The Girl I Was Before (7 page)

“You moving? Trouble at the Delta House?” He’s joking with me. I remind myself of that before I let my natural instincts say something bitchy. He’s being conversational, and he fed me breakfast. And he’s nice. Nice is…refreshing.

“Something 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 coffee, and flip open the ad in front of me for one more pass. I notice Houston reading from upside down, and he keeps fidgeting, looking behind him and then leaning to look out the door.

“Are you a spy?” I finally ask.

“Uh…I’m sorry?” he says.

“A spy. You know. Like that Bond guy. Or, maybe a bad guy? Or…I don’t know. You’re really jumpy, and you keep looking out for someone, and I’m starting to think maybe someone has a hit out on me…or maybe it’s you? You’re freaking me out a little.”

He squeezes his eyes closed tightly and laughs. It’s that breathy laugh he does, deep and sincere.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking…” he stops, his finger pulling down at the edge of my newspaper, his eyes staring at the black print, his breath held. “We have a room. At my house. Well, it’s my mom’s house, really. And we rent it. But we didn’t this semester, because we couldn’t get our post up in time, and we’ve just been too busy to post yet, and it’s a nice room. You’d have your own bathroom. Well, you’d have to share with me, but I’m easy. It’s close to campus, so…”

All I can do is blink at him. I’m not sure how to react. There’s a weird part of me that jumped excitedly when he started talking, and I’m not sure what that part of me is or what it’s doing. Then there was this wave of relief. But there’s also this strange nervous feeling, like I should just say
no
and end this conversation. I should probably say
no
because I don’t like getting help or handouts or whatever this is, but I also need somewhere to go, unless I’m staying at the Delta House, and I just don’t know what the right thing to do is.

Houston’s eyes haven’t left the paper in front of me, and his lips are glued shut. He’s frozen. The poor guy is actually frozen.

“Oh, Houston, that’s…that’s really nice of you. I’m just not sure…” I start, but I can see his eyes wince. He’s regretting offering, and that makes me feel bad. “I mean, I’m not sure if I’m ready to move out or not. I have some things to think through. I might just be overreacting.”

“There he is!” I hear an older woman proclaim through the main grocery store entrance. The woman is striking—tall, like Houston, and her dark hair cut short, to rest at her shoulders. This is definitely his mom. I’m so surprised by her—I don’t notice the tiny girl, with hair just as dark as his mother’s, darting toward Houston. He stands to meet her sprint, and she locks onto his leg fast, burying her face into the side of his jeans. Her hair is pulled to both sides in adorable pigtails.

“Sorry,” Houston mouths through a smile.

“It’s okay,” I say, softly, rethinking the idea of living with his family. This scene right here in front of me—it’s very appealing. “Your family, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, reaching down to pick up the bouncing girl, tucking her so naturally in his arm. She finds her place quickly at his neck, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. “This is my mom, Joyce. And this is Leah…my daughter.”

My face just went seven shades paler. I felt it. Normally, I can lie through my teeth, give off the cool and calm vibe. But my heart just started beating in my stomach with such force, I can feel it in my belly button. Houston is staring at me, our eyes having a silent conversation. His saying
sorry
for the surprise, and mine doing their damnedest to pretend I’m not shocked or surprised or disappointed or any of those things that I feel right now.

“Daddy, I’m soooooooo hungry. I waited for your eggs. Can I have some? Pweeeeeeeeeeeese?” Leah’s legs are swinging around Houston, and his arm is clutching her body, his muscles flexing in their protection. He turns his face to this small girl, who looks like she’s maybe four, and pushes his nose to hers. They are almost exact duplicates.

“Yes,” he smiles, and she raises her hands in victory.

“I got it for her, Houston. You finish up talking with your friend and your mom,” Sheila calls from the back. Leah goes running behind the counter, hugging Sheila’s leg next and climbing up a tall stool at the back table. It’s her stool—there for her. She probably comes to visit him all the time, in the morning, when I’m never around.

“So…” he starts, stopping though, because there’s really nothing he needs to say or explain. There it is. Houston is a father, with a room, that he’d like me to move into.

His mom looks between both of us and her eyes haze slightly before she turns to face her son.

“I’m going to pick up a few things. I’ll be done by the time Leah’s ready. I’ll get her to pre-school,” she says, kissing her son on the cheek and glancing at me once over her shoulder before moving down a nearby aisle.

“You’re…married,” I say, my insides twisting the second I say the
M
word, wondering why in the hell that’s the first thing I asked.

“Not exactly,” he says, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, and his eyes peering down at his feet. He takes a long deep breath, and I take the opportunity to do the same.

“You’re…separated?” I ask, pretty sure that’s not much better. This situation is feeling stranger the longer we talk. I’m pretty sure living like a paranoid-crazy woman in the Delta House is winning the mental address war happening in my head.

“I’m…” he says, stopping for one more heavy breath before pulling his eyes up to meet mine. “I’m widowed.”

H
ouston

W
ell
, that’s not how I saw this going. But how else could it really have gone? I can’t invite a girl to move into our house just because I think she’s cute and quirky and she makes me feel like the twenty-one-year-old I really am. I lost that privilege the moment I heard Leah’s first cry. And I lost it again when Bethany died.

Paige is looking rapidly from her bag, which is still slung over the chair she was sitting in, then back to me, then to Leah, who is humming while she eats at the counter just behind me. She always hums when she eats. It’s the greatest sound in the world.

“Oh, I’m…sorry,” Paige says, her voice unsure. Nobody ever knows quite what to say. It’s not a conversation a guy my age usually has to have.

“It’s okay. It’s been almost four years,” I say, pulling the bottom corner of my lip into my mouth, keeping myself from
over
sharing. I can see Paige doing the math in her head. Yes, I’m a young dad.

“Seventeen,” I say. Let’s just get this out of the way.

She looks at me, her eyes pinched. She’s pretending not to understand.

“That’s how old I was when we had Leah. You were wondering…I…I could tell. I’ve seen that look before,” I say.

“Oh, no that’s not what I was…oh…fine. Okay, that’s what I was trying to figure out. So, you had her in high school then, huh?” Paige asks.

“That’s kind of what seventeen means,” I say. I can see her eyes flinch, and I feel badly. I didn’t mean to be snarky or hurt her feelings. “I was being funny.”

“You’re not very funny,” she says back fast. She’s always fast. I know she’s trying to put up a front now, but her comebacks are cute. I can’t help it, and I chuckle.

“So, that thing we were talking about…” I say. I should probably talk to my mom about it, but we had a discussion about the room just last weekend. I know she wants to rent it again. And we could use the cash.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know you were just trying to be nice,” Paige says.

“No, no. That’s not what I meant. I was going to say think about it? Maybe just think about it. I know
all this,
” I say, pointing behind me to my daughter, who is now singing songs to Sheila. “I know that seems overwhelming, but it’s not. You’d have total privacy. And Leah’s a great kid. I work so much, you’d probably see my mom more than anyone else.”

“I don’t know…” she says, her lips in a hard line. Her shoulders are hunched up, and I can actually see the tension in her neck, arms, and face.

“Paige. I’m asking you to sign a lease. I’m not asking you out on a date,” I say.

That flinch in her eyes from before—it’s back. I know that sounded mean, but I don’t want her getting the wrong idea either. Yeah, I think she’s cute, and flirting feels good. It’s been a while. I like our banter, and having a live-in Spanish tutor isn’t a bad thing either. But she’s, what, eighteen? Maybe nineteen? And I’m a dad. I’m on the seven-year college plan. Paige strikes me as someone who’s driven. I’m a speed bump. And I’m not sure I could ever really be whole for someone else.

“Here,” I say, reaching forward and tearing off a piece of the newspaper. I grab the pen she was using to circle ads, and make note of the fact she’s only circled one—an ad she’s also crossed out.

“Here’s my number,” I scribble it down and hand it to her. She takes it and holds it out in front of her, almost like it’s a lit match. “Think about it, over break. And if you want to move in at the start of the semester, the room is yours.”

I can hear my mom talking with Leah, so I let Paige go. She looks at me a few times while she gathers her things, and once again before she walks out the main door.

“And who was that?” my mom asks. She’s using her nosey-mother tone.

“A potential renter.”

“Uh huh . . . ” She lets her response linger for a while, her eyes scanning me, looking for me to give something more away.

“Stop it. She’s nice, and she’s in need of a new place to live. She said she’d call during the holidays if she decides,” I say.

“I see,” my mom answers, a tight smile holding in everything she’s dying to say.

“Stop it!” I roll my eyes at her and pull my apron over my head.

“I didn’t say anything,” she practically sings.

“You don’t have to. You never have to. You have that
mom
look. It’s so damned annoying,” I say, feeling Leah wrap her arms around my leg from behind.

“Damned,” Leah repeats.

“Awww, okay. Hey Leah? That’s one of those daddy words. And daddy shouldn’t say it, okay?” I say, bending down to meet her eye-to-eye. I pull her hands into mine, and we swing them back and forth.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she giggles. Oh my god, is this my kid!