The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(65)
Before I let him in that little bit more.
Before he believed me.
Before my heart latched on to the feeling it gets when he comes home, when I see him, when he calls.
Oh my god, somehow I’ve turned into one of those girls, the kinds who have crushes! I’ve been hot for guys. I’ve chased guys, flirted, won them over, made them mine. I’m like a conqueror when it comes to making boys obey. But Houston is like…he’s like an invasion! I like him more than I’m ready to admit. Maybe I just admitted to it. Damn it—that thought is in there now. I admit it. If I had a girlfriend left to talk to, she probably wouldn’t be able to shut me up about Houston. There’s one benefit to being shunned—no witnesses for my descent into happily-ever-afters and fairytales.
My lab class is biology, and the lecture room is very clinical. Clinical—yes, I need the white board, the sterile metal chairs. Nothing in that room looks like hearts and flowers. If only the lecture promised to be interesting enough to distract me. I’ve only been to a few this semester, but so far, the lessons feel like everything I already learned in high school. It makes me wonder what my parents are paying for, and why I can’t just move into studying what I want to be doing. I take the long route to class whenever I can, just so I can pass the architecture and design building. I love watching the students in the design lab work with colors and textiles. As I pass by today, they’re working with mood boards on giant monitors, which makes the building look even more like a real interior-design shop—just like the ones on the same street as my mom’s bead store in Burbank. I’ve already been promised internships there for the summer.
I wouldn’t mind spending the summer here either.
That thought comes out of nowhere. Staying here—in Oklahoma? That’s never even been a consideration for me. Like…ever. This thought. It’s Houston’s fault. I will forever keep it to myself. I’ll probably just go home, stick to the plan, so no harm. No need to ever let that thought pop into my head again.
Butterflies.
Fairytales.
Motherf*ck!
As I step into the lecture room, my pocket vibrates with my phone, and I pull it out quickly to take the call—glad to have something extract me from that weird fantasy of staying here, of a more permanent here. Of…here…with Houston.
Leah, Leah, Leah. I repeat her name in my head before answering my phone. That’s the only word that grounds me. Leah’s all about reality—big time reality.
“Me and Rowe want pizza. Lunch. Ditch the class,” Cass says the second I answer. I look up at the clock, and it’s not quite yet ten. My lab goes until one—it was either this class or a night one, and I hate the idea of school ruining my evening. Of course, when I made my schedule, I had planned on being at parties on Friday nights or out with the girls.
Plans change.
Somehow, my first year at college was revolving around school and studies, and less on social things.
“It’s still breakfast time. My palate is not ready for that,” I say moving to an aisle seat near the middle. I’ve learned the routine—about a half an hour of lecture then we move to the lab for the day’s project. The stupid sterile, metal chairs snag my clothes when I walk through the rows. Aisle seats are the only way to go.
“You and your uppity, snooty-ass palate. Palates don’t have anything to do with pizza. Boo, I’m super hungry, and I can’t wait until one. I went six miles this morning,” Cass whines, accentuating each word just to irritate me.
“That voice? That’s never going to work on me, just FYI. Look, wait until twelve thirty or so, and I can meet you. I’ll be done by then with whatever lame thing we’re doing in here today,” I say.
“Fine,” Cass huffs. “But you’re eating pizza then. None of that salad and rabbit food crap you pull.”
“Whatever,” I say, clicking my phone to silent and slipping it in the side of my bag. I turn to face the seat and my legs come square with another set, and when I look up I realize they belong to a pair of khaki pants and a plain button-down, tucked in to perfection—the bearded chin trimmed neatly as if to mimic the perfect lines of the horn-rimmed glasses that sit above. It’s the professor.
“Glad to know that my lame plans for the day aren’t going to interfere with whatever that was,” he says, circling his finger in the air, pointing to the pocket I stuffed my phone in. I’m not a big fan of being made an example of—clearly.
“No, they shouldn’t,” I say, lips tight as I take my seat and pull out my notebook and pen.
“Shouldn’t what?” he asks. Heads are turning now. He picked the wrong example to make.
“Your tired, decade-old lesson plans for class shouldn’t interfere with my lunch plans,” I respond. He remains in his place for a few seconds, brow lowered—then chuckles to himself and raps his knuckles on my desktop as he continues his path to the front of the class. A few girls sitting a row in front of me are still turned my direction. I don’t look up again, only raising my finger and twirling it so they know the show is over and they can face the front again.
The professor begins speaking and writing notes, most of which I recognize—from high school a year ago—about the various parts of the spine. The few times we make eye contact, there’s a silent acknowledgement of our brief interaction. Yes, young lady, I know this lesson is lame. But you’ll pass this class easily, and still others will fail.