“I don’t know…ha—” I stop, a look of surprise on my face because I literally don’t know what word to say next. I shrug, then move to my bed and sit on it, looking around at my few sparse things. It should be easy to move out; I’ve barely made this room my own.
“Just tell me. Whatever it is, whatever that was. Just tell me, I won’t judge you…I promise,” he says.
I’m the girl who rules the playground.
I let my lungs take in as much air as they’ll hold. My mom always says that a deep breath is like a giant reset button for the body. I’ve been breathing a lot lately, and somehow I keep waking up to the same shit.
He doesn’t make me talk until I’m ready. And we spend almost fifteen minutes in silence—me trying to open my mouth to make words, then just as quickly shutting it again and putting my hands to my head, trying to figure this out.
My lips are parted, and I feel Houston’s hand slide over mine, his touch trying to give me strength, when my phone begins buzzing on the bed next to me. The number reads UNKNOWN.
I pick it up and hold it in my hand, not sure if I’m going to answer or not. Then Houston moves his hand to my wrist, relaxing my grip and taking my phone from me.
“Hello?” he answers.
My eyes lock open staring at his mouth.
“Hold on, let me see if she’s here,” he says, bringing the phone down to his lap, cupping it.
“Are you here?” he whispers.
I look to the phone in his hand.
You’re going to get a call from the Herald Tribune.
I nod yes, and Houston hands my phone to me, careful with the exchange, like we’re passing a bomb. He has no idea that we are.
“Be that girl,” he whispers. “I swear to god I’ll still think she’s beautiful.”
My lips twitch into a smile from his words. He’s ridiculous. Lovely and ridiculous.
“This is Paige,” I say. Long, deep breath. I straighten my posture, rolling my shoulders back. I look the part—confident and strong—on the outside.
“Yes, hi…Paige Owens, correct?” The voice on the other end of the line is an older woman.
“That would be me,” I say, every muscle in my body growing tighter waiting for her to get to her point.
“Great, thank you. I’m Roberta Flynn, and I’m the managing editor here at the Herald Tribune. A couple months ago, one of our reporters received an email with some pictures that pretty clearly show a woman named Chandra Campbell in a room with a large amount of illegal drugs. Is this sounding…familiar?”
Familiar? It’s on repeat in my goddamned memory—those pictures…in my hand, on the phone pressed to my face.
“Yes, it does,” I respond.
“I’m going to be frank,” Roberta continues. “We don’t do gossip here. And my gut instinct was to dismiss these photos and not get involved. But one of our reporters has been working on a story for years involving the Campbell family. When we got a call from their lawyer—pretty much threatening to sue every single person who works here for reporting these photos—we were a little less inclined to dismiss them.”
“Okay?” I say, in a question. I’m still not certain how this affects me, but I’m also not anxious to get to that part.
“I know you took these photos, Paige,” she says, like a punch in my stomach—so much for sending something anonymously. “I need you to go on the record. We will protect your name, as best we can, as an inside source. But we’re at a point with the other stories…we have to have everything nailed down and buttoned up. If we open this, we have to be ready to fight.”
I heard her question. Houston didn’t. He’s still holding my other hand, his thumb rubbing softly over my knuckles. His thumb feels so nice. Why can’t I just sit here and feel his thumb? Why do I have to go on the record? Why am I even in a situation where I have to think about records? For a brief second, I think about how easy it would be to do what Chandra asked—tell her I was wrong. But I wasn’t wrong. And as much as I jumped into this for the wrong reasons—for revenge—I still feel like I’m the good guy in this one.
“I’ll still think you’re hot,” Houston whispers, one eyebrow raised. He’s being playful, and I’m pretty sure he’s clueless to how serious this all is. He might think this is just Greek-system politics, but it’s not.
“You won’t use my name?” I repeat. Houston’s cheek dimples with his smile.