The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(55)

I need to be drunk to have this conversation with Cass.

“So let me understand this better—Chandra basically kicked you out of the house?” Cass is shouting, and I can’t help but look around the crowded bar, sure someone heard her. I hate that I’ve become so paranoid.

“Yes,” I say, taking a big gulp from my mug, emptying it, and filling it more. Not drunk enough. Nowhere near drunk enough. “No,” I continue, waving down a cute guy walking by. He has four shots in his hand; I take one from him, then stand to kiss him on the cheek. It works, and he lets me drink another. “Yes, no, sort of,” I say, waving the guy away so I can get back to my sister.

“Sorry,” Cass shrugs at him over my shoulder. I turn around and the guy is still standing there—I stand up and kiss him one more time, a little sexier, but still on the cheek. Who knows, I may need him for more shots later tonight. It seems to make him happy, because he walks backward toward the bar and keeps his eyes on me. Like there’s a shot in hell of that going anywhere.

“Yeah, I’m way confused,” Cass says, shaking her head. She’s feeling her buzz; I’m jealous. “I thought you and Chandra were like…” she holds up her fingers, crossing them, and makes a clicking sound. “You know…tight.”

“We were never tight, Cass. Not really,” I say.

“Fuck that. You were tight enough to tell her my personal shit,” she bites. She’s been trying really hard to forgive me, but sometimes—it just comes out. I wish she wouldn’t try all the time. If I’m pissed at someone, I let it all come out. And then when I’m done, that’s when I go back to being nice to them. Wishy-washy isn’t me. I’m hot or I’m cold. Lukewarm is stupid.

I grimace at my sister, and take another drink.

“Anyway…” I say, knowing if Cass knew everything she’d drop the wronged act and start kissing my ass. “I saw some…things, and despite what you think, I’m not really happy about how she treats you, and I stood up to her. In my own sort of way,” I say. Part of me wants to just pull out my phone, show her the pictures of Chandra passed out, the drugs, tell her about the blackmail—I take another drink instead.

“Okay, okay…” she slurs. I could always hold my shit better than her. “But why are you living with that guy? I mean, you could have just come back to our room.”

I don’t answer, instead, swishing my last gulp of beer around my mouth without making eye contact. At the time, going back to live with Cass felt impossible. But now that I’m where I am—living with Houston—I think the impossible with Cass may have been smarter. Harder, perhaps, but definitely smarter.

“I have to pee,” I say, leaving my sister without an answer.

Sally’s happy hour during the middle of the week is…interesting. The college crowd is usually a mix of freshmen that look nothing like their fake IDs, and grad students more than ready to help freshmen girls get drunk. Add onto that the really creepy old guys who are waiting to give a girl a ride home, and it’s a bad mix. I may be drunk, but I’ll never be that drunk.

The line for the women’s bathroom is wrapping down the hallway and out the back door. By the time I get to the end, I’m actually near the trash bins where a guy is peeing in the alley. I cover my nose with my long sleeve and retrace my path back inside. The men’s room door is closed. No line. There’s never a f*cking line here.

I look around, then duck inside. There’s only one stall, but I’ve been in worse bathrooms, especially at the beach. I’m careful not to touch anything, washing my hands and grabbing a fistful of towels to turn off the faucet and open and close the door as I leave the restroom.

“I saw that,” he says, scaring me so badly I swing at him, punching him in the gut.

“Fuck, who does that?” I say, holding my other hand on my heart. It’s beating wildly. My head is spinning, and it takes me a second to regain my bearings. Part of it’s the shots, but most of it is the adrenaline from having the shit scared out of me. Houston is bent in half, coughing.

“Punches the guy they’re living with? I know…who does that?” he grunts, still a little out of breath.

“I hit you hard,” I say, now noticing the tightness in my knuckles. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually punched someone. I flex my fingers in and out, and they tingle.

He brings his gaze up, his hand flat against the wall next to me, and for a second his eyes pause on mine.

“Yeah…you did,” he says.

A few more seconds pass of him looking at me—me looking at him, and things begin to feel weird. Good. I can’t feel good being this close to him. And his breath is tickling my face. And it smells…good. He smells good. I need to get back to my table. I’m about to dodge beneath his arm, when his lip curves up on one side.

His hand is still next to me, his fingers rapping once along the wall. I clear my throat and adjust my posture. Houston’s head falls forward and he pushes back, stepping in the opposite direction, clearing room for my escape.

Thank god!

I make it most of the way back to the table I’m sharing with my sister, when I notice Houston is only a step or two behind me. Spinning fast, I lose my balance, and he catches me by my elbows, his grip on my arms steady—fast. His hands are strong, and I get caught up looking at them, at his arms. Shaking my head, I shirk his grip.