Anything You Want, Diego

Chapter 1 TARAN

“You owe me,” I said, trying to look super serious about it and failing.

“You look very handsome,” Mom assured me, straightening my tie.

“Flattery will get you one hour.”

“Two. Come on, honey, I didn’t make you go to the church.” She reached up to pat the side of my face. “That’s the boring part.”

“I mean, we’re about to spend our Saturday night eating lukewarm chicken and rigatoni in a glorified high school gym. And it’ll be full of people who know us. This is also the boring part.”

“It’s the Serbian Center!” She tried to look offended but couldn’t help laughing. “Your grandfather was on the committee to—”

“Totally beside the point, but nice try.” I chuckled and started toward the giant block of a building.

Felt like half the graduation parties, baby showers, and weddings of my entire childhood had taken place here, and I still had no idea what it was even supposed to be.

A catering place, yeah, but why was it here in the middle of nowhere in Stanley County, West Virginia?

And what was Serbian about it? Dad’s family were mostly Serbian, and they were the only ones who didn’t have parties here.

“Whose wedding reception is this, again?”

“Annie’s oldest.”

“And who is Annie?”

“One of my mahjong girls!”

“Riiiight.” I opened the door for her and waved grandly. “After you.”

She smiled at me, the crinkles around her eyes deepening. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“My pleasure.” I followed her inside. Predictably, the lights were dimmed to an atmospheric purple tint, fairy lights were strung around a central dance floor near a DJ booth, and the walls and round tables were swathed in a sea of purple and white cloth flowers.

On each placemat sat a little violet satin pouch tied up with a bow.

Damn. I hadn’t been mad about it in months, but this made me happy I’d dodged the whole wedding bullet. Yikes.

Mom dragged me to a table half-full of her mahjong friends, and I let them all pat me on the face and tell me I looked so grown up, like a good son.

People filtered in slowly at first, but after ten minutes it started to fill up, and one of the mahjong ladies’ husbands took pity on me, catching my eye across the table and nodding to the bar.

I was out of my seat so fast, it screeched against the floor. “Can I get you something?” I asked Mom.

“Vodka soda?”

I nodded and beelined for the bar with this random old guy, my savior. Okay, not actually old. He was probably only in his fifties like Mom, but he had a reassuring amount of gray in his beard. “Arthur Jakes,” he said with a sideways smile.

“Taran Kovacs,” I said back.

“I know who you are. Used to watch you every Friday night.”

Of course he had. I plastered a smile onto my face.

“Had a great season your senior year. But I’ll tell you what: You’re better off not playing at a higher level than that.”

I nodded and dissociated a little while we queued up at the bar, and he told me that I probably would’ve ended up with CTE if I’d played my whole college career, and definitely if I’d gone pro. As if there’d ever been any idea of me going pro.

Okay, I’d definitely wanted to go pro. What high school football player didn’t have a little spark of hope that he’d be the lucky one?

“I don’t think those new helmets are doing a damn thing, either,” Arthur said as we finally got to the front of the line. “What are you drinking?”

“Uh, vodka soda for Mom. 7 and 7 for me.” Because that was what passed for a whiskey-based cocktail in these parts.

“Bill! Hey, Bill, look who I got here.” Arthur said to another middle-aged dude.

Bill diverted his path to join us. “Kovacs? Your mom here?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, wondering who the hell he was. Mom should run for mayor, honestly.

“Good, good.” Bill held out one hand to me, so I took it and shook.

“Was just talking about the old Friday night lights,” Arthur said.

“It’s different these days. No one wants to play football anymore,” Bill lamented.

“Can you blame ’em?” Arthur launched into another screed about CTE.

Which, by the way, I was incredibly grateful to have avoided. Even playing quarterback, I’d bounced my head off the field and other players more than I cared to remember. But this was exactly why I hated going to stuff like this in the first place.

The bartender set my drinks down, and I scooped them up fast. “Nice to meet you, sir. Just gonna take this to Mom. See you over there.” It was as brief as I could get without being impolite.

Neither of them seemed to care much, as they went back to their high school football chatter and I darted around the corner into the main event space.

And promptly ran smack into someone. My drink slipped and splattered on his shirt, but I kept the vodka soda upright somehow. “Oh shit. Sorry!” I said, looking for a place to put the drinks down so I could help the guy. How I was gonna do that, no idea, but one problem at a time.

“Ah, it’s fine. Not the first time I’ve come home from a wedding smelling like—” He paused. Cocked his head and stared at me.

I flushed from my toes to the top of my head and blurted, “Diego.”

“Wow. Still remember my name, Kovacs?” A slow smile spread across his angular face. “And here I was sure you’d forgotten all about me.”

Oh damn. Oh holy shit. I hadn’t thought about Diego Marsh in—

Okay, I thought about Diego Marsh regularly. Who was I kidding?

“I’m so sorry,” I tried again. My cocktail was all down the front of his shirt. Of course he wasn’t wearing a tie, just a slightly open pale pink button-down. His shoulders had gotten bigger. So had his arms. Huh. Must’ve started working out after high school.

“Don’t worry about it. I have a spare in the car.” He stepped back and looked me over, hazel-green eyes glittering in the ridiculous mood lighting.

“Can I go get it for you or something?” I didn’t even know what I was saying, I was so spun up now. The last, the absolute last person I would’ve expected at some hometown wedding was Diego I’m-Gonna-Go-To-New-York-And-Get-Famous Marsh, dammit.

“You can come with me, if you want.” He raised both eyebrows, starting to look obnoxiously amused. “Good excuse to get the fuck out of this purple hellscape for a minute.”

I sighed in something like relief. “It’s brutal.”

“I’m gonna get a drink. You look like you need another one.” He fixed his gaze on my half-spilled whiskey.

“Ah, probably. I just gotta get this one to Mom.” I lifted the vodka soda.

“And the bride and groom will arrive shortly. Yay,” he deadpanned. Then smiled, just a little upturn at the corners of his full, pretty mouth.

I’d thought I was pulling up, but the smile sent me back into a tailspin. Remembering the way that mouth had looked in the dark. The way it’d felt against mine. You’d think eight years would give me enough time to forget, but now his mouth was right in front of me, I couldn’t stop remembering.

“Meet me out front after the bridal party is announced,” he said.

And before I could reply, he stepped around me and into the bar. I turned, watching his retreat and trying not to check if he still had that goddamn adorable bubble butt. But I couldn’t, and he did.

Face flaming, I made my way through the increasingly crowded tables and back to Mom.

Slowly, steadily, I got a hold of myself as the usual reception antics began.

While the bridesmaids entered to blaring Taylor Swift, I swallowed what little whiskey I’d salvaged.

As everyone was cheering for the happy couple, I reminded myself I was a grown-ass adult who was way past all that high school and college insecurity crap.

I had a good job and liked my life, as far as everyone here knew. Even if I was a big old football flop.

I’d just about calmed myself down by the time everyone settled in for the Champagne toast. I leaned over to Mom and whispered, “Back in a minute,” then ducked out as fast as I could.

It was either that, or chicken out. And why? Oh, not because of Diego, who’d always been a cool guy. Because of me, because I owed him an apology or twelve. And not about spilling my drink on him.

When I stepped out into the twilight, Diego was already there, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the brick wall. He pushed off it and nodded toward the parking lot. “Just over here.”

“Sorry again,” I said, trying to think of twelve other ways to say it but with more feeling and sincerity.

“Like I said, any excuse. Cigarette?”

I shook my head. “Still doing that, huh?”

He glanced at me sideways and smirked. “Still doing a lot of things you don’t approve of, I bet.”

“Diego…” I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “Man, I’m really sorry.”

“I said—”

“No, not about that. I mean, I am, but also about just being me. I was an asshole last time we… saw each other.” I fumbled my way through it, but it was a start. Better than I’d done back then, anyhow.

“Ages ago,” he said easily, though he wouldn’t look me in the eye no matter how hard I tried to catch his. He blew out a long trail of smoke before continuing. “We were kids. And look at us now: both responsible adults with college degrees and shit. How’s yours?”

“My degree?”

“Yeah.”

“I, uh, ended up with a business degree. Marketing.” Ugh, jock stereotype number 1082.

“And how’s business?”

“Fine. I might do an MBA. Did you—?”

“Oh, I did get that theater degree, and my father was correct: I will never use it. No regrets, right?” He shot me a look, finally, but it was brief.

He’d seemed so easy about running into me inside, especially compared to how flustered I’d been. But it wasn’t all water under the bridge for him, no matter what he said. Sure wasn’t for me.

I wished I had another drink. A real one, this time.

He led me to a bright red Honda with a banged-up bumper, then clicked a key fob to open the trunk. “So what else have you been up to? Got a wife? Three kids? Summer home in the Poconos?”

“None of that,” I said quietly. “I mean, I was engaged for half a second. Not sorry that didn’t happen.”