little bossier than I mean. “Really, thank you, but…”
“Paige,” he says, his head doing that tilt thing, and…yeah…there’s the dimple. “I’d be a real * to just drop you off and not help you carry your things. Just let me not be an *, okay?”
I let my muscles relax and smile as I let go of my grip over his hand. When he turns, I flex my fingers, trying to rid them of the feel of his hand in mine. It wasn’t even a handholding kind of touch. But still.
Once I open the door, I drop my bag and reach for the one Houston’s holding, pulling it inside with me. When he steps toward me, wanting to enter, I place my palm on his chest. I can’t have him come in here with me. That will make me look desperate. And maybe there’s a part of me that wants to keep my Houston-world pure, untainted from this place.
“I appreciate it, but there are some people here I just want to deal with and move on. I can’t put it off,” I say, glancing up at him. He’s close enough he has to look down to see into my eyes, and the moment our gaze locks my heart starts to pick up its rhythm again. He looks like he wants to argue with me, like he has more to say, and we stare at each other for what feels like minutes, even though I’m sure it’s only a second or two. It’s long enough for me to imagine his hand coming up to lift my chin, and the moment I do that, I shake my head and take a step away.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, waiting as he holds a few fingers up for a polite wave. He turns and walks down the front steps back to his car. I close the door when he opens his, not wanting him to see me watch him leave. But I want to watch him leave. I settle for listening to his engine start and fade instead.
The warmth from being near him evaporates as soon as I turn around and face the dark emptiness of the sorority house. Only a handful of the girls are back, but the ones who are—they hate me.
And I hate them.
I drag my bags up the steps, letting them scratch and scuff along the way. What do I care? Once I get to my room, I take a deep breath and push my key in, knowing my key—it’s a farce. There isn’t anything that can keep everyone out. My bed is packed up, the blankets and pillows all stacked in the center. The clothes I left behind in the drawers and closet are all piled in a basket at the foot of the bed. And the makeup and perfume I decided not to bring—it’s gone, most of it cracked and spilled in the metal trashcan at the edge of my vanity. I’m not surprised, but this act—it’s still a slap in my face.
There’s a note in the middle of my mirror, and I hesitate to read it. Reading it gives it power. I walk past it and sit at the edge of my bed to survey the details, wondering what else they’ve done that I’m not seeing. My saved belongings are protected in my bags by the door. I hear someone down the hall giggle, and I hear a door close. The Delta House is old—historic. And the hardware sounds as such. I used to hate the noises—the creaking and the pops. But I adore them now—the way they expose the rats.
Standing, I walk to my mirror and pull the purple sticky note from the glass.
We gave you a head start.
I crumple the paper and throw it in the trash bin along with my cosmetics. I turn back to the bed and slide the pile of pillows and blankets to the floor, pulling one comforter out of the pile to sleep on, and another to sleep under. I bundle my hair in a bun and slip into a pair of sweatpants and my sister’s old soccer T-shirt. She gave it to me when I needed something to work out in over the break, and I kept it. It’s nothing like I normally wear—plain, red, with a giant logo on the front and her number on the back. There’s a hole at the bottom, and I loop my thumb through it to stretch the shirt out so I can take my reflection in. At a quick glance, I look like Cass in this.
With one more check on my lock, I pull my bags closer to my bed. If anyone tries to f*ck with me tonight, I’m going to hear them. And maybe, wearing Cass’s shirt will give me Cass’s strength. I slip my phone from my purse, and set the alarm. Then, I shoot one last text to Houston: