“Sorry,” Houston mouths through a smile.
“It’s okay,” I say, softly, rethinking the idea of living with his family. This scene right here in front of me—it’s very appealing. “Your family, I’m guessing?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, reaching down to pick up the bouncing girl, tucking her so naturally in his arm. She finds her place quickly at his neck, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. “This is my mom, Joyce. And this is Leah…my daughter.”
My face just went seven shades paler. I felt it. Normally, I can lie through my teeth, give off the cool and calm vibe. But my heart just started beating in my stomach with such force, I can feel it in my belly button. Houston is staring at me, our eyes having a silent conversation. His saying sorry for the surprise, and mine doing their damnedest to pretend I’m not shocked or surprised or disappointed or any of those things that I feel right now.
“Daddy, I’m soooooooo hungry. I waited for your eggs. Can I have some? Pweeeeeeeeeeeese?” Leah’s legs are swinging around Houston, and his arm is clutching her body, his muscles flexing in their protection. He turns his face to this small girl, who looks like she’s maybe four, and pushes his nose to hers. They are almost exact duplicates.
“Yes,” he smiles, and she raises her hands in victory.
“I got it for her, Houston. You finish up talking with your friend and your mom,” Sheila calls from the back. Leah goes running behind the counter, hugging Sheila’s leg next and climbing up a tall stool at the back table. It’s her stool—there for her. She probably comes to visit him all the time, in the morning, when I’m never around.
“So…” he starts, stopping though, because there’s really nothing he needs to say or explain. There it is. Houston is a father, with a room, that he’d like me to move into.
His mom looks between both of us and her eyes haze slightly before she turns to face her son.
“I’m going to pick up a few things. I’ll be done by the time Leah’s ready. I’ll get her to pre-school,” she says, kissing her son on the cheek and glancing at me once over her shoulder before moving down a nearby aisle.
“You’re…married,” I say, my insides twisting the second I say the M word, wondering why in the hell that’s the first thing I asked.
“Not exactly,” he says, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, and his eyes peering down at his feet. He takes a long deep breath, and I take the opportunity to do the same.
“You’re…separated?” I ask, pretty sure that’s not much better. This situation is feeling stranger the longer we talk. I’m pretty sure living like a paranoid-crazy woman in the Delta House is winning the mental address war happening in my head.
“I’m…” he says, stopping for one more heavy breath before pulling his eyes up to meet mine. “I’m widowed.”
Houston
Well, that’s not how I saw this going. But how else could it really have gone? I can’t invite a girl to move into our house just because I think she’s cute and quirky and she makes me feel like the twenty-one-year-old I really am. I lost that privilege the moment I heard Leah’s first cry. And I lost it again when Bethany died.
Paige is looking rapidly from her bag, which is still slung over the chair she was sitting in, then back to me, then to Leah, who is humming while she eats at the counter just behind me. She always hums when she eats. It’s the greatest sound in the world.
“Oh, I’m…sorry,” Paige says, her voice unsure. Nobody ever knows quite what to say. It’s not a conversation a guy my age usually has to have.
“It’s okay. It’s been almost four years,” I say, pulling the bottom corner of my lip into my mouth, keeping myself from over sharing. I can see Paige doing the math in her head. Yes, I’m a young dad.
“Seventeen,” I say. Let’s just get this out of the way.
She looks at me, her eyes pinched. She’s pretending not to understand.
“That’s how old I was when we had Leah. You were wondering…I…I could tell. I’ve seen that look before,” I say.
“Oh, no that’s not what I was…oh…fine. Okay, that’s what I was trying to figure out. So, you had her in high school then, huh?” Paige asks.
“That’s kind of what seventeen means,” I say. I can see her eyes flinch, and I feel badly. I didn’t mean to be snarky or hurt her feelings. “I was being funny.”
“You’re not very funny,” she says back fast. She’s always fast. I know she’s trying to put up a front now, but her comebacks are cute. I can’t help it, and I chuckle.