“I told her you were coming to live with us. And there’s something you should know,” he says, finally filling the void. I’m a little thrown by what he says. He already has a daughter, and his wife…she’s…gone. I’m not sure what else there could possibly be.
“I maybe sort of, kind of, told her that you…well…” I hear him laugh a little under his breath.
“Jesus! I what?” I say loudly.
“I kind of told her you were Barbie,” he says, letting his laugh take over and spill through the phone.
“Nice,” I say and on instinct lean over the edge of my bed to look into the mirror anchored to the back of my door, I run my fingers through my hair, letting the curls fall from my hand one at a time. Barbie.
“I’m sorry,” he’s still laughing, but less. “I wanted her to be comfortable with you. New people make her nervous.”
“But she met me. At the store,” I say, standing now and twisting to the side. I’m posing—like Barbie—with my right hand to the side, fingers stuck together but my thumb out.
“Yeah, I know. But she might not remember, and she gets a little freaked out…”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt. I don’t want him to feel bad. Now that I’m over the shock, it’s actually sweet that he wants to make his daughter comfortable with me. “I guess I do kind of look like Barbie.”
“Nah, not really. I just panicked,” he says.
A silence settles in again, but this time it feels different, and it makes me smile.
“So…Paige…” I can hear him relax, and there’s something extra in the tone of his voice that makes me bite my lip. My door is still open, so I get up to close it, feeling suddenly protective over this conversation.
“So…Houston,” I mimic his inflection, and he chuckles—that raspy tired laugh I remember from our late-night studying. It’s probably not good that I remember that sound. And it’s definitely not good that I’m chewing my fingernail. It’s not good because I’m pretty sure we’re flirting.
“How was your Christmas?” His question is so warm, so genuine; it makes my eyes sting. I’ve been holding on so hard—trying to fight off things hitting me from all directions—this simple question from Houston has me floored. How was my Christmas?
“It was…” I pause, letting a tear slide down my cheek, but only halfway before I stop it. “It was incredibly uneventful,” I laugh through my cry, mostly so Houston doesn’t sense my sadness.
“Mine too,” he says.
“Oh I don’t know. All day at Aunt…” I wait for him to fill in her name.
“Jody’s,” he says.
“Right, Aunt Jody’s. I bet you spent the day eating homemade things and playing some games and singing around the piano.” I’m basically imagining his Christmas as every single one of my favorite holiday movies.
“Something like that,” he confirms. “How about you? Why was yours so, what did you call it? Uneventful.”
“We had sushi,” I say. There really isn’t a need to elaborate; that kind of says it all. My entire winter break has been a series of nothing-days and blank-evenings. My dad worked most of the time; he’s been wrapping up my sister’s assault charge. We exchanged gifts this morning, mostly items we all could have easily bought for ourselves, and then we went our separate directions. It’s too bad I don’t like reading more. I could have filled my lonely hours with that today.
“Sushi’s…good,” Houston says, and I hear him fighting against his laughter, finally losing the war. “I’m sorry, I can’t lie. Sushi…for Christmas? I’m sorry, Paige. That’s pretty uneventful.”
“Yep,” I say.
“Well, if you’re living here while there’s some holiday, any holiday, I promise you one thing—it won’t be uneventful,” he says. I shut my eyes and imagine what his house must look like, picturing it filled with plates of cookies, holly, and candles. That comfortable lull drapes over our conversation again, and I let myself crawl into bed and pull my blanket up to my chin. I’m strangely more at ease talking with Houston than I am talking with my sister and parents.
Perhaps too relaxed, as I let myself ask Houston one of the millions of deeply personal questions that have been pecking away inside my head since I met his daughter.
“What happened…to Leah’s mom?” The calm in our silence from before gets icier as my question lingers, Houston’s breath heavy enough to be heard through the phone. “I’m sorry. Too…that’s probably too personal.”