—6— Diego #2
I resent every fucking answer this thing spits back at me. The wordy DIY videos. Bored-sounding gardeners. Chipper ones, too. I snort when some site tells me to put an ice cube in the pot. What the hell is a plant gonna do with an ice cube? Am I being trolled?
Wyatt leaves his house in a pair of khakis and a plaid shirt all buttoned up and fitted. Handsome, styled hair. Wristwatch. Shoes that shine in the morning sunlight. Didn’t take him for much of a churchgoer, but there he is, obviously heading there.
He stops at the side of his car and peers over at my house.
I duck beneath the counter, nearly taking the orchid with me.
When I lift my head back up, he’s driven off, gone.
In the late afternoon, I’m outside working on the car when he comes back home.
I pretend not to notice when he gets out of his vehicle.
And again when he waves. I pretend I’ve got my nose too far in the engine to see him—even though I can see him clearly.
He hesitates before dropping his hand, and something in my chest does a stupid little twist.
Fine. Let it twist. He’ll learn to stop trying so hard with me.
He stays there for a moment by his car. I won’t flatter myself and assume he’s waiting for me to respond. He’s probably giving the flowerbed a looking over, making sure I didn’t destroy it while he was at church.
Then: “Might want to pull it back from the window a bit.”
I lift my head from the engine.
He’s closer suddenly. Crouched by the flowerbed, watering it.
When’d he come closer? When’d he get the hose?
I flinch away. “Huh?”
“Orchid.” He nods at the front window. “Too much sunlight.”
His eyes in the afternoon sun are sparkling.
Like fucking diamonds.
What am I supposed to do about that?
“They like indirect sunlight,” he goes on, his voice annoyingly patient, “and our front windows are southwest-facing, so maybe not the best unless they’re blocked by shear curtains.
Like the ones that … used to be there.” It looks for a second like he’s about to say something else, then changes his mind. “And they like—”
“Ice cubes, I know.”
Wyatt blinks. “Ice cubes …?” He sucks in his lips. “Someone’s been on the internet.”
I grip my wrench tighter—uh, no, I mean my ratchet. “Just tell me what the hell’s up with the ice cubes.”
He brushes off his pants when he rises. “It’s just a trick to give it water slowly.
But they’re tropical plants. It could cause shock to the roots.
Only water it if it looks dry. Could be just once a week, might be enough.
Room-temperature water. You can even take it to the sink, water the bark thoroughly, let it drain all the way—”
“All of that’s necessary?” I cut him off.
He shrugs. “Most plants can be fairly forgiving, so don’t stress too much. Love is the main thing. Just love on ‘em. Same way I’ve gotta love on my roses even if they have thorns. Same way you … have to love on that car of yours.”
I stare him down, gritting my teeth.
Not sure if it’s because of his sparkling eyes or mentioning the car or using the word “love” four times in a row.
Then he smiles—wish he’d quit doing that—and heads off, done watering, I guess. My head’s already back under the hood before I even hear his front door shut.
Good thing, because I was sick of seeing him in that cute outfit looking at me the way he was doing.
Like I’m some fragile thing that’ll break.
Or is already broken.
Pretending he knows the first thing.
Talking about my dad’s car.
I lose the battle and glance over my shoulder at his house. He isn’t in the kitchen. Probably changing or showering or whatever. Not that I’m imagining him doing either of those things.
Changing.
Showering.
What is it with that guy and his huge windows?
His curtains swept out of the way all the time.
Opened. Letting the whole world in. Giving the street a show of what he’s doing any time of day or night.
Does he care at all about someone looking in on his private business? Is that really how trusting he is?
By Monday morning, the orchid’s got itself a new home on the corner of the counter, still within reach of the sun, just not being baked in it. Decided I’ve watered it enough, needs to dry out.
We get home from work at the same time. I sense him about to start up a conversation from his car, so I head inside before he can get out a word.
Like I said, nice guys, always trying to enslave people around them with their smiles and baskets and parties. Making them owe conversations and friendliness and opened windows for the rest of time. Not me, buddy, no matter how many orchids’ lives you save.
But the next day at work, I spot one of my coworkers, Carl, all rough around the edges, no social game at all, break out laughing when a customer thanks him profusely after a routine oil change.
I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m thinking of Wyatt at his own job letting that asshole walk all over him with a smile.
I think I’m just now realizing Wyatt has different smiles.
Different nices.
Is it a different smile he uses with me?
A different nice?
Why?
“He just misses his son,” Joel tells me when I’m checking our inventory.
I didn’t ask. I don’t know why he’s talking to me.
“Carl. Well, his stepson, actually. The kid moved away with his boyfriend after his dad died and left him a house on the beach. Crazy story. Doubt my own pops’ll have anything to leave me or his grandsons when he goes.
Not that I’m wantin’ him to go. But y’know, a pack a day does not keep the doctor away.
Keep tellin’ him to cut back but y’know how stubborn dads can be. You close with yours?”
My whole mind must be occupied thinking of Wyatt, trying to figure out what’s different about the smiles he gives me, because I actually answer him: “Was.”
Which makes Joel go, “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, man. Is he no longer with us?”
Our moment’s over. “Running low on antifreeze,” I say before heading to the back, boots scuffing through the dust and tire grit.
He doesn’t bother me the rest of the day.
Doesn’t mean I stay unbothered.
I’m bothered every second Wyatt lives in my mind.
And that’s every damned second of the day.
It doesn’t seem to matter when I get home because Wyatt’s always there a second later or a second before.
Always in the front flowerbed, tending to it.
Always about to wave at me. Smile at me. Ask me how my day went.
Why can’t people just leave me alone?
Why can’t I get any damned rest?
My tía isn’t here to see her flowerbed anymore. Who cares if I mowed over it? The next owner will probably just rip it up same as I did and plop some boring bushes in their place. No one will know or miss a bunch of weeds, no matter how colorful.
I’m up to here with Wyatt.
Sick of seeing his face.
Hearing his voice.
And when I come home Wednesday, can’t even avoid the guy.
He’s already crouched by the flowerbed looking them over.
When I pass by, intent on just getting into the house, he stops me with a, “Good afternoon,” and before I can decide whether or not that’s true, he says, “I was just thinking how some things need care, even if it’s commonly assumed they can just get by on their own.
Like these wildflowers … Weeds. All tough n’ rough on the outside, but when it comes down to it, they’re just like flowers. ”
Then he gives me that smile.
That different one that doesn’t make sense.
Twinkle in his eyes.
Squishing me into submission.
“Good for them,” is all I can say, and doesn’t satisfy me at all, doesn’t make this ache go away, doesn’t change a damned thing as I head inside and shut the door on whatever else he says to me, if anything at all.
It’s midnight and I’m still awake.
1 AM, still awake.
I’m out of bed pacing the front of the house, glaring through the window at the faint light in the kitchen next door every time I pass by.
Then I stop.
I can’t take it anymore.
Don’t know what moves my limbs when I’m out on the porch. Then crunching over the grass in the dark. Then standing on his front porch, about to knock, the wood beneath my feet creaking.
Then my fist drops.
What am I doing? What am I thinking?