“What, the kind of guy who wants to make sure he didn’t move a porn star in with his four-year-old daughter? That guy’s not good enough for you?” he laughs. His arms are outstretched, and now his arrogance is fueling me. I take one more step backward in the direction of my room—I’m a foot away from closing the door on him and locking him out. My mouth is watering, and my lips are tingling. This sensation, it’s not the kind you get when you want to be kissed. It’s the kind you get when you want to say something hurtful. The urge is familiar, and I’m not very good at controlling it.
We stare at one another, both of us breathing hard and even, like a bull and a fighter in the ring. Then Houston waves a blanket of red, and my instincts take over.
“How could you be so careless, Paige? So…so stupid?” he asks, his eyes smaller, his gaze locked with my own, his head shaking in disgrace.
“Says the single dad who knocked up his high-school girlfriend.”
My words fall out, all at once. They were purposeful. They were meant as an attack. They were meant as a defense. They were meant to destroy, to puncture his heart, and make it bleed—to wreck him where he’s most vulnerable. Houston’s eyes never leave mine, and the shift within them is subtle, yet intense all the same. The green color grows darker, and the hurt washes over everything else.
“Houston…” I start, my eyes falling closed, my heart no longer beating. The guilt stronger than anything I’ve ever felt.
“Don’t, Paige. Don’t try to make that better. You can’t,” he says, holding a hand up as he walks away. I stand still, watching as his hand reaches his door. He never turns to face me, but he pauses, leaning his head against the wood. “Just slide the phone under my door whenever you’re done.”
I nod in response, even though he can’t see me. My voice, so strong seconds before, fails me now.
“Oh, and Orr,” he turns his knob, pushes the door open, and slowly steps inside, his body facing mine again. He looks up from the ground, and the disappointment I thought I saw on his face earlier is nothing compared to the look he’s wearing now. “My last name’s Orr. So is Leah’s.”
His door shuts, and I stand there frozen, looking at the ghost of where he was for a full minute before I’m able to retreat back to my own space, shutting my door as well. The tingling is gone, my control lost. But that rush I usually get from being strong, from standing up to someone—it never comes. The only thing I feel is sad.
It takes me an hour to find the courage to watch the video—yet another to let myself really watch it. By the evening hours, I’m finally capable of thought and reason, and I realize—the girl in this video, she isn’t always me.
The things I thought might be in there—they’re there. There’s the strip tease at the frat house, and a few close-ups of me in my bra. There’s also a heavy make-out scene with Carson, where my shirt gets stripped away. But then some things get really strange. My hair doesn’t look right, and there’s a noticeable mismatch where my head meets my neck. I can’t prove it for certain, but I think maybe this video has been edited. I don’t remember any of it—which I know doesn’t say much, and would never stand up in a court of law—but the more I watch, the more sure I am.
Hours after my fight with Houston, I step out into the hall. The room to his door is open now, and I know I heard him come and go at least once tonight. I heard Leah, too. She asked if I was home, and Houston said I was busy.
I slow as I reach the entrance to his room, and my body starts to flush when I see him lying on his side on his bed, headphones pressed into his ears. He’s tapping a pen on a pad of paper, and I notice his Spanish book to the side. I smirk at the memory, but lose it the second I remember why I’m here, and the awful thing I said to him.
I consider leaving unnoticed, but before I can, he looks up—his expression void of feeling, his green eyes cold. He used to look at me like I was beautiful, not every time, but many times. Right now I’m a stranger.
He pulls his headphones from his ears, but doesn’t speak.
“I’m done…with the phone,” I say, reaching around the corner of his wall and sliding it on his desk. He watches my movement then brings his eyes back to mine. “I…I watched it,” I say, feeling the rolling sensation in my stomach as I struggle for the courage to keep talking. “Houston…it isn’t me. The girl in that video…most of it…it’s fake.”
He stands as I stutter through my words, and with every step closer to me he comes, the stronger I begin to feel. Relief is such a powerful emotion. I begin explaining what I saw, how I think the video was made, and I’m about to ask him for help, when he reaches for the edge of his door and closes it—shutting me out—my feet curling the inch or so required to move out of his way.