—4— Diego
Diego
I check the address on my phone one more time, then look up.
Wishing Blooms.
Green storefront, old wooden planks stretched apart by giant windows lined with flowers, leafy potted plants, and small wooden trinkets you’d find collecting dust on your grandma’s coffee table.
The shop is so small, it looks like it’s being eaten alive by the huge crafts store it’s attached to at the side.
Almost walked right past it. What stopped me was the faded logo on its front door—a big blue flower with a pinkish half circle enclosing it like a moon.
Swear I’ve seen that logo before.
But can’t bother to think of where, too sapped by this fucking heat and humidity.
It rained for two measly minutes, then the sun came out right after to soak it all up like a greedy bastard, leaving the air thick and stifling.
I’m drenched in my loose gray t-shirt and wasn’t even out in the rain, the material clinging to every crevice of my chest and back. It’s annoying.
I enter. The tiny bell goes ding. It’s an instant attack on the nostrils, second you step in. Well, it seems like an attack at first, but only until you realize it’s the most pleasant aroma you’ve ever known and makes you feel instantly at home.
I don’t do “pleasant”.
But I feel like ten-year-old me in my tía’s arms again while she giggled and sang silly songs I’d long outgrown but still laughed at.
Old family gatherings in houses I only half-remember, all my relatives around me, something always cooking, a candy dish we were told not to touch until after dinner—but we always snuck in a candy or two when no one looked.
All those memories are inside my head as I walk around the cramped store full of shelves upon shelves of plants and flowers. Row of decorative pots on the floor. Counter of tiny hand-carved figurines. My eyes take in every color that fills the place.
For as many breakable, fragile things that are around me, I’ve instantly got this instinct to keep my hands to myself.
I come up to one of the shelves, checking out some weird-looking plant with wide prickly leaves and tiny orange flower buds.
I reach to touch it only for one of its sharp leaves to prick my fingertip, causing me to pull back at once.
Funny thing, how pretty things are so often dangerous.
Soft-looking and fragile but bites when you get too close.
“I’ll be there in a moment!” a voice calls from the back of the store, out of sight.
I freeze.
Why did that sound like—?
“Sorry!” he says as he flies out from behind a curtain. “Was in the back checking on—”
His gaze lands on mine.
I’ve stopped dead-center in the store, eyes on his.
“Diego,” he chokes, all his joyful tone of voice gone.
Of course I have that impression on him. “Wyatt.”
He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Then gently places his hands on the counter and lifts his eyebrows. “Something I can get for you?” he asks, sounding almost polite.
Almost. If it weren’t for the annoyed undertone.
Well, if this isn’t suddenly the shittiest day ever. “No,” I answer, and turn to leave.
Then stop.
Sigh.
And face him again. “Wildflowers.”
His lips twitch. “What?”
“The ones I mowed over. Wildflowers.” I shrug at the floral arrangements all around me. “Here to replace them.”
“Replace them …?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
He stiffens up. “I said I’d do it.”
“I’m the one who mowed over them.”
“And I said I’d replace them.”
“So you’re not gonna let me help?”
“Haven’t you already done enough?” he asks sweetly.
This fucking guy, I swear. “I didn’t mean to mow over them. It was an—” I shake my head, unable to say the words, then grab the first potted thing off the shelf. “How much are these?”
His eyebrows twist up. “You’re gonna replace outdoor Texas wildflowers with a moth orchid?”
“It’s a flower, isn’t it?”
“It’s an orchid.”
“An orchid isn’t a flower?”
“Do you know anything about—?” Wyatt huffs, his grip on the counter tightening. “I said I would replace the flowers, Diego. I’m the one who planted them in the first place. As you can tell, it’s kind of what I do.”
“So?” I gesture at the plant in my hand. “You don’t think I’m capable of digging up a few holes in the dirt and dropping some plants in them?”
He closes his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable. It just … It takes a certain kind of …” He gives up and comes around the counter. “Just put that plant back before you traumatize it.”
“I’m not gonna traumatize—”
I think I was expecting him to just grab it.
But Wyatt’s touch is gentle when he takes it from my hands.
His soft fingers grazing my own.
Gliding over them as he carefully takes hold of the orchid.
Fingertips like live wires, sending prickles of electricity up the lengths of my arms, so far up I can feel it in my ears.
Transferring the pot from me like you would a baby. Precious and fragile and guarded with the lives of everyone who loves it.
He sets it back on the shelf and doesn’t let go for a moment, hands lingering in place. He takes in a breath, smiles, then lets go and faces me. “I appreciate it. Thank you. For wanting to do the right thing.” His smile tightens. “But I can handle it.”
His light green apron, like spearmint, with the blue-and-pink flower-and-moon logo on the chest. Giving him a look of authority he didn’t have when squaring off with me on the lawn.
Every light in this cramped shop seems to find his eyes.
Makes them look like sparkling swimming pools.
Annoying.
They’re too bright. Can’t decide if they’re trying to be green or blue. The kind of eyes a man could mistake for safe water.
Which is exactly how idiots drown.
I stand my ground. “I’m the one my tía put in charge of the house. Not you. I’m her family. Not you. Just tell me what flowers to get and I’ll get them and do this myself.”
His smile’s gone.
Seems like I’m starting to get good at wiping them away.
Another ding from the front door separates the two of us from each other like we were just caught doing something.
In walks a man in a golf polo with sunburned neck and shades, which he slides up to the top of his tightly-combed head of blond hair. He slips a hand into his pocket. His loafers clack on the floor with every step.
Wyatt changes at once.
Not much.
But enough that it catches me off-guard.
Something in the way his spine straightens up. How his smile snaps right back in place, brighter than any he’s ever given me.
He looks like a training video host. Perfect. Pleasant.
Alien.
“Mr. Bellamy,” Wyatt greets him. Even his voice is changed. “I wasn’t expecting you until Friday.”
The man stops, like Wyatt’s existence is a surprise. “I was in the area. Thought I’d save us both the trouble of a phone call and drop in. What is it? Don’t like seeing me?”
“No, no, sir. Not at all, not at all.”
“Busy?”
The man doesn’t even look at me. Not even a glance. I’m not here. As good as a dead leaf on the floor to crunch his loafers over.
Wyatt lets out a lighthearted laugh. “Never for you, sir. You’re welcome to drop in at any—”
“That’s good,” Mr. Bellamy cuts him off pleasantly, “because I swear, anytime I stop in at Brighthouse unannounced, they nearly have a table already set out pouring me a cup of coffee before I can even take a breath. Wouldn’t expect less from five-star service.”
Wyatt folds his hands in front of his apron. “I’ll do my best.”
I’m watching them like a ping-pong match, my eyes on Wyatt one second, this Bellamy tool the next, back and forth.
“Well.” The man breezes past me to the counter where he slaps down a piece of paper. “You can start by telling me why this quote here’s so high.”
Wyatt joins him at the counter, looking it over. “Oh. This is … what we agreed on last week, isn’t it? I didn’t think you—”
“Brighthouse can do it for 15% less.” Mr. Bellamy, fancy shoes, fancy shirt, fancy-ass khakis, fancy shades, tilts his fancy head. “I don’t mean to pressure you, son. You know I’m a fair guy. I know you have a business to run. But 15% is 15%.”
“I understand, Mr. Bellamy.” Wyatt swallows, but maintains his kind smile. “Brighthouse has a much larger operation. Several employees. They can bulk-order at a volume, which I can’t just—”
“You know what I like about you?” Mr. Bellamy cuts him off. “You don’t make excuses. Look at yourself. All you accomplished. This …” He waves a hand at the room. “This little shop.” He leans in. “I’m not asking you to become Brighthouse, son. You can’t. I’m asking you to work with me here.”
I linger by the orchid like we’re both watching this unfold.
Work with me?
Yeah, I’ve heard that shit before.
Translates to: eat the difference, small potato.
“I’d rather keep my money local, obviously,” Mr. Bellamy goes on, voice sweeter than candy, like he’s doing Wyatt a favor by asking permission to rip him off. “I’m here, after all. Haven’t given up on you yet. Wouldn’t dare. I’m a nice guy, remember?”
“Of-Of course, Mr. Bellamy. I—”
“And I’ll have many more events coming up that need similar arrangements. I’m not just a one-and-done. Let’s make each other happy, alright?”
Wyatt’s smile doesn’t waver. Neither does his kind voice. “I’m happy to work with you on reducing the price. Perhaps we could revisit the design. The custom arrangements you wanted. Less of the premium blooms. That could bring the price down, which I—”
Mr. Bellamy laughs suddenly.
Like a clown just ran up and tickled him.
“Wyatt, Wyatt, I know …” His hand finds Wyatt’s shoulder and squeezes it to death. “I know your job isn’t easy. But I have needs, too. I can’t let down my family. They want what they want. I need the premium blooms. The custom design.”
“I understand, sir, but—”
“What I like about our relationship is I’m not just a number to you. I’m like your long-lost uncle. Worked with your dad back in the day. Working with you now. You’re like family.” He chuckles lightly. “I know you’re creative. You make things happen. Can you make something happen for me?”
Wyatt’s smile doesn’t move.
His fingers do.
Curl once against the counter. Uncurl.
Then he nods. “Let me see what I can do.”
The man grins. “You’re an angel, y’know that?
That’s what I’ll put in my review. ‘The angel of Spruce’ …
an angel with flowers.” He lets go of Wyatt’s shoulder.
“Send me a new quote by the end of the day, if you can. Time’s tickin’.
Balls are rollin’. Hopefully not any heads.
” He laughs at his own joke. Wyatt does, too.
Then he flips his shades back down over his eyes and breezes right out. I’m not even here.
After the man’s gone, Wyatt turns to the counter, peering at the printed-out quote the man left.
“That guy always talk to you like that?”
Wyatt doesn’t look up. “He’s a regular.”
“Wasn’t my question.”
“Then ask a different one.”
“Fine. Which flowers am I buying for the front?”
“None.” He half turns to me, staring off at a shelf somewhere. His voice is eerily calm. “The wildflowers I planted for Lottie came from my own backyard. I grow them. I’ll replace them.”
He won’t look at me now.
Won’t budge.
He put on a mask for that guy. And it’s off now.
I don’t know how that makes me feel, that suddenly I’m not a person he wears a mask in front of.
“You know he was an asshole, right?”
Wyatt rolls his eyes. “You’re not helping, Diego.”
“And he’s taking advantage of you.”
“You don’t understand anything.”
I take the orchid right back off the shelf. “Fuck it, I’m buying this. Ring me up.”
“Diego, I said it can’t—”
“Not for the front. For inside the house. For me.” I go to the counter with it, right next to him, and set the potted orchid right on top of that stupid quote, startling him. “Ring me up.”
Wyatt glowers at me.
Hiding nothing anymore.
No smiles left in him.
He rings me up in silence. I pay in silence. Then I walk to the door hugging the potted orchid to my chest, and with a ding of the bell, I’m out.
And that night, I’ve got a potted orchid in the window.
Freshly watered.
Staring me down like a challenge to see if I can take care of something that isn’t me. To see if I can keep it alive.
Through that same window, Wyatt’s house in full view.
The glow from his kitchen. His silhouette falling over one of the nearby curtains, standing somewhere inside.
Funny, how all the words we exchanged, the only ones I seem to remember are him thanking me for trying to do the right thing.
Thanking me.
It should make me feel good.
But all I can do is stand here at this window, pretending the orchid in front of my face means nothing while wringing the hell out of my tía’s favorite dishcloth and wondering what it is about that guy I still can’t stand.