The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(75)

Houston



I let Paige leave her room before me. It took me a good ten minutes to get things back…well, in place. I’d like to blame the boots and the dress, but I’ve been with a few women over the last year with boots and dresses and bodies almost as good as hers, and they’ve never made me want to do the things to them that were running through my head when Paige looked down at me.

It definitely wasn’t her boots and dress. It’s just her.

My mom is watching me scurry around the kitchen. I look like a maniac. I think I might look like an * too. She hasn’t directly asked what the story is—just if we had an okay talk, if Paige is okay. I want to fill her in, maybe warn her a little. I think she’d like Paige more—trust her more—if she knew just how much she despises Cee Cee. But then that’s the thing—I’m caught in that weird place where Cee Cee is who she is and can call her dad and tell him I haven’t been keeping up my end of the bargain and all he has to do is snap and Leah’s money is gone.

My mom would be fine with losing it, cutting the few strings he holds, never letting Cee Cee into our house again. But I’m not okay with my daughter not getting what’s hers.

And I don’t want to think about any of that right now because boots and dresses and Paige’s ass in my hands is all I can f*cking think about!

“Where’s the damn picnic basket?” My voice comes out in a yell as I slam the last two cupboard doors closed. My mother is laughing at me. “What?”

“You. What in the world has you so wound? And why do you need the picnic basket?” she asks, finally standing from the stool where she’s been watching me for the last twenty minutes, amused. It’s almost ten at night, and Leah’s been in bed for more than an hour.

“I just…need it,” I say. I sound like a teenager.

“Relax,” she says, pushing my arms down to my side, pulling them away from my neck that I’m rubbing obsessively. I might be a little stressed.

She reaches below the sink, moving a bucket out of the way, and slides out an orange, plastic cooler. It’s not a basket. It’s not even close to a basket.

“Is this all we’ve got?” I ask.

“Honey, this is all we ever had,” she laughs.

“No…we had a basket. I swear we did,” I say, looking where she just looked. There’s only cleaning supplies left.

“You must remember it differently. Things seem better when you’re younger,” she says, and I flash to that night with Beth, then look at the cooler. It feels familiar.

“It’s fine,” I say, opening the cooler and rinsing out the debris that’s collected in it.

“Are we taking a trip?” she asks, sliding back on her stool. It’s like her perch, where she can look down at me—it’s how she sees when I’m lying, I swear.

“No. I’m taking Paige on a picnic,” I say, rushing through the pantry, grabbing bread for sandwiches, looking for anything else. I drop the bag of bread on the ground and two slices slide out. Swearing under my breath, I pick them up and toss them in the trash. The only pieces left are the heels—who makes sandwiches out of heels? I toss the bag on the counter and look back to the pantry, for crackers or anything else. My mom’s hand slides on mine as I’m fumbling the peanut-butter jar, halting me. I look up at her.

“Let me,” she smiles. “You go put something nice on.”

I stare at her with a blank face, trying to read her, wondering what her motive is, but she just pats my hand twice and starts spreading peanut butter on the last good piece of bread, cutting crust and blowing crumbs into the sink.

“Thank you,” I say, looking down at my shirt that…damn, does have a stain on it. I run up the stairs and toss out whatever’s clean in my bottom drawer, pulling together a dark pair of jeans and the black sweater I wore the last time I went on a date. Everything looks new—like I just went out and bought it, like I’m trying too hard. I am trying hard!

I’m staring at my reflection, second-guessing myself, when Paige’s door opens. She pauses across from me, her light still on behind her. It’s the same dress, same boots—I’m sure she’s done something to her hair, or maybe it’s just the jacket slung over her arm. Whatever she’s spent the last two hours doing, she’s somehow more beautiful, yet exactly the same.

“I like the sweater,” she says, her lip tucked in her teeth.

Good. Settled. Sweater and jeans it is.

“You ready?” I ask, giving her my arm at the steps. I guide her down, and just the simple squeeze of her arm linked through mine is enough to remind me how she felt two hours earlier. My mom is no longer downstairs, just the packed cooler, a rolled up blanket, and an extra jacket—which catches Paige’s eye.

“Did your mom leave this?” she asks.

“I might have gotten a little…help,” I say. Paige swallows, and her face flushes for some reason.

“I didn’t think your mom really cared for me,” she says as her eyes drift back to the blanket, her finger running along the fringe on the edge.

“Why would you think that?” I ask, pulling her chin to me, her gaze following a fraction behind.

Paige shrugs, and looks down to her feet.

“My mom is just a little protective. And I haven’t really…well I don’t…date?” My words come out unsure, maybe embarrassed. The last time I dated someone my mom knew about, I was in high school—and that resulted in Leah.