“You did it,” he says, half question, half statement.
“I did it,” I say. “I filed to become university council secretary. The election is next month. I even made posters.”
“Oh, I’m gonna need one of those,” he jokes. “Paige Owens, on a poster, with the word secretary. That’s…”
“You better not say that’s funny, you asshole,” I rib.
“Funny wasn’t quite the word I was thinking,” he says, eyebrows raised.
“Oh,” I blush.
“I mean…fuck, man. Secretary. That’s like…a seriously hot image,” he continues.
“You know, it’s not that kind of secretary,” I say.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “’Cause now that’s the kind that’s in my head.”
His eyes aren’t really on me any more; instead, they’re grazing down the length of my leg, and it’s making me want to accidentally-on-purpose touch him again.
“How’s Leah?” I ask, our conversation now feeling familiar and comfortable. I’ve been dying to ask about her, about everything that’s happening, but I didn’t want it to be the only thing between us. I wanted today to be more than therapy.
“She’s good. Surprisingly,” he says, biting his lip, his teeth sawing back-and-forth on it while he thinks. “Or maybe not surprisingly. I don’t know; that girl is a lot stronger than I think. I know she doesn’t totally understand what’s happening, but she gets some of it. She uh…she punched a boy recently.”
“Well that’s always good,” I say.
Houston smiles.
“I thought you’d think so,” he says. “He called her babe.”
“Sexist,” I accuse.
“I think the kid just thought she was pretty,” he shrugs.
“Then call her pretty. Don’t call her babe,” I say, sitting up a little taller.
He watches me carefully, his lips in a tight smirk.
“What if I call you babe?” he asks after a few seconds.
“I’d punch you,” I say.
Houston chuckles to himself, letting his gaze draw forward to the field, watching the players come out to begin throwing. When he doesn’t notice, I punch him in the arm.
“Owwww, what the…” he says, rubbing the sore spot.
“Technically, you did call me babe…just then,” I glower. I can only hold my tough-girl act up for a few seconds though, because he mocks me, and it makes me laugh. Our laughter fades after a minute, and eventually we’re just looking at each other.
“I miss her,” I admit.
“She punched a boy,” he says. “I think it’s fair to say she misses you too.”
Our stares only grow deeper, but never uncomfortable. It’s like I’m reacquainting myself with every nuance of his face, remembering things so I can revisit them later, so I can use those visions to find the strength to let myself fall.
Our small moment together is quickly interrupted by a familiar voice—a student reporter who has been calling me repeatedly for information on Chandra’s photos. Apparently, he interns at the Herald and saw something in someone’s notes. I’m pretty sure he’s breaking some major ethics rules by pursuing me, but I don’t have anything to lose over those photos now, so I haven’t wanted to make a big deal of it with the paper. I’m just not sure talking with him would be a great move for my student-government campaign. So I’ve been dodging his calls and deleting emails instead. I can keep this up for a while.
When I glance over my shoulder, I notice he’s talking with my sister. Houston is talking with Nate, who’s stopped over by the first-base wall. I pull my phone back into my lap and lean to my right, wanting to hear what the reporter is asking Cass. When I hear him bring up Chandra, Cass dismisses it quickly, as if the entire thing—and Chandra—are no big deal. It makes me smile.
“Crazy how that whole Chandra thing blew up, huh? The way those pictures found their way online?” Ty says to me over a few rows of seats to the section I’m in. I glance up at him ready to bluff, but I can tell right away in his eyes that he knows, and that he’s proud of me.
“Yeah…” I say, standing and straightening my shorts and blouse, pulling my purse onto my arm. “Definitely…crazy.” I lean forward and whisper to Houston that I’m getting a drink, then turn to take the steps slowly, not wanting to draw the attention of my reporter friend, or to look like I’m running. I’m not. I’m done running. But I’m also done making a scene.