Free The Girl I Was Before by Ginger Scott Page B

like that,” I say. I move back to the table and flip through the classified listing, my pen poised to circle the dozens of options I’m sure to have. But after thirty minutes of looking, I’m no better off than I was before, the only listings looking for guys, people who are willing to live way off campus—or in places that, well, I wouldn’t live.
    This whole thing; it’s complicated. I could stay where I am. Part of me wants to, because I don’t like the idea of Chandra winning— anything! But, I also don’t like worrying over what they’re doing to my room, what they’re doing to my things, about what they’re all saying behind my back—or worse, to my face. My first campus-housing fee was transferred to cover my room and board this semester. My parents were going to have to give me a separate check to cover this semester anyhow. I was going to have to come clean about not living with Cass. But not living on campus at all—this was going to be a nightmare of a conversation. I’m not sure what side of my coin is more daunting—the one where I live with evil, plotting bitches who want to bug my room with cameras and post the footage to YouTube, or the one where my parents find out I totally abandoned my sister and broke my promise to them.
    I’m tapping my pen on the table when suddenly a Styrofoam cup slides under its path, and the steam from coffee hits my nose. I do like coffee.
    “Thanks,” I say, smiling up at Houston. He pulls out a chair across from me and slides in comfortably. I watch him over the top of my cup while I blow on the liquid, sending a trail of steam toward him.
    He looks at me in this certain way at least once every time we interact. It’s like he’s looking for my secret, trying to solve my puzzle. I’m not very puzzling, but I don’t want to tell him that. If I’m being honest with myself, I like it when he looks at me. He pulls his green apron off, folding it haphazardly into a crumpled mess on the table. He has a gray thermal shirt on under his plaid button-down. I can see it through the open buttons on the front of his shirt. He’s slouching, one of his long legs stretching underneath the table, the other bent so he can lean to one side. He’s a big guy, his body taking up most of the space around us. There’s some scruff on his face, and he’s chewing at a toothpick. The guy looks like a lumberjack, and for some reason, that thought amuses me, so I giggle quietly.
    “What’s funny?” he asks, leaning forward now, propping his elbows on the table, leaving the small splinter of wood between his lips. He flips it around with his tongue once, before finally pulling it out and smirking, two perfect dimples like quotation marks around his lips.
    “You look like the woodsman,” I say, holding my lips together tightly, trying not to giggle anymore.
    “Woodsman…” he breathes, thinking about it as he leans back again in his chair. “Yeah…that’s better than sandwich guy . I’ll take woodsman .”
    I can’t help but laugh. I look down at his apron and pull it closer to me along the table, tapping my finger a few times on the plastic nametag.
    “What’s up with your name?” I ask.
    He smirks again.
    “I was born in Texas. And I was not planned. My mom wasn’t supposed to be able to have kids. My dad was in the Coast Guard, stationed in Houston, and they had one wild night— or so I’ve been told.” His face animates as he tells me this story, and I watch every movement of his mouth and eyes. “My mom says Houston is lucky, so…”
    “Wow, that’s like a cheesy pickup line,” I say, taking a big sip of my finally cool-enough coffee. Houston holds my gaze for a few seconds, watching me sip, his head cocked slightly to the side. “I was kidding,” I finally say. “That was sweet.”
    His mouth falls into a more relaxed smile, and he looks down at his hands, rapping them a few times on the table, his fingers playing out various beats. I finish my