The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(96)

That’s the other thing, though. This process—a trial, more investigations, more visits from the media—could go on for years. That’s what the lawyer-we-can’t-afford told us. We don’t pay him until the end, so I’m not really sure how this is a good deal for him.

The meetings, the calls, the feeling of urgency—that all went away. It left weeks ago. And for the last month, our lives have gone back to normal. It feels like life before we knew any better. Only we do know better, and there’s this heavy weight that’s constantly hovering because of that. As much as the day feels like any other day, it also always feels like the bottom of it all is about to drop out.

Leah hasn’t asked any questions, but she senses something is different. I had to leave work early last week to pick her up from the daycare at my mom’s church. She punched a boy. Apparently, he called her babe, and she did not like that. Part of me was thrilled. His parents were less thrilled, though, so Leah was sent home. My mom couldn’t leave work, and I ended up missing a full day of class. It was Spanish; I’m failing it anyhow. I never got to take advantage of Paige’s tutoring.

I miss the way her tongue could trill an R. Her tongue. Her.

I pass the library every day, even the days I don’t have to come to campus. I come anyway. I always look, and sometimes she’s there. Our eyes meet, and we wave. Not a big one, just small gestures with our hands, acknowledgements that we’re looking at each other.

Really…we’re looking for each other.

I’m always looking for her. I’m starting to wonder if that will ever stop.

Our last conversation was the one on my doorstep, when the truth came out and swallowed my mother and me whole. The fact that Paige came—that she showed up the minute she heard the news of Martin’s arrest—meant so much. I’m not sure if she realizes it, but that act—it was so selfless. She wasn’t there for any reason other than to make sure we were okay…to make sure we were breathing and surviving this news. She was there because part of her loves me, loves us. I think she realized it then, too, but it’s been nothing but quiet between us ever since. We just can’t seem to go back to that feeling, to talk about it. We both know it’s there, but there’s just too much of everything else in the way.

“Dude, sandwich me,” Casey says, snapping me back from the thoughts I tend to drift to lately. I spend a lot of time replaying every visit from Cee Cee—every moment of finding out our family was cut in half. I try to recall the face of each person we talked to and the words on every paper we signed. We never questioned anything. But why would we? Who gets news like that and starts asking questions about crooked cops and missing homeless men? Instead, we grieved.

“You are aware that sandwich is not a verb, right?” I ask, slicing a hoagie roll and lathering both sides with mayonnaise. I’ve been back to work for two weeks. Chuck insisted I take some time. And though I probably would have been able to return after a week, I think it’s good for my mom that I was home more often. She’s back at the church now, too. Routine is the best kind of savior.

“Your sandwiches are verbs, man,” Casey says, sliding up to sit on the counter, but quickly leaping down when Chuck walks out from the back room.

“Why are you here?” Chuck asks, not bothering to look at Casey.

“I’m applying for a job,” Casey jokes. I think part of him loves how much Chuck can’t stand him.

“Don’t bother; you’re fired,” Chuck says, pulling together a stack of binders from under the weigh station and continuing on to his office, never once glancing at my friend.

“He’ll love me one day. You just wait—Casey Coffield, employee of the month,” he says, pulling one of the slices of pepperoni away from the bread and stuffing it in his mouth.

I laugh as I finish his sandwich, deciding to cut it in half and share it with him. It’s late afternoon, and my stomach is growling. The campus is just coming off spring break, so we’ve been dead for the last several days. And the library—it’s been empty.

I nod to Casey to follow me to a table in the break room. Chuck’s office door is closed, so he won’t notice. We both dive in and start eating as soon as we sit down.

“Dude, I’m telling you,” Casey says through a full mouth. “You really should have gone to culinary school. You missed your calling.”

I chuckle then take a bite of my own. Unlike Casey, I chew most of it before answering. “I’m pretty sure sandwiches don’t qualify as culinary,” I say.

“Says you,” he mumbles.

We both concentrate on finishing our food for the next few minutes, an early afternoon Thunder game playing on the radio, filling our silence. Casey finishes first, crumpling up the paper for his sandwich then pushing away from the table, his hands folded behind his head while he watches me.

“So are you going to wear that?” he asks. I look down at my apron, my nametag, green store-shirt, and gray jeans with flour handprints on my legs.

“I’m at work, jack-ass. What else would I wear?” I ask, standing and picking up our trash, encouraging Casey to follow me out to the deli. Chuck will only be distracted for so long.

“Yeah, you’re at work now, but I meant later,” he says. Smart-ass is stamped all over his face.

“And what is later?” I ask, not sure I really want to know.