The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(73)

I look to the phone in his hand.

You’re going to get a call from the Herald Tribune.

I nod yes, and Houston hands my phone to me, careful with the exchange, like we’re passing a bomb. He has no idea that we are.

“Be that girl,” he whispers. “I swear to god I’ll still think she’s beautiful.”

My lips twitch into a smile from his words. He’s ridiculous. Lovely and ridiculous.

“This is Paige,” I say. Long, deep breath. I straighten my posture, rolling my shoulders back. I look the part—confident and strong—on the outside.

“Yes, hi…Paige Owens, correct?” The voice on the other end of the line is an older woman.

“That would be me,” I say, every muscle in my body growing tighter waiting for her to get to her point.

“Great, thank you. I’m Roberta Flynn, and I’m the managing editor here at the Herald Tribune. A couple months ago, one of our reporters received an email with some pictures that pretty clearly show a woman named Chandra Campbell in a room with a large amount of illegal drugs. Is this sounding…familiar?”

Familiar? It’s on repeat in my goddamned memory—those pictures…in my hand, on the phone pressed to my face.

“Yes, it does,” I respond.

“I’m going to be frank,” Roberta continues. “We don’t do gossip here. And my gut instinct was to dismiss these photos and not get involved. But one of our reporters has been working on a story for years involving the Campbell family. When we got a call from their lawyer—pretty much threatening to sue every single person who works here for reporting these photos—we were a little less inclined to dismiss them.”

“Okay?” I say, in a question. I’m still not certain how this affects me, but I’m also not anxious to get to that part.

“I know you took these photos, Paige,” she says, like a punch in my stomach—so much for sending something anonymously. “I need you to go on the record. We will protect your name, as best we can, as an inside source. But we’re at a point with the other stories…we have to have everything nailed down and buttoned up. If we open this, we have to be ready to fight.”

I heard her question. Houston didn’t. He’s still holding my other hand, his thumb rubbing softly over my knuckles. His thumb feels so nice. Why can’t I just sit here and feel his thumb? Why do I have to go on the record? Why am I even in a situation where I have to think about records? For a brief second, I think about how easy it would be to do what Chandra asked—tell her I was wrong. But I wasn’t wrong. And as much as I jumped into this for the wrong reasons—for revenge—I still feel like I’m the good guy in this one.

“I’ll still think you’re hot,” Houston whispers, one eyebrow raised. He’s being playful, and I’m pretty sure he’s clueless to how serious this all is. He might think this is just Greek-system politics, but it’s not.

“You won’t use my name?” I repeat. Houston’s cheek dimples with his smile.

“Not unless they take us to court and a judge tells us we have to,” Roberta answers. I think for a few long seconds—not so much about the name—but about the ways Chandra and her family will attack my credibility the second this story goes live. It doesn’t really matter that the Herald protects my name; the Campbells will be sure everyone knows who this unnamed source is and just how not credible I am. I move my eyes to Houston’s, looking for courage. He already knows the girl in the video isn’t me, but the rest of the world won’t. How much do I care?

“Paige, this story goes today or it doesn’t go at all,” Roberta says, as if any more pressure is necessary.

I’m the girl everyone looks up to.

I close my eyes, and allow myself one more deep breath. The air is cool, and my lungs grow full; I relish the feeling, because I don’t think they will feel that way again for a while.

“I’ll go on the record,” I say. “I saw it. The drugs, her—I saw it all.”

Houston’s smile slips away.

“Thank you, Paige. What you’re doing—it’s very brave,” she says, her voice sounding through a tin can. I feel dizzy, so I lay back. Houston stays sitting, he doesn’t join me.

“If you say so,” I say, hanging up. I let my hand fall to the side, the phone sliding out of my grip. His thumb has stopped. Why has his thumb stopped?

“How do you know Cee Cee?” he asks finally, his back is still to me. He hasn’t let go of my hand, but that feeling—the one that was a little like love? That’s gone from his grip. I think he’s worried about the trouble I’ve brought into this house.

“You know her real name is Chandra, right?” I say, and he shrugs.

“Her family always called her Cee Cee,” he says. “Honestly, I know very little about her. Her and Beth—they had this weird connection. They were so different, and sometimes I was sure Beth hated her. But sometimes she would act like she didn’t. She’d call; they’d talk. I think Cee Cee leaned on Beth. When she came to see Leah when she was born, Beth cried—and I could never tell if her tears were happy or sad that Cee Cee had come.”

It grows quiet while I wait to see if he has more to say. When he doesn’t, I begin to let him know everything else I have left—nothing more to hide.