Page 37 of Houston, We Have a Problem
While I know she’s asking because she misses me, there’s an underlying layer of stress in her voice that makes it sound thin. Gripping the steering wheel, I try not to let my worry leak out into my own voice.
“How’s Dad?”
Mom sighs. “Oh, you know, it varies from day to day.”
My poor dad has been dealing with severe arthritis for the last several years, and nothing seems to help. He’s too old to still be working, but I know he’s nowhere close to being able to retire in terms of finances. And my mom, who is twenty years younger than him, is probably struggling with how to help him. She’s already working part-time for a local CPA who has a home office down the street from them, but she’s only ever been a stay-at-home mom. I’m not sure she has the fortitude to work any more than she already does, though she’ll do it if she has to. But I know she would rather be spending time with my dad while she can.
“Do you think he’ll need to quit the store?” I ask. “Can he still work?”
Dad runs a hardware store but doesn’t own it, so he can’t sell and live off the profits. He’s tried convincing the owner—some guy who lives in New York—to sell it to him, but I don’t know if my parents could even get the loan for that. Not while they’re still paying off Carissa’s student debt. I hate that they are stuck in this endless financial loop, like scooping water out of a leaking boat with a teaspoon, but I hate more that I can only do so much to help. Someday I hope to move up the ranks at Enhance and make some more money so I can help support my parents.
Hard to imagine that happening when I can’t even find whatever story I’m here to tell.
“It’s getting harder for him,” Mom says. “It’s okay. He still has good days where he can work full hours.”
But what happens if those good days get less frequent?
My job pays too well to quit and move back home to help them directly, but I feel so helpless when I’m states away. My mom puts on a brave face, and I am so glad they have Carissa there to keep an eye on them, but I wish I could do more. I need something better, like a big break story to convince the board at Enhance that I am valuable.
Is that why Connor sent me out here? Am I missing something obvious when it comes to Houston Briggs? I could feel the story just out of reach when I snuck into the Red-tails training room, but I still don’t know what it is. What is Houston hiding?
I’m never going to find out by sitting in a parking lot.
“I plan to be home for Thanksgiving,” I say. “I should probably go. I’ve got work to do.”
“On a Saturday?”
I know full well that the only reason my mom is calling me is because my dad is at work today too, leaving her alone in the house with her worries. “Yeah. It’s not too bad. I get to watch a Little League game today.”
“In October?”
I chuckle. “It’s a little strange, but that’s why I’m here. I’ll call you later?”
“Sounds good. Don’t work too hard!”
“Love you, Mama.”
The game is already underway when I round the bleachers, and I hurry up to an empty seat near the top.
It takes me a second to find Houston amid the many coaches and parents hovering behind home plate, but the instantI see him, my whole body relaxes. I’m not sure I like how quickly he eases my tension.
I see his hair first, blonde locks poking out the front of his backwards baseball hat as he shouts something to the boy who’s up at bat. I take in the rest of him slowly, deliberately, because this is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. He wears sweats and a red t-shirt with the team’s logo—the Scorpions, ironically—printed on the back, but it’s more than his clothes that give him that relaxed look. He is literally relaxed, his limbs loose and limber and his broad shoulders low. And his smile…
He looks just as content as he did when I joked about him playing Little League the other night.
My heart throbs in memory of Thursday’s nachos. Not because of the nachos—which were a religious experience unto themselves—but because I practically watched his stress melt away as he laughed. I’ve spent so much time learning to read people, and I’ve always been fairly intuitive when it comes to body language. But even someone who hasn’t had years of training would have picked up on the way Houston seemed to lose every shred of fear when it comes to Darcy.
If I thought he was falling before, I’m pretty sure our conversation on the steps reeled him in completely.
The opposite of what I needed to do. Houston isn’t supposed to fall in love with me. At this point, I barely want him tobefriendme, but a large part of me treasures the way he looked at me on the porch. I’ve never had anyone look at me like that, like I bring happiness into his life just by existing.
I wouldn’t mind spending a million evenings on that porch, talking to Houston Briggs.
After his batter bunts the ball and hustles to first base, Houston sweeps the bleachers, a bit of tension entering his shoulders. I can’t decide if he’s disappointed he hasn’t seen me or if he’s worried he might find Tamlin, but it doesn’t matter.The instant his eyes lock on to mine, a full, dimpled smile breaks loose and his energy practically doubles. He gives me a wave—several spectators look at me in curiosity—and I wave back, hating the warmth that spreads through me from that smile meant just for me.
The next kid comes up to bat, and Houston puts an arm around his shoulders, muttering something to him before tapping the top of his helmet and sending him up to home plate.
The kid has a good stance and looks ready to knock the ball out of the park. When he swings at the pitch, he doesn’t quite manage a home run, but the outfielders scramble to scoop up the ball, and the Scorpions get one run as the batter makes it all the way to third base.
