I let Houston continue without interjecting. He’ll tell me what he’s comfortable with me knowing. I nestle deep into my covers, pressing the phone tightly to my ear so no one else could ever hear his story. Every word he speaks feels intensely private.
“Beth was smart. I know what you’re thinking…smart girls don’t get knocked up. But Beth…she was crazy smart. She was on her way to being our valedictorian, and she had tons of scholarship offers. She had one night with me where we both…we didn’t think, but just acted, in a moment of weakness, and she got pregnant…but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t smart.”
I open my mouth a few times, before I finally find the right words to respond. “I would never think otherwise. We’ve all made mistakes,” I say, and Houston interrupts.
“Leah wasn’t a mistake,” he says quickly, his voice still kind, but his intention direct and maybe also a bit of a warning.
“Right…right,” I whisper. “I only meant I wouldn’t assume something about Beth.” My heart is starting to beat faster, and my forehead is damp; I’m feeling my nerves, and I think it’s because somehow I’ve gotten to a place where I care what Houston thinks of me.
Mother-fuck!
I swallow hard and close my eyes, regrouping and breathing in deeply through my nose. “How did you find out?” I ask, wanting him to finish his story, needing to know how this sad-beautiful tale ends.
“Leah was sleeping. She had just started taking naps on a schedule, and it was the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. My mom and I stayed at the house while Beth and my dad ran to the store. When they were gone for an hour, we started to get worried. I was just grabbing my keys and stepping through the front door when the officer was walking up our driveway…”
His words trail, and his breath catches. I can’t see him, but I know he’s crying. He’s doing his best not to make a sound, but I can hear those small nuances, the way he swallows, the movement of his hand over his face, the rustling sound in the phone as he moves. “The guy veered over two lanes and hit them head on. Everyone died on impact,” he says all at once, as if he had one breath left to get those words out. I know that’s it—that’s where the story ends for Houston.
The silence that follows is long, and there’s no way to break it. I mouth I’m sorry a few times without making sound, imagining it each time, and knowing that me saying sorry isn’t what Houston wants to hear. He doesn’t want to hear anything. He doesn’t need condolences, and he doesn’t ask for them. I asked him a personal question, and he gave me an honest answer—just as he promised.
I hate myself for asking him to tell me. I hate that I had to know. And I regret agreeing to live with him now. Because when I move in, all I’m going to be doing is looking for ghosts, wondering what Houston and his mother see in rooms that are just going to be nothing more than rooms to me.
But I’m also grateful for him—maybe even a little more grateful now that I know. And I also don’t want to let him go. I think maybe…maybe I sort of like him. And I don’t want to like him, because Houston is definitely not according to plan.
“Thank you for telling me,” I finally decide on saying. It’s the only thing that seems…safe.
“Thank you for being interested,” he says, his words just as careful as my own, and followed by more silence.
“Merry Christmas, Houston,” I say, my heartbeat finally back as it belongs.
“Merry Christmas, Paige,” he returns, and for the first time all day, I feel the sentiment of this holiday in my heart. “Call me…if you need anything.”
He hangs up first, and I linger, my eyes entranced on a small stitch of fabric on my blanket. The sun set only an hour ago, but I think maybe I should end my day now, shut my eyes, and protect my ears from hearing anything more. Tomorrow I’ll go back to being the girl in a makeshift porn, with an arrogant, self-centered ex-boyfriend who misses her when he’s drunk and sends her pictures of his body parts. Tonight, I will enjoy knowing that nice guys do exist. I’ll let myself smile because I’m the kind of girl who nice guys trust enough to share their secrets with. And maybe I’ll indulge in the fact that I have a crush—a crush on a guy whom I under no circumstances really want to be with—but a crush all the same.
And it feels pretty damn good.
Chapter 7
Houston
I’m honest. I didn’t lie when I told Paige that. But…I also haven’t told anyone about Beth, about that night, about much really. My life is simple, and the people in it are small in number. There’s Leah, my mom, Casey, Chuck, and Sheila—that’s my immediate family. So the need to share—doesn’t come up often. I guess I’m glad I still can, but ever since…I’ve felt a little bit like I’ve somehow pulled that pain closer, dug it up from the grave and dusted it off so I could feel it again.