The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(20)
“I’m serious,” I say, pointing with my right hand, twirling my finger. “Turn around or something.”
“Oh my god, fine,” he huffs, turning to lean his back against the counter. I allow myself a huge bite the second he does, but he turns quickly, catching me with cheese and onion hanging from my lips.
“Stawp it, tune awound,” I mumble, my mouth way too full. His chest rises with a short laugh, and he shakes his head.
“No. It’s too late. I’ve already seen you with egg on your face,” he laughs harder, handing me a paper towel.
“Haw haw, vewy funny,” I say, chewing behind the napkin. This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten, but I can’t tell him that. I press the napkin to my lips, finishing my bite, before I swallow and hand the burrito back to him.
“Well?” he asks, his eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Meh,” I say. Liar.
His tongue pushes at the inside of his cheek, and he squints one eye, looking at me hard for a few seconds. This is his bullshit meter.
“All right, it’s good. Whatever,” I say, shrugging. I hate him.
No, I don’t.
He laughs and hands the plate back to me.
“Finish it then. I’m not eating a half-eaten burrito. Especially when there’s lipstick on the tortilla,” he smirks. I blush a little because he’s right; I left a pink mark on the end.
“Thanks,” I say, softer now, and take a seat at a nearby table, dropping my heavy bag into a chair next to me. I glance over to the magazine rack by the door, and the classified listing catches my eye, so I walk over and pick a copy up. I notice a corkboard by the stand, too, with lots of cards posting and looking for roommates; I pause and read a few of them.
THREE GIRLS LOOKING
FOR 4th ROOMMATE – TWO BEDROOM
Yeah, I’m not sharing a bedroom; at least not something in an apartment with that many people. I look over a few more cards, one looking for a smoker, one looking for someone who likes cats and another that only wants a guy, unless you’re “hot,” according to the ad. I’ll pass.
“You moving? Trouble at the Delta House?” He’s joking with me. I remind myself of that before I let my natural instincts say something bitchy. He’s being conversational, and he fed me breakfast. And he’s nice. Nice is…refreshing.
“Something like that,” I say. I move back to the table and flip through the classified listing, my pen poised to circle the dozens of options I’m sure to have. But after thirty minutes of looking, I’m no better off than I was before, the only listings looking for guys, people who are willing to live way off campus—or in places that, well, I wouldn’t live.
This whole thing; it’s complicated. I could stay where I am. Part of me wants to, because I don’t like the idea of Chandra winning—anything! But, I also don’t like worrying over what they’re doing to my room, what they’re doing to my things, about what they’re all saying behind my back—or worse, to my face. My first campus-housing fee was transferred to cover my room and board this semester. My parents were going to have to give me a separate check to cover this semester anyhow. I was going to have to come clean about not living with Cass. But not living on campus at all—this was going to be a nightmare of a conversation. I’m not sure what side of my coin is more daunting—the one where I live with evil, plotting bitches who want to bug my room with cameras and post the footage to YouTube, or the one where my parents find out I totally abandoned my sister and broke my promise to them.
I’m tapping my pen on the table when suddenly a Styrofoam cup slides under its path, and the steam from coffee hits my nose. I do like coffee.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling up at Houston. He pulls out a chair across from me and slides in comfortably. I watch him over the top of my cup while I blow on the liquid, sending a trail of steam toward him.
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.