He looks at me in this certain way at least once every time we interact. It’s like he’s looking for my secret, trying to solve my puzzle. I’m not very puzzling, but I don’t want to tell him that. If I’m being honest with myself, I like it when he looks at me. He pulls his green apron off, folding it haphazardly into a crumpled mess on the table. He has a gray thermal shirt on under his plaid button-down. I can see it through the open buttons on the front of his shirt. He’s slouching, one of his long legs stretching underneath the table, the other bent so he can lean to one side. He’s a big guy, his body taking up most of the space around us. There’s some scruff on his face, and he’s chewing at a toothpick. The guy looks like a lumberjack, and for some reason, that thought amuses me, so I giggle quietly.
“What’s funny?” he asks, leaning forward now, propping his elbows on the table, leaving the small splinter of wood between his lips. He flips it around with his tongue once, before finally pulling it out and smirking, two perfect dimples like quotation marks around his lips.
“You look like the woodsman,” I say, holding my lips together tightly, trying not to giggle anymore.
“Woodsman…” he breathes, thinking about it as he leans back again in his chair. “Yeah…that’s better than sandwich guy. I’ll take woodsman.”
I can’t help but laugh. I look down at his apron and pull it closer to me along the table, tapping my finger a few times on the plastic nametag.
“What’s up with your name?” I ask.
He smirks again.
“I was born in Texas. And I was not planned. My mom wasn’t supposed to be able to have kids. My dad was in the Coast Guard, stationed in Houston, and they had one wild night—or so I’ve been told.” His face animates as he tells me this story, and I watch every movement of his mouth and eyes. “My mom says Houston is lucky, so…”
“Wow, that’s like a cheesy pickup line,” I say, taking a big sip of my finally cool-enough coffee. Houston holds my gaze for a few seconds, watching me sip, his head cocked slightly to the side. “I was kidding,” I finally say. “That was sweet.”
His mouth falls into a more relaxed smile, and he looks down at his hands, rapping them a few times on the table, his fingers playing out various beats. I finish my coffee, and flip open the ad in front of me for one more pass. I notice Houston reading from upside down, and he keeps fidgeting, looking behind him and then leaning to look out the door.
“Are you a spy?” I finally ask.
“Uh…I’m sorry?” he says.
“A spy. You know. Like that Bond guy. Or, maybe a bad guy? Or…I don’t know. You’re really jumpy, and you keep looking out for someone, and I’m starting to think maybe someone has a hit out on me…or maybe it’s you? You’re freaking me out a little.”
He squeezes his eyes closed tightly and laughs. It’s that breathy laugh he does, deep and sincere.
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking…” he stops, his finger pulling down at the edge of my newspaper, his eyes staring at the black print, his breath held. “We have a room. At my house. Well, it’s my mom’s house, really. And we rent it. But we didn’t this semester, because we couldn’t get our post up in time, and we’ve just been too busy to post yet, and it’s a nice room. You’d have your own bathroom. Well, you’d have to share with me, but I’m easy. It’s close to campus, so…”
All I can do is blink at him. I’m not sure how to react. There’s a weird part of me that jumped excitedly when he started talking, and I’m not sure what that part of me is or what it’s doing. Then there was this wave of relief. But there’s also this strange nervous feeling, like I should just say no and end this conversation. I should probably say no because I don’t like getting help or handouts or whatever this is, but I also need somewhere to go, unless I’m staying at the Delta House, and I just don’t know what the right thing to do is.
Houston’s eyes haven’t left the paper in front of me, and his lips are glued shut. He’s frozen. The poor guy is actually frozen.
“Oh, Houston, that’s…that’s really nice of you. I’m just not sure…” I start, but I can see his eyes wince. He’s regretting offering, and that makes me feel bad. “I mean, I’m not sure if I’m ready to move out or not. I have some things to think through. I might just be overreacting.”
“There he is!” I hear an older woman proclaim through the main grocery store entrance. The woman is striking—tall, like Houston, and her dark hair cut short, to rest at her shoulders. This is definitely his mom. I’m so surprised by her—I don’t notice the tiny girl, with hair just as dark as his mother’s, darting toward Houston. He stands to meet her sprint, and she locks onto his leg fast, burying her face into the side of his jeans. Her hair is pulled to both sides in adorable pigtails.