—6— Diego
Diego
I have the worst timing in the world.
Walk down to the end of the driveway to check the mailbox for something Lottie said might show up, and there stands Wyatt by his car, about to head to work.
He’s peering at the flowerbed. I guess I froze in place because he looks over at me and says, “Your stones look nice, Diego,” gives a little nod, then gets in his car and heads off.
I’m still standing there long after he goes, mail hanging from my grip, staring down the road.
I get to the auto shop right when a shipment is coming in, so I’m put to work the second I show up, which I guess is fine because it takes my mind off of Wyatt and the row of stupid stones I laid out to protect the flowerbed from monsters like me.
But not for long, since Joel’s wife Mindy shows up to bring him his lunchbox he forgot, then mentions something about a movie night at Wyatt’s.
“I don’t wanna turn him down again, babe.
Can’t we get your mom to watch the boys?
” Joel sighs too hard at that, mumbles, “I’m only goin’ if Tanner and Billy are, ‘cause Lance keeps givin’ me these looks when I go, and I don’t know what I did wrong to him, but it’s just gonna be awkward if I—” “He’s like that with everyone,” she cuts him off, “and if you’re gonna be like that, then I’ll just go myself and you can stay with the kids. ”
I bear listening to them go back and forth for as long as I can stand before clocking out to take a break, since there aren’t any customers anyway.
Then I can’t even enjoy that. “Hey, uh …” Joel appears at the coffeemaker, wincing. “Like, I didn’t mean to ignore you, or …”
I’m confused before he’s started. “Huh?”
“Wyatt’s movie night things. They’re kinda just … somethin’ he sorta-kinda started doin’ recently … kinda.”
That’s a lot of kindas. “So?”
“Did he invite you? I’m sure you’re welcome to go, too. I know you live just next door. Wyatt always welcomes extra guests. That’s just the kinda guy he is. Never turns anyone away. I just—”
“I’m busy,” I grunt back, not wanting to hear the rest, take my lunch outside to the curb, and eat under the shade of an oak tree growing way too close to the sidewalk, pushing up the pavement.
As if that wasn’t enough, that evening, the second I turn the corner and cross the street to my house, I spot Wyatt watering my flowerbed.
I fight an instinct to ask what the hell he’s doing when he looks up, catches my eye, and says, “Evening, neighbor. I’m just giving them a little love, don’t mind me. ”
“Wasn’t gonna,” I mumble.
Either he doesn’t hear me, or chooses not to, because then he has the fucking nerve to look back at me and say, “I’m having a few friends over Saturday night—tomorrow, just a few people, not a big deal, not a big thing.
It’s a movie night, but no one actually watches the movie.
We chat, eat whatever anyone brings over … ”
“Fine with me,” I mumble, heading for the porch.
He rises. “No, no. I’m inviting you, Diego. That’s why … That’s why I’m telling you. About the thing. To invite you.”
I stop on the top step. Don’t quite look at him. Hand gripping the splintery railing.
And I’m a split second from saying no when he adds, “No need to answer me now. You can just come if you feel like it tomorrow. Would be a great way to meet people from around the town.”
My face scrunches up. “The hell would I need to meet people for? I don’t live here.”
“You kinda do right now.”
I’m sick of the word kinda. “Not for much longer. Second this house sells—”
“Might not sell for a while. Weeks. Months, even.”
I shoot him a look.
But I’m not sure the look I shoot him is conveying fuck off the way I mean it to, because he just smiles back and says, “Anyway, if you’re up for it tomorrow.
No pressure at all. Flowerbed’s showing promise, by the way.
Oh! And before I forget.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, and sets it on the railing next to my hand.
Money. “For the compost. I kept the rest.” Then he brushes his hands off, nods again, and heads back over to his house.
I chew my own teeth watching him go.
Fuming.
And don’t know why.
In the blink of an eye, it’s Saturday night, and I’m standing in my dark house at the front window watching people arrive.
Mindy with a casserole. Pair of guys hand-in-hand.
Another pair. Each guest gets swallowed up by the house like bite-sized snacks, their laughter going muffled, fading.
I put on the TV, then can’t seem to concentrate on shit.
I’m about to open the garage and work on my dad’s car, but something keeps stopping me—maybe the thought of someone leaving the house, or someone else arriving, seeing me out there, wanting to ask questions, wanting conversation, all that annoying social shit.
I keep sitting in the dark house, resenting every second of Wyatt’s party.
I finally retreat to the guestroom to give this book my dad swore by another chance—his favorite among his favorites—and I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t get into it.
The long-winded descriptions of everything.
Easygoing plot. Happy characters. Why bother giving a book your time if there isn’t any danger in it?
Isn’t that the point? To be rocked off your ass, turning pages, wanting to know how the characters can possibly overcome their odds?
How else am I gonna find hope of overcoming my own?
Then I turn my head. Someone opened the curtains of Wyatt’s window.
His movie night is in plain sight. An armchair with some dude in it, laughing, drink in hand.
Mindy nearby with a beer and a funny look on her face like she’s listening to a confusing story someone’s telling her.
The muffled sound of the party bleeds into my house through the walls because it’s so damned quiet in here.
I shut my blinds as tight as they go.
Let’s give the book another try.
Can’t made it past the third damned page.
There’s a knock. I look up so fast, the book slips off my lap and tumbles to the floor. I get up and move to the front door.
In the peephole, there stands Wyatt.
For fuck’s sake. Didn’t he say no pressure? That I don’t gotta go over there? Why’s he over here in the middle of his own party?
I pull open the door with too much force, ready to tell him off.
Until my eyes drop to the covered plate in his hands.
“Hey, not sure if you’ve eaten,” he greets me, “but thought I’d drop you off a plate. It’s sort of a mishmash of everything. Except for the ambrosia salad, which I’m saving you from, honestly. Lance tried. Lance failed. So, um …” He extends the plate to me.
I take it.
It’s heavy.
“Hope you like it. Oh, and everyone will probably still be here ‘til midnight, so … if you change your mind, you can drop by later. You work with Mindy’s husband Joel … which I guess you already know. She’s there. And a little drunk. Tipsy. I’m not. I don’t really, uh, drink. Well, not since—”
I get lost in his rambling as my gaze slides down to his lips.
Watching the way they move.
But not what they’re saying.
He has nice lips. Noticed that first time I met him. But never took the time to appreciate them until now. Too annoyed to notice how soft they look. How playful they are, even when he’s serious.
Or rambling. “So, uh, yeah, if you want …” Like right now. “Or if you just wanna meet the one who made most of that food. Billy’s his name. From, uh, T&S’s. I made none of it. Can’t take credit.”
Those same lips scolded me just a few days ago.
“Everyone knows your aunt and uncle, so I’m sure they would love to meet their nephew …”
Then praised me.
Confused me.
His eyes drop to my chest. “Sorry. The food’s going cold ‘cause I can’t shut up. Anyway. Enjoy. Door’s open. Like I said.”
Then he’s off my porch and crunching back over the grass to his house. I’m left here holding a plate of food in silence.
I take it inside.
Peel off the foil.
Two brisket sliders. A square of jalapeno cornbread. Scoop of potato salad. A deviled egg. Chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a unicorn napkin.
And tucked against the side is a banana-nut muffin, like an afterthought.
But it’s that afterthought that catches my eye first.
Just like the muffins he brought over in that basket.
It’s the only thing on the plate suddenly that makes sense. It’s like a message. It’s like, hey, here I am, here’s my thinking of you, I asked Billy to bring some, this is specifically for you.
I hate it instantly.
Then it’s the first thing I eat.
One insanely tasty mouthful at a time.
Gone just like that.
Everything else is good, too, I won’t lie. But that muffin sits in me like a hug. Still warm, like it came straight out of an oven and not just room-temperature, plucked off a snack table, and slapped onto a plate.
I leave no crumbs.
I set the plate in the sink and stare through the front window at the not-really-a-movie-night next door.
There’s no way I’m stepping foot in that house.
He invited me, sure. That’s not nothing.
He isn’t forcing me to come. Isn’t guilting me into it, either.
He just brought me a plate of food, made me feel included, let me know it’s an open invite, and went back to entertain his guests.
But why bother?
Why all this unnecessary neighborliness?
I’m not your damned neighbor.
After giving my dad’s book one more try and giving up again, I kick off my clothes and crawl into bed.
Then toss and turn for hours.
Until long after I’m sure the last guest’s gone and it’s just me in this empty house and Wyatt in his.
Sunday morning, I’m running on less than three hours’ sleep.
And the orchid on the front sill looks weird.
Why does it look weird?
I’ve been watering it every day. It gets sun. What the hell?
I pull out my phone and look up “orchid too much water”.
I look up “orchid leaf wrinkled”.
And “how to not kill orchid”.
Then “do orchids hate windows”.
And “moth orchid care simple not complicated easy”.
Then “how indirect is indirect light???”