The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(47)
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, staring at me and waiting for my response. I shrug my shoulders, lifting my brow once.
No, I’m not kidding Houston. I. Don’t. Need. Rescuing.
“Un-f*cking believable,” he mutters, finally unlocking the door. If only he just did that in the first place. I step inside quickly, and I hear the door slam behind us. I don’t stop, instead continuing to the steps, hearing the sound of his keys being tossed on the table.
“Are you for real with this shit?” he asks as I reach the top step. I steady myself, my hand on the banister, and I turn to face him.
“If you could leave the lease paperwork on the table for me, along with a key, I’ll sign it in the morning and leave your rent check,” I say, before turning and walking into my room. With the door closed, I drop my purse to the ground and move to my hard-as-a-board bed, sitting down, then falling to my back. I close my eyes, bringing my palms to my face, and in the quiet of the house, I hear the sounds of moans taunting me from my imagination.
Chapter 9
Houston
My knuckles are already showing the bruise. I haven’t hit someone that hard in a long time. The fights I’d had with Carson, Paige’s ex whatever he was, weren’t as intense as what happened yesterday walking Paige home. When I heard that guy taunting her—making those sounds, being disrespectful—something entirely different came over me, and when I swung at his face, I swung hard.
It felt good. Though I felt a little…embarrassed, I guess? When Paige called me out on it, I didn’t see that coming. Not that I thought it through much before I turned and went all ape-fist. But I did sort of expect her to be grateful. At least a thank you. Certainly not the cold-ass shoulder I ended up with.
I thought about just leaving when we got home, going to the carnival—saying f*ck it. But I didn’t want to leave her alone. Not that she came out of her room a single time. I finally gave up on waiting her out when Leah and my mom came home.
Paige must have left for class early this morning, because as promised, she left a check along with the signed lease agreement in the middle of the counter, a sticky note on the check that read I DON’T KNOW YOUR STUPID LAST NAME, SO FILL IT IN FOR ME. I’m glad I found this before my mom. I don’t think she’d quite appreciate Paige’s bite, not like I do.
God, why do I?
I wrote in our stupid last name, then added a note to the bottom of her sticky and left it on her bedroom door.
ORR. MY STUPID LAST NAME’S ORR.
PRACTICE WRITING IT ON THE THANK YOU NOTE
I DESERVE FOR DECKING THAT ASSHOLE.
I went back and pulled it off her door a few minutes ago though, because I don’t want my mom seeing that, either. Maybe I don’t want Paige to read it. Writing it was enough. I felt better—for a minute. I tore it into small pieces and put it in the trash when I got back downstairs, deciding to be an adult and just tell her my last name instead of passing notes like grade school.
“Morning, sweetheart! Leah up and ready?” My mom startles me from my daydream at the kitchen table. Joyce Orr is a morning person. She’s really an every-time person—cheer and glee and…cheer…seeps from her pores, hitting people in all directions, no matter how much they aren’t morning people.
“Oh…uh, yeah. She’s getting dressed. Wanted to pick her own outfit this morning,” I say, eyebrows high. My mom reflects my expression—both of us wondering what she’ll come ambling down the stairs in.
Leah spends her day at the church daycare with my mom. I’m fortunate that we’re able to make this work. I’m lucky my mom is able to help. There are days where I’m not sure how I’ve survived without Beth.
Beth was excited about being a mom. It’s really the reason we ultimately decided to keep Leah. Beth—she wanted that little girl with all her heart. She only had her for a month, but it was long enough for my daughter to look just like her, to act like her. It’s almost like a soul left Beth’s body the day that car sliced through her and found a home in Leah’s heart, sharing space—mother and daughter welded together. It used to hurt looking at her, especially when she got older, a toddler with a personality and mannerisms. All I saw was Beth. But over the last year, I’ve realized how lucky I am to have this small piece of her with me every day. Now, I sneak her door open at night, casting a light across her face from the hallway, just so I can remember and find peace.
Leah’s footsteps literally tap along the wood at the top of the steps, and it piques both my mom and my interests; we move into her view, only to see Leah taking the steps one at a time, sitting, tucking her pink skirt around her legs to help her slide down each step more easily. She’s in pink—every pink thing she owns. And she’s wearing a pair of my mother’s pink high heels on her feet, rolled up socks stuffed in the back, poorly, to try to keep them on her feet.
She’s trying to look like Paige. I recognize it immediately. My mom arches a brow at me, almost like a warning. She has only spoken to Paige in passing, but I think she sees Leah’s fantasy being played out too. And I think it concerns her.
“Baby girl, I don’t think you’re quite ready for my shoes,” my mom says, meeting her halfway down the steps. Leah’s head falls, and I see the disappointment all over her face.