Page 35 of Houston, We Have a Problem
“Maybe she’s doing a story on what happens during the downseason?”
There’s that word again, the one that is almost right but not quite. I love that she’s trying, even if she has no idea what she’s talking about. It certainly seems like shewantsto know me, which has to be a good sign. She did come outside despite the late hour.
“Maybe,” I say. “She said something about Little League, though I don’t know why someone as prominent as her would want to write a story on a bunch of ten-year-olds who spend more time picking dandelions than they do trying to catch the ball.”
Darcy has made it halfway through the nachos and shows no sign of slowing, which is admirable. I don’t think Brook or Micah have ever gotten through a plate of these on their own,though Chad and I can both pack them in. I like that she’s not afraid to show an interest in food, when most of my past girlfriends have treated eating like a necessary evil.
I should probably stop cataloging everything I like about Darcy, but I can’t help it.
“I’ve never seen a Little League game,” she says after she swallows an especially big bite. “Do they really get distracted so easily?”
“You could come to my game on Saturday and see for yourself.”
She pauses with her hand inside the container, and I worry I’ve overstepped again until she looks at me with excitement shining in her eyes. “Really? Do you play Little League too?”
The laughter that bursts out of me seems to release something in my chest that I didn’t even know was trapped, breaking a dam that I’ve probably been building my entire life to protect myself from anyone getting too close to who I am at my core. I laugh so hard that I cry, and I can suddenly breathe in a way I’ve never breathed before. And I don’t even care that this rupture leaves me exposed because it feels so good to let it out like this.
Besides, there is no way someone as genuine as Darcy Paxton will hurt me.
We sit on the porch for a couple of hours and talk in a way I’ve never talked with anyone before. We don’t say anything significant or meaningful, but it’s all soeasy. And when Darcy can’t stop yawning, I bid her goodnight and make my way to my bed with a smile on my face. Despite everything happening in my life right now, there’s something about this woman that makes me feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. And I am not going to let that go.
Chapter Fifteen
Darcy
October 25
I avoid Houston at allcosts on Friday, which is thankfully pretty easy to do. Jordan shows up next door pretty early but doesn’t stay long, and then Houston leaves for practice around nine and doesn’t come back until that afternoon, heading straight for the shower. (Which, you guessed it, shares a wall with mine. Not at all awkward and definitely doesn’t remind me of how he looked in a towel.) Then he heads back out, maybe to spend some more time with his family who’s in town.
The hard part is ignoring the texts he sends me throughout the day, like we’re suddenly best friends and text each other all the time. I last about twenty minutes after the first text comes in before I can no longer hold myself back from responding.
Houston: I nearly got eaten by one of those fabled spare socks this morning. Do you know where I can buy some sock repellent?
Me: I think it’s called Sandals.
Houston: My stepdad has proven that method is ineffective.
Me: Are you sure? The internet is pretty convinced.
Houston: I have photo evidence that Sandals do not keep away socks.
He texts me again around lunch time, when I’m in the middle of setting up an interview with a golf player in Albuquerque who thinks he’s designed the perfect putter. It’s close enough to Sun City that I can spend the day watching him prove that his design can make anyone a pro. I don’t believe it can, but odds are high that the guy is actually an incrediblyskilled golfer and just doesn’t know it. I would love to be the one to get him in the spotlight if that’s what he wants. No matter the outcome, it should be an entertaining story.
Just not as entertaining as Houston Briggs.
Houston: One of my outfielders isn’t convinced that Grey Bird has the best nachos. Please confirm.
Well, how could I let him down?
Me: Can confirm. Ate my not insignificant weight in nachos last night and still wanted more.
Houston: Well now you just sound like a nacho lightweight. Pretty sure you ate more than that.
My cheeks heat. I hadn’t really been fishing for a compliment, and I don’t see myself as overweight or anything. But I am not petite or slender, and it takes a good deal of effort for Jesse to wrangle me into all of the bits and pieces that make up thin and curvy Tamlin Park. But Houston just heavily implied that he finds me small.
I mean, next to a wall of muscle like him, I am tiny. But I’ve neverfeltsmall. I’ve always been the athletic girl whose muscle makes finding a dress that fits both my shoulders and my small chest next to impossible. Same with jeans that actually fit my thighs without drowning my waist. I’m not nearly as strong as I used to be, but I still like to head out to the batting cages now and then or play a game of Horse on the basketball court with some of the guys at Enhance.
Before I can come up with some sort of response to his subtle compliment, he texts again.
