Page 89 of Houston, We Have a Problem
Darcy
November 3
Once upon a time, Iused to sleep on the couch pretty much every night because I spent so much of my free time studying that I would pass out in the middle of reading a textbook chapter about organizational behavior or something. I could wake up in time for class in the morning no problem and even throw in a workout before doing it all over again.
At some point between now and then, I got old. And I regret everything. My back is killing me.
I meant to go up to bed last night, but I kept waiting for Houston to text me again. Or for him to come home. The only text I got from him yesterday was as cryptic as it was adorable, and I’m pretty sure I barely slept because of my thoughts swirling around while my back decided to tell me I shouldn’t play baseball in heels or sleep on couches anymore.
Houston: I’ve been thinking about you all day. I’m not in a place to talk right now, but I’ll see you tomorrow?
What does he mean by that? Not in a place to talk? Is that mentally, emotionally, physically? I mean, I watched him drive away in his truck, so I know he didn’t come home by the time I fell asleep. But with the way he kissed me yesterday, it could be an emotional distance. What if he has changed his mind and would rather date Tamlin than me? I know it doesn’t matter, but at the same time it does. If he prefers the falsely beautiful woman to the real and plain girl, what does that say about him? What does it say about me that I’m jealous of myself?
Love shouldn’t be this complicated.
Stretching, I force myself to slide off the couch and head up to the bathroom to try to freshen up and give myself some motivation to face today. I should have said more to Houston than just, “Yes,” in my text reply, but I had too many questions about why he would disappear when on Friday he was so anxious to see Darcy again.
By the time I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, Jesse is awake and in the hallway, looking bleary-eyed and bitter about being up this early. He was up almost as late as I was, inking people, and his expression is pretty easy to read.
When can I go home?
I know he signed up for this—or at the very least is being paid well to be here on this extended job—but I can’t blame him for wanting the comfort of his own apartment.
“Soon,” I say right as someone knocks on the front door.
As my heart leaps into my throat, Jesse puts his hand on my shoulder, reminding me of what he said when he told me I could be happy here with Houston.
Let’s hope he’s right. No matter what, I have to tell Houston who I really am, and then I can move on with my life. Whether he’s still in it is up to him.
“Good luck,” Jesse says, as if he knows exactly who is at the door.
When I open the front door, Houston stands there with a plate of steaming waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream. His expression is fairly neutral, which makes it so hard to guess what he might be thinking.
“Trying to impress me with your purchasing skills again?” I ask, hoping the tease will put us on familiar ground.
His face doesn’t change as he glances down at the plate in his hands. “I made these. I forced Jordan to wake up unnaturally early and teach me his secret recipe in person.”
“Oh. That’s…that’s actually really sweet.”
Finally, a smile peeks out on his lips. “What do you meanactually? I’m always sweet. Can I come in?”
“Yes! Yeah, of course.”
Handing me the waffles, he slips past me and sends a waft of his clean and fresh scent washing over me. He is newly showered, his hair still damp, and I wish I changed from my pajamas so I don’t look so disheveled comparatively. He sits on the couch and looks so enticing that it takes a lot of willpower for me to hang on to the waffles as I sit beside him instead of launching myself at him. I know I’m being awkward, but I can’t help it. After the way he left things yesterday, I’m on edge.
“So,” he says when I fail to work up the courage to start up the conversation. His eyes slip to the waffles on my lap.
Feeling obligated to at least taste them, even though I feel like I might throw up from nerves, I pull off a piece and pop it into my mouth. “Oh!” I say when it hits my tongue. It’s somehow soft but crispy, sweet but not, and the texture is so fluffy and perfect that it brings literal tears to my eyes. (I’m already feeling emotional, and breakfast food is my favorite, okay?) “This is so good, Houston!”
His smile widens as he watches me pull off another bite. “I guarantee I’ll never be able to make them again. Jordan doesn’t believe in recipes. He says cooking should be done with the heart, not the head.”
“I can taste your heart in these.” I grimace. “Well, that sounded entirely creepy.”
“Are you Tamlin Park?”
The waffles slide off my lap and onto the floor with a splat, along with any ounce of calm I might have been feeling before that question left his tongue. “What?”
I’m pretty sure my breathless response answers his question for me; he purses his lips and drops his gaze to his knees. “You are.” Not a question this time.
