The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(52)

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I whisper, forcing a smile where it doesn’t belong. “Just a bad dream. I’m sorry, Leah. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was up,” she says. “I wanted to say goodnight.”

She slides close to me, her socks rolled around her ankles, the toes pulled out, flopping at the ends of her feet like a clown’s shoes. When her fingers reach my waist, she grabs onto me, and squeezes, pressing her cheek into my hip before turning to face it, kissing it. My eyes lose their strength, and another tear rolls down my cheek, coming to rest at the edge of my chin.

“Goodnight,” I say, my lip quivering. I tuck it in my teeth so I can hold it at bay.

“He’s good with bad dreams. I always go to him, too,” she says over her shoulder, smiling one more time before getting lost in the darkness of her room.

I turn quickly, shutting off my light and closing my door. I crawl under my covers without even changing, pulling the blankets up around my face, muffling my cry. Houston may be good with bad dreams, but I come bearing nightmares. I also come with regret. I don’t know whether I’m angry with him…or I miss him. I think maybe it’s both. Admitting that to myself hurts most of all.





Chapter 10





Houston



I have to stop this thing with Paige. It was innocent flirting—safe. And then all of a sudden it wasn’t. There was a time, maybe even only a day ago, when it felt a lot like falling. And that scares me. Then there are other times, like last night, where I hate her. She found the center of my insecurities, and was willing to push them—open up wounds and actually speak the words I worry everyone thinks…the words sometimes I think and am ashamed of—I had a kid instead of a life.

Maybe it’s her honesty I dislike. I’m honest. Or I try to be. But Paige—f*ck, she’s honest. She calls out my insecurities. And I think she wants answers when she does.

That scares me too.

Maybe I don’t really hate her at all. Maybe it’s all just mixed together in this mess I started—I shouldn’t have ever started.

Would I have forgotten about her if she never moved in?

She was so angry, so…so…cruel when she spoke. I could have handled anything but the one place she went. I’ve endured a lot of judgment for being a young dad. When we found out and broke the news to Beth’s family, the names I was called for “ruining our young lives” were vile. And truthfully, Paige didn’t label me directly—she only held up a mirror, reflecting the words I said to her.

I think that’s what has my head all twisted the most. She was only repeating my words, and she didn’t even truly say them. Especially that one word—stupid. I called her stupid for an error in judgment.

What a hypocrite.

I felt bad the moment the last letter left my breath. I wanted to catch the sound, to grab it and swallow it so it never hit her ears.

But it was too late.

She heard it, and swung right back. In that tiny second in between, before she spoke, I felt like the man I never wanted to be. I was being like my grandfather. And I thought of how ashamed my own dad would have been. Before I could apologize though, before I could make it right, Paige attacked Leah’s very existence—and my anger and hurt washed any regret away, like the tide.

In an instant, I felt justified, and spent the day sure I would ask Paige to leave. Then she walked in my room and told me it wasn’t her in the video. She didn’t walk in to apologize—to take back what she said about Beth or Leah—she went right to herself, the only thing she worries about. My heart was going to explode in my chest from the rush of rage, and I bit my tongue, not wanting to add any more layers onto our tangled conversations.

I got up, and simply shut the door.

Justified.

All the way until this very moment, when—per usual with my life—a four-year-old puts things into perspective.

“Why was Paige crying?” she asks, mouth full of Cheerios, milk dripping down her chin. She’s talking to me at the breakfast table, and I’m pretending not to hear her or register her. I’m playing dumb. My mom slides out a chair and sits between us.

“Paige was crying?” my mom asks. Great—she’s engaging. We’re only moments away from someone blurting out that Paige was crying because I was an *. Doesn’t matter—sometimes being an * is warranted.

It was justified.

“Yeah, she was by daddy’s door. I heard her so I went to check on her in the hallway. She said it was a bad dream. But daddy will make it better; I told her he would.” My eyes close as Leah speaks. I catch enough of her face to see my daughter smiling at me proudly. I’ll make it better. No, baby girl—I’ll make it worse. I turn away enough so my mom can’t see my face, bringing my focus back down to the pad of notes next to my bowl of cereal. Like I’m really studying.

“Well that’s good…that he made it better,” my mom says. I hear the tone. I feel her stare, so I look up and smile and shrug. She doesn’t ask anything more, but I know she will—the second Leah goes up stairs to change. When she does, I brace myself for the look I know will show up on my mom’s face. She’ll glance at me, and everything will unravel. It’s why I could never get away with lies when I was a kid.