“I loves me a fish fry!” Ty says, pushing up to our table, Nate and Rowe carrying their own trays behind him.
He’s loud and recognizable, which makes Houston look in our direction. Our eyes meet almost instantly, and for a second, it’s just as it is every time we see each other through a crowd, through the windows of the library, across a street—we hold up a hand and acknowledge the other one exists, and then we continue being chicken shits and going about our pathetic lonely days.
I’m almost fine with that being how things go, until the laugh…and the hair-flip—then the girl with him says something she finds so unbelievably hilarious that she is compelled to grasp his arm with her hand.
I’m out of my seat before my brain has time to catch up to what I’m doing. I’m a fast thinker, though. At least when it comes to words coming out of my mouth. Somehow, I’ll say just the right thing.
“Pa…Paige,” he stutters. Great. He’s stuttering. This is so cliché.
“Hey, Houston. So, this your hot date?” That’s seriously what comes out of my ever-loving mouth. I bluff my way through, and pretend I’m chewing gum, when really I’m only gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I realize too late that I’ve started this act, so I need to keep it up. I’m standing here, forcing my lips into a smile, knowing I’ve lost most of my lip-gloss on my plastic wine cup, and I’m literally eating myself from the inside.
There’s a moment where his mouth actually forms an oh, and I can’t quite tell if it’s an “oh fuck!” or an “oh, no.” I’m not sure it matters. Either way, I don’t give him much time.
“Hi, I’m Paige,” I say, sliding onto the other end of the bench next to his…date.
“Hi, Paige. I’m Tracey. It’s nice to meet you,” she says. Her shake is firm. Shit, she’s nice. And her teeth are really white. She has her hair pinned in the front in these really cute twists. I should try that with my hair. I hate that I’m noticing things about her hair—things I want to emulate. She can’t be around long enough for that to happen…for her and I to be friends. She needs to go.
“So, what brings you two out for Fish-Fry Friday?” I ask. I’m not even really sure if that’s what this is called. It is now.
“Oh, well…we sort of met…” she’s looking to Houston for confirmation, or maybe out of courtesy. I can tell she doesn’t want to rat him out. Houston is wincing, his eyes closed tightly, and eventually he pops one open, right when she finishes her sentence. “Online?”
Online. She says it like a question.
“Oh,” I say, not really sure what to do with that answer. “Oh.” I just said it again.
Houston’s doing that thing he does when he puts his hand on his neck and squeezes. My best guess is he’s trying to work his own head off his body so he doesn’t feel the pressure of this very situation. It’s maybe one of the cutest quirks he has, but right now I wish he’d just stop.
There are a few seconds that pass when I think Houston is about to talk, but eventually he shakes his head and covers his mouth. He’s as lost for words as I am. The longer I’m here, the more strange being here feels, and we’re all starting to focus on the country song being piped through the speakers; Tracey—I think?—even bothering to go as far as to bob her head in time to the music.
“Well, you guys have a good time,” I say, no longer able to bring my eyes up to meet anyone’s. I wave my fingers lightly at Tracey as I leave our shared bench. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” she says, or at least I think that’s what I hear behind the swishing of air rushing over my ears, my head suddenly light. I stumble when I get back to our table, and I know it’s not because I’ve had a plastic cup of wine. Rowe catches me.
Everyone’s picking at the baskets of food, but nobody is really saying anything. They’re trying to be polite. I know they all probably understand more about me and Houston—and the fact that there’s something between me and Houston—than they say out loud. I kind of love them for pretending, but right now, I wish we could all just call a time out so I could feel sad and angry and pissed and hurt in front of my friends.
My friends. These are my friends.
“I hate fish,” Rowe says. Nate doesn’t skip a beat and grabs her basket, placing it in front of him, and begins to eat her dinner along with his. Their distraction does its job, and the rest of us laugh.
Rowe scratches the tips of her fingers along my arm to get my attention, then nods toward the exit. I silently tell her it’s okay, but she silently insists.