The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(94)

“I’ll always come visit you,” I say, the words falling out before I can really think about what they mean.

Before I can say anything more, the door opens. Two men and a woman with badges and boring, black jackets step through. Turning to shake Houston’s hand, the last one hands him a card. I smile at them as they pass, my hand still on Leah’s shoulder, her head still resting against my thigh. She’s pulling at her lip, watching these strangers leave her house. I bet she was an infant when they were here the first time.

We all wait as the cars back onto the road, the messengers of nightmares and ghosts driving away. When they reach the end of the street, I look back to Houston. His eyes are dark—haunted—but they are waiting for me.

“Thank you,” he says, the same words he uttered before he went inside, his voice just as lost.

“You’re welcome,” I say, rubbing once on Leah’s back and gently urging her to move toward her father. She takes a few steps in his direction, then turns back to hug me once more before running inside, sliding under his arm as it props open the door.

“Houston, I…” My mouth hung open, I let out a short breath and close it again quickly.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, his eyes drifting back down to my bare feet. I follow his gaze, then step into his front yard to pick up my shoes. “Do you…you need a ride?” he asks.

“No, I’m okay,” I say. All I want to do is hug him, to let him drive me home, or better yet, pass my dorm, and just keep driving. He should stay here, though. He’s needed…here. “How’s your mom?” I ask.

His eyes shut slowly, and he gives a small shake of his head, no words necessary.

The distance between us is mere steps, but neither of us is willing to take one. Now is not the time—with worlds waiting for each of us in opposite directions. After nearly a minute of standing under the hold of his gaze, something catches Houston’s attention behind him, snapping us both out of our trance. When his body is turned to the inside of the house, I take a few steps backward down his driveway.

“I…” he starts as he turns to look at me again, his voice catching when he sees I’ve already begun to leave. “I’m sorry. I have to go inside.” For a moment, there’s a smile on his face. For a moment, there’s peace. It leaves just as quickly as it comes, the light gone again from his eyes.

“I understand. Tell Joyce that I’m so sorry. Unless…unless that’s not the right thing to say right now. I don’t even know,” I say. Sorry. I keep saying sorry, and he keeps thanking me. Those words seem too meager for this moment. We let them do the job though, too weak to try harder.

Holding a hand up, I back away, then turn so I can’t see him close the door again. I can’t watch that—not again. Especially not this time.



Houston



My mom hasn’t moved from the chair she sat in when the detectives delivered the news. I can’t ask her to. I’m not sure how I’m moving.

Leah runs down the stairs, skipping through the kitchen, her hands pitter-pattering on the countertop under the cabinet where the water glasses are. She does this sometimes—instead of asking, she drums her hands on something until someone helps her.

“Leah!” I snap. I catch myself, then look to my mom, who still hasn’t moved. Leah’s clueless about the last two hours. In many ways, she’s clueless about the last four and a half years. “I’m sorry,” I say to her, seeing her lips quiver, afraid she’s in trouble. I force my mouth into a smile. Leah hasn’t done anything wrong, and she doesn’t need to feel what my mother and I are feeling right now. “You want water?” I ask, opening the cabinet.

“Uh huh,” she nods. I pull one of the big cups down, the ones that have lids, and fill the glass up for her, securing the lid and straw on top.

“Why don’t you take your drink upstairs, maybe get some of your things ready for bath time?” I suggest. I’ve never been more grateful for routine. If only this one didn’t end at eight thirty.

Leah carries her giant cup with two hands, taking each step one at a time. It’s rare that we let her take drinks to her room, so she’s being extra cautious. She thinks this is special. That’s all I want her to think about tonight.

Her door closes, and the sound echoes through the complete stillness of the house. I stand in the small space between the kitchen and the living room, looking at the back of my mother’s head, listening to the regular ticking sound of the clock that still sits on our mantel. My father’s clock; it still beats with life.

“I let her into my house,” my mom seethes, finally breaking more than an hour of silence. I swallow and step into the room with her, looking down at her as I walk past the chair. Her eyes are fixed on the clock, too.

“We didn’t know,” I say, as if that makes anything we’re feeling any better—any more or less justified.

My mom is lost on the clock, and as I watch her, I count the ticks in my head, reaching forty-seven before she finally blinks. I do it again, and the space between each shutter of her eyes grows a second or two every time. I can’t dwell like this. If I do, I’ll only get angrier. And I need my head clear; I need to consider the various paths I can choose—not for me, but for Leah.

“I’m going to go sit with Leah while she takes a bath,” I say, standing and watching her eyes for a few seconds. She doesn’t respond, so I leave the room and move upstairs.