Page 36 of Houston, We Have a Problem
Houston: Bardem thinks his wife makes better nachos, but I’ve seen some of the lunches he brings from home, and I’m not willing to risk a taste test.
Houston: How’s that data control treating you?
My cheeks are going to hurt from smiling this much, and I’m glad Jesse went into town so I don’t have to see him looming over me with those judgy eyes of his. I swear, he was two minutes away from flickering the porch light last night when I finally came inside (way later than I should have), and he refused to listen when I told him I’m working on the story. I haven’t breathed a word of what happened—almost happened—yesterday while I was doing laundry, but I have a feeling he knows.
Me: As boring as ever. I get sleepy when I try to describe it to people, but it pays the bills and has flexible hours, so I can’t complain too much.
Houston: I may need you to tell me about it so I *don’t* fall asleep. Our manager is droning on and on about how we need to work together as a team to win games.
Houston: I don’t think he realizes that’s about as basic as you can get with team sports, but his whole speech feels very coachy, so I guess he’s doing something right.
Me: Are you telling me you put your Little League team to sleep when you talk to them?
Houston: No, I’m one of the cool coaches. I always roll up to games bearing gifts of Fruit Roll-ups and orange slices.
Me: Good. I didn’t need my weekend to be as boring as my day job.
Houston: You’re really coming tomorrow?
Even if it’s a terrible time to take a step back from this conversation and think about what I’m doing, I set my phone down anyway and take a deep breath. Connor told me in no uncertain terms that I have to be at that game, whether as myselfor Tamlin. No one knew Houston coaches Little League, so this is kind of a big deal. It’s notthebig deal—Connor is still talking through strategies for future Tamlin interactions—but this side of Houston isn’t going to stay secret for long.
Even if I didn’t tell the story, Connor would put someone else on to it.
I wish I hadn’t told him.
It will be better if I can control how it goes out and minimize the effect this has on Houston’s ability to keep coaching. As soon as the world knows about it, they’re going to start flocking to every Little League game in Sun City, which could be beneficial for the teams who don’t have a lot of funding. But at the same time, Houston’s fame might disrupt games and turn this into a spectacle instead of an outlet for the kids.
Why did Houston have to tell me about this?
Sighing, I pick up my phone and send off a text I don’t mean.
Me: I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
October 26
By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, I’m pretty sure Jesse is at the end of his rope because I’ve been freaking out about this all morning. He slips out of the car as quickly as he can when I drop him off at his new temp job—at a tattoo parlor, which, frankly, makes a lot of sense. I’ve never understood his passion for makeup, but this makes me think he’s in it more for the artistic aspect than the beauty. Jesse is definitely an artist, and apparently the human skin is his favorite canvas. He doesn’t really care about the medium.
Before closing the door, Jesse peeks in at me. “This is your job,” he reminds me. “And going to a game you were invited to isn’t doing anything wrong.”
Maybe not, but lying to the guy who has been nothing but nice to me feels pretty wrong.
“Just have some fun, Darce. You work too hard.” He gives me a little smile and then heads inside to make some people incredibly happy about their choice of tattoo parlor; they’re getting the best.
As I drive over to the park where Houston’s team is playing, I grumble about what Jesse said. I do not work too hard. I put in the same effort that everyone else does at Enhance, and half the time it doesn’t even feel like work. I get to claim courtside seats at basketball games and join bowling leagues. I spent a week covering geriatric Olympics in Los Angeles back when I was just an intern. Even here, despite the growing conflict I feel about what I’m doing to Houston, I spend most of my down time with my eyes glued to college football games, searching for any standouts who might be on their way to the NFL next draft season. How could anyone call that work?
The universe decides to answer that question like it did on the back patio, in the form of a phone call from my mother right as I pull into the half-full parking lot.
I hit every red light on the way here—should have expected that—so I’m borderline late, but it’s been long enough since I talked to my mom that I can’t just ignore her. She’d be fine if I told her I need to call her back, but I do miss my mama.
“Hey, Mama,” I answer as I nearly drop my phone.
“Hi sweetie! How is Missouri?”
Apparently Carissa hasn’t shared my whereabouts, which makes this interesting. Do I lie to my mother so she doesn’t start asking questions I don’t know how to answer? I shudder at the thought. No, I can’t lie. I’m doing enough of that with Houston.
“Work is great,” I say. “I’m helping with a big story that I’m hoping does really well for me.”
“I’m so glad to hear that! When are you going to come visit next?”
