“When Ty introduced me to his brother and said you and I were…roommates,” he says, and I register more words this time. Still not all of them, but enough. “You said it was…temporary.”

“Mmmm, yeah…I did,” I breathe, my eyes no longer able to open, my voice coming out in an amusing hum. I like the way I sound right now. But Houston sounds sad. Why is he sad?

“Is it because…of the video, and the fight we had?” he asks. Video? Oh, yeah…there’s a video. And he wasn’t happy about it. He didn’t believe me when I told him it wasn’t me in the video, at least I don’t think he did. My feet aren’t moving anymore. I don’t think we’re swaying, but the floor feels like it’s moving.

“Paige? Do you want to move out?” he asks.

“No,” I say quickly, reaching my arms around his body and squeezing myself to him tighter. I don’t want to move at all. I just want to sleep, standing up, against his chest.

“Then why say temporary?” he asks. His hand moves slowly upward until his fingers find my head and begin stroking my hair.

“Because I like you, Houston,” I exhale, letting the smile sit comfortably on my lips, nestling in for more of his warmth. “I like you. I don’t wanna like you. But I do.”

His hand moves faster all of a sudden, and his arms swoop under my legs, and then all I remember is blackness.

Chapter 11

Houston

Her room is dark. I’ve been waiting for a light to come on, for a sign of something to shine through the small inch of space underneath her door. I’ve been up all morning. I’ve been up all night.

She never got sick, but I have a feeling Paige is going to have a wicked hangover today. I’m also pretty sure she’s not going to remember a word she said. And that’s probably a good thing.

I won’t mention it either. Doesn’t mean I didn’t like hearing it, that I don’t like knowing it—how she feels. I like it a lot. But last night was like being in a time out—like summer camp, where stupid things you do don’t count. I went to camp when I was twelve and kissed a girl three years older than me. It was camp. Free pass for her to do something she never would anywhere else in a million years. I benefited. That’s what Paige got last night. She got lit, and her mouth said some things I know she would never let slip out otherwise. She likes me, and she doesn’t want to. That last part…it’s the reason I’ll keep my mouth shut, pretend it didn’t happen. That and whenever I think about the idea of being something more I also think of the never-ending list of reasons why it’s a bad idea, why it would end badly.

I think of Leah.

But I like knowing it all the same.

Mom took Leah to work with her already, and she grilled me a little at breakfast.

“That girl seems to have a lot of drama,” she said this morning. All I could do was shrug because yeah, she does. I didn’t want to add on to my mom’s conclusion—or defend Paige. Whatever move I made would have brought my mom down a new path of questioning, one I wasn’t ready for. So I kept my mouth shut. But the entire time, I kept thinking about how Paige said she likes me and wishes she didn’t. It stings and feels awesome at the same time.

Life is such a tease.

I have about ten minutes before I need to leave for class when Paige’s door opens, her body backlit by the small lamp in her room. Her hair is matted to the side of her face, and her makeup is in all of the wrong places.

“Ugh. Why are you here?” she asks, holding a hand up to block my line of sight, like I’m a cameraman.

“I live here,” I chuckle, getting to my feet from the spot I’ve been sitting in the hallway outside my door. “How you feeling?”

I know how she’s feeling—like shit. It’s confirmed when she bunches her lips and sends me a sour expression like she wants to be sick.

“Don’t let me mix beer and shots ever again,” she says, rubbing her fingers into her temples. Again. As in, I’ll be there the next time she does that. It catches my attention, and I dwell on it while she’s saying something else.

“I said…” she’s shouting now, so I turn my attention back to her. “Would you drive me to class today? I don’t think I can walk without it killing me. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

I laugh again, because I’ve seen her routine a few times now, and I think the fastest she’s ever gotten out of the house is forty minutes. “I’m pretty sure you’re being dramatic—it won’t kill you. But…I leave in ten, so if you’re ready then, sure,” I say, stepping into my room. I hear the shower on the other side of my wall. Pausing, I stand next to it, thinking how we’re only a foot apart right now.




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