“I want to help out, maybe shop for some groceries when I can? Is there anything that I can get? I could go later today,” I say.

Her smile gets tighter, and I’m expecting her to speak long before she finally does. “Get whatever you would like. We’re fine with what we have,” she says, turning from me so I can’t see her face. I get the sense those words are talking about more than the food in the pantry.

“All right, well thank you, again,” I say, my voice weaker. I’m gathering my backpack and things when I hear Leah skipping down the stairs, so I pause at the back door to make sure I say goodbye to her for the day. Before I fully turn, I feel her arms around me, her face nuzzled into my side, and she kisses my hip.

“Have a good day,” she says.

“Oh…thank you. You too,” I say, a little stunned by her affection. I glance back up at Joyce—her worried smile still the same. I understand it a little more.

Leah.

This isn’t about me and Houston—her concern is about me…and Leah.

I leave without voicing any of the nonverbal conversations Joyce and I just had. Houston’s mother is warm and wonderful. Much of her reminds me of my mom, only far less flighty. Joyce is strong, and she’s very much the glue that holds this house together. I respect that. She and I are more similar than she knows—we’re both protectors. Which means as welcome as she makes me feel, she also prefers me to leave everything exactly as I found it. And maybe a week ago, I would have.

Before I let him in that little bit more.

Before he believed me.

Before my heart latched on to the feeling it gets when he comes home, when I see him, when he calls.

Oh my god, somehow I’ve turned into one of those girls, the kinds who have crushes! I’ve been hot for guys. I’ve chased guys, flirted, won them over, made them mine. I’m like a conqueror when it comes to making boys obey. But Houston is like…he’s like an invasion! I like him more than I’m ready to admit. Maybe I just admitted to it. Damn it—that thought is in there now. I admit it. If I had a girlfriend left to talk to, she probably wouldn’t be able to shut me up about Houston. There’s one benefit to being shunned—no witnesses for my descent into happily-ever-afters and fairytales.

My lab class is biology, and the lecture room is very clinical. Clinical—yes, I need the white board, the sterile metal chairs. Nothing in that room looks like hearts and flowers. If only the lecture promised to be interesting enough to distract me. I’ve only been to a few this semester, but so far, the lessons feel like everything I already learned in high school. It makes me wonder what my parents are paying for, and why I can’t just move into studying what I want to be doing. I take the long route to class whenever I can, just so I can pass the architecture and design building. I love watching the students in the design lab work with colors and textiles. As I pass by today, they’re working with mood boards on giant monitors, which makes the building look even more like a real interior-design shop—just like the ones on the same street as my mom’s bead store in Burbank. I’ve already been promised internships there for the summer.

I wouldn’t mind spending the summer here either.

That thought comes out of nowhere. Staying here—in Oklahoma? That’s never even been a consideration for me. Like…ever. This thought. It’s Houston’s fault. I will forever keep it to myself. I’ll probably just go home, stick to the plan, so no harm. No need to ever let that thought pop into my head again.

Butterflies.

Fairytales.

Motherfuck!

As I step into the lecture room, my pocket vibrates with my phone, and I pull it out quickly to take the call—glad to have something extract me from that weird fantasy of staying here, of a more permanent here. Of…here…with Houston.

Leah, Leah, Leah. I repeat her name in my head before answering my phone. That’s the only word that grounds me. Leah’s all about reality—big time reality.

“Me and Rowe want pizza. Lunch. Ditch the class,” Cass says the second I answer. I look up at the clock, and it’s not quite yet ten. My lab goes until one—it was either this class or a night one, and I hate the idea of school ruining my evening. Of course, when I made my schedule, I had planned on being at parties on Friday nights or out with the girls.

Plans change.

Somehow, my first year at college was revolving around school and studies, and less on social things.

“It’s still breakfast time. My palate is not ready for that,” I say moving to an aisle seat near the middle. I’ve learned the routine—about a half an hour of lecture then we move to the lab for the day’s project. The stupid sterile, metal chairs snag my clothes when I walk through the rows. Aisle seats are the only way to go.