“Order that crap second. I’ve got practice, so I only have a few minutes. Hey, yeah…get me one of those burrito things,” Carson says, leaning over the counter and pointing down as if Houston wouldn’t know what he was talking about. When he leans back on his heels, he lays his heavy arm over my shoulder and pulls me into him tightly.
“I guess I’ll have one of those too,” I say, my eyes on Houston’s nametag instead of his eyes. I don’t want to see the look in his eyes. I don’t even like burritos.
“We only have one left,” he says. Of course they do.
“Oh,” I suck in my top lip and look into the case of food for an alternative. I’m not hungry anymore. “I’ll just take a sandwich then. Tuna.”
“Right…okay,” he says, reaching to the side for a bag. He pauses, though, before picking out one of the pre-made sandwiches for me. “Or…maybe this guy could pick something else and let you have the burrito.”
“Fuck that, bro! I ordered first. Give me the burrito. She’s fine with a sandwich,” Carson says, his voice actually echoing. He’s so…loud. His phone rings, so he steps to the side and answers the call. “Yo, what up, man?”
I can still hear his entire conversation even though he’s twenty feet away. Everyone can hear him.
Houston is standing still, his arms propped on top of the counter and his brow bunched while he stares at my boyfriend. Carson is pacing and talking so loudly, he’s starting to interrupt others eating lunch at the small tables in the corner of the market.
I used to like his big personality. His confidence was what turned me on when we first met at the Sigma-Delta mixer. He’s a starter on the McConnell team, a fullback, and year older than I am—I liked that too.
Houston is moving again, wrapping the burrito and dropping it in a plastic bag. He lets the burrito hit the counter with a thud, and he watches Carson pace the entire time. When he sees his burrito is ready, he reaches across my body and grabs the bag, holding his phone to his chest and kissing me with nothing but forceful indifference. “I gotta run. You got this?” he asks…sort of.
I nod, only because he’s already gone before I could answer.
“That guy’s your boyfriend?” Houston asks, finally packing up my sandwich. Normally, I’d respond with something snarky, a confident quip would put him and that damned disapproving look in its place. I can’t seem to find that fire today.
“I still need to place the party orders,” I say, opting to ignore his question completely.
“Right,” he says, his lips pushed into a tight, flat line.
I add two more trays of shrimp and up the number of platters of meat and cheese. Houston notes it all on the order sheet. I wait at the register while he walks to the office and tucks my ticket away again. When he comes back, he slides a bottle of tea toward me—the same sweet tea I drank the last time I came.
He remembered. It makes me smile.
Propping my purse on the counter, I pull out my wallet and unsnap the clasp so I can pay for my lunch, but Houston stops me. The warmth of his hand is surprising against mine. I don’t jerk or flinch; I only freeze. It takes me a second or two to look up at him—to register he’s stopping me from paying for my lunch. I don’t like that. I don’t like being beholden to someone. Favors—they’re like making a trade sometimes. The last favors I gave away cost me too much.
“It’s on me,” he says, and I refuse quickly, shaking my head no. His hand squeezes mine tighter. “I won’t take your money. Not for your lunch…or his. It’s on me.”
“I can buy my own lunch, thank you,” I say, resenting being pushed around. I shake his grip from my hand and hold out my card. He takes it and swipes it hard along the register, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.
“Damn, you mean that asshole can tell you to do something, and you just obey, but me—an actual nice guy—I can’t buy you lunch without getting your foot up my ass?”
“I’d like my receipt,” I say, ignoring him again. He rips it off and crumples it in his hand and throws it along with my card on the counter. “Thank you,” I say, stuffing it in my purse and clutching my sandwich bag in my other hand.
I can feel the force of his eyes on me as I turn to leave; my heart is kicking the insides of my chest in anticipation of his voice. The closer I get to the door, the stronger the sensation. I almost make it outside when I feel his hand on my shoulder. I spin around, ready to lay into him—my fire flickering.