“What do you care?” he asks, bending lower, bringing his line of vision to mine. I keep trying to look around him—worried our secret is going to be uncovered, when he brings his hand to my chin, pulling my face to look at his. “What do you care who sees us? Who cares if I’m not some beefcake quarterback or if you…”

He stops before he says it and I step away.

“If I’m the girl in that video?” I finish, my chest burning.

“That’s…not what I was going to say,” he says, stepping closer. I take one more away.

“Yes it is,” I argue. I hate that I argue. I always argue.

His hand reaches for my arm, sliding down to my hand, pulling it loose from my pocket until his fingers find mine. God, they fit together so well. They shouldn’t, but they do.

“No, Paige. It’s not,” he says, his voice stern. “What I was going to say is what do you care if you have to carry the spotlight all on your own, no guy to do it for you?”

I freeze at his words, my tongue literally feeling numb.

“Look, I am never going to be the guy doing a keg stand at some party. I’m not a Sigma Theta Kappa whatever. I’m probably not going to be a CEO, because frankly, I don’t want to work that hard. And I’m never going to throw a touchdown pass, unless it’s to my daughter—who, by the way, I believe has every right to catch one. I’m just a guy with a kid trying to figure out things as they come, trying to hang on to my youth where there’s a little bit left. I’m trying to figure you out, because I have to. I’d like to date you, Paige. And it’s weird, because now we’re roommates. And it’s weird because I have a kid. And it’s probably weirder for you than it is for me, but who cares anyway? I like you, and that’s what this all is to me—it’s me liking you and being perfectly fine with being the guy in the background, beyond your spotlight. That’s what I got out of that story your sister shared. I heard that you’re a leader, that you’re the one people gravitate to—people adore you! How have you forgotten that? I want to see that girl, more of that girl—the girl who rules the playground. This place needs her.”

I love the way he looks at me. I don’t think I breathed once while he spoke; I didn’t want to make a sound, do anything to make him stop. As much as the attention hurts, it also soothes. He’s so right. Where did that girl go? And since when did she need some guy with a title to define her?

Squeezing his fingers tightly, I reach up on my toes and brush my lips against his, my hand resting on his face.

“That was a pretty good speech, huh?” he says, his lip quirked up on one side in a half smile.

“It was okay,” I joke, shrugging and turning to walk down the main road back to Houston’s house, his hand still linked with mine.

“You’re just playing tough,” he says, with a sniffle. “That speech was bad-assery.”

“Oh…my god,” I roll my eyes. His playful arrogance is adorable. But yes, it was…bad-assery. Bad-assery at it’s finest.

We continue to make jokes all the way home. Making jokes is easier than being serious—it’s something we both have in common. This morning, I had myself convinced that Houston and I were a fling, something that would stay secret until I moved out for the summer, moved on. But we’re not a fling. And the closer we get to his house, the more aware I am of the fact that he’s ready to tell his mom about us, to talk to Leah about us, to be a real us. That feels fast and intimidating, but I still want it.

I do…want it?

Leah, Leah, Leah. That word still feels heavy as it drums in my head.

What I’m sure of is that I want to be that girl in his speech. That’s partly why when he opens the back door and leads me into the kitchen, I don’t fight to loosen his hold of my hand. I let him hold it, and when his mother sees it, I ignore the flash in her eyes and the heat of her stare.

“Houston?” she asks, her voice not really upset, but more concerned…cautious.

Leah, Leah, Leah.

Houston scratches the back of his neck, then lifts our linked hands in the air, looking at them, looking at me beyond them, his nervous smile falling into place. His dimple. His eyes sparkle. Did I ever really stand a chance?

“I know,” he sighs, letting our hands fall together back to our sides. I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to speak. Please don’t apologize; please don’t say you’re sorry for us.

“Is this a…new thing?” Joyce asks, gesturing her coffee cup toward our hands. Houston lifts them again, smiling again.