—8— Diego
Diego
There’s this huge tree in the backyard.
One of its branches keeps tapping the roof when the wind’s all over the place.
But that’s not why I can’t sleep a fucking wink.
The tree is just easier to blame than Wyatt Callahan’s mouth.
His lips.
Which have been torturing me with every breath I draw in while lying flat on this unforgiveable goddamned bed.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, fingers tightened into fists over my chest like I’m holding myself down.
I can still feel him.
Not just his mouth. His hands, too. One on my face, as gentle as an orchid petal, like I didn’t just creep onto his porch like a kiss-stealing monster in the night.
I didn’t have the balls to kiss him.
He came the rest of the way.
Kissed me first.
This is his fault, really. I would’ve backed away. Chickened out right then without knowing what his kisses tasted like. Felt like.
Without dreaming of them right now.
Wanting so much more.
Where else would his hands have gone, had I let him?
Did Wyatt want me before that moment on the porch? Has he been holding back? Or did I give him the idea of wanting me when I pinned him to the wall?
I want to go back over there right now.
Nail him to the wall again.
And do so much more to that man than rip his clothes off.
I shove my palms into my eyes until stars burst behind them.
No, I scold myself. Stop it. That’s how it starts.
You taste one thing. Then you want it all.
Then you’re peeping out your window seeing if he’s awake every hour.
Staring at a cursed orchid like it’s him haunting your dining room.
Standing at the sink where a freshly-cleaned plate he gave you still waits to be returned to its owner.
The plate sits there on the kitchen counter, staring at me like unfinished business every time I pass it.
It’s just a fucking plate.
Not a debt. Not a message. Not an excuse to see him again.
Not a chance to accidentally kiss him again.
And to have my hands on him.
His hands on me.
Like my hands are right now, sneaking under the sheets.
Taking a handful of me.
Feeling it harden.
Biting my lip. Grunting. Panting.
Diego … he moans in my ear, from far away.
Suddenly I’m out of bed, sheets kicked off. I’m heading down the hall to the back door because this house is too full of thoughts.
The second I’m outside, I can breathe again.
Middle of the night.
Precious, tasty oxygen.
I drop my ass right beneath the oak tree that keeps tapping on the roof, seated next to a pair of tiny solar-powered lights my tía and tío stuck into the ground to light up the backyard at night.
It isn’t much light, but it keeps me from knowing whether I’m sitting on a fresh mound of grass or an anthill, so there’s that.
I lean my head back against the bark and watch the branches high above me sway from one side to the other, all of their leaves crunching up together and spreading apart like a weird accordion with no music, hiding the stars one second, then letting them out the next.
That’s when I hear the humming.
No. Talking.
Muffled talking. Nearby.
After a second, I get up and follow the sound to the fence.
It’s Wyatt.
I’ve never seen his backyard. There’s a kind of greenhouse thing attached to the side of his back patio full of potted plants, vines growing this way and that, spurts of color here and there.
He’s got fairy lights strung up everywhere, from the back door to a nearby tree, wrapped around a tall stick, draped across some stone birdbath, and tracing the edge of the greenhouse.
I see Wyatt inside it. His phone to his ear. Talking to someone at whatever-it-is-o’clock, hours before sunrise. He’s quiet enough, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in all of Spruce who can hear him right now.
“I know, I know.” His arms are folded. He’s pacing inside the greenhouse, now and then bending slightly to peer at one of the plants.
“I never learn, right? You always seem to know when …” He pinches the bridge of his nose.
Rubs his eyes. “… when to say no. And I never say no.” He laughs.
Even from all the way over here, I can hear a strained, fake-ass laugh.
“Yep. You know better. I’m sure lucky to have a … a big sis like you.”
Hmm.
Didn’t know he had a sister.
“No, no, don’t call him.” He stops pacing. “Connie. I’m serious. Why? Because—Connie.”
I frown.
Don’t call who?
“Because threatening a customer of mine with litigation you are in no way licensed to provide is—Connie, I know, but—” Wyatt throws his eyes up to the ceiling like he’s praying for strength.
“I know you’re trying to help. Yes, I’m grateful.
No, I didn’t mean to sound like—Yes, you know how to get things done. Always do.”
I hear crunching in the grass that isn’t my own. I look to my left to find a pair of big cat eyes staring back. The cat looks wary for half a second, seems to decide I’m no big deal, then leaps all the way up to the top of the fence where it perches.
The sound of Wyatt’s laugh brings me back.
It’s the same fake, soft, strained laugh as before.
“Yep, I remember. Ninth grade, wasn’t it?
Not tenth?” He goes to the door of the greenhouse, right by his back patio.
I can hear him even clearer. “I … Yes, Con, I remember the milk carton. You hit Darren Pike right in the nose with it because he called me a—” He scuffs a shoe on the ground as if to rub out a spot.
“I also recall getting detention because I apologized to Principal Whitman for you and somehow got dragged into it all. No, no … it was fine.”
He makes a strange face like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth.
He listens for a while.
“Mom sure wasn’t happy, was she? Yep. Yeah, I …
” He takes a breath and shuts his eyes tightly.
“Of course. I owe you a lot. Yes.” He puts the back of his wrist to his forehead.
“You have a lot going on, too, huh? Of course. Go ahead, tell me the story. Yes, it’s late, but …
No, it’s okay. Yeah, I … I napped earlier, I’m fine.
Mm-hmm.” He smothers a yawn with his hand so his sister can’t hear it.
Then it’s just him listening.
A lot of listening.
His face is somewhere else. Far away. Eyes sinking deeper and deeper the longer he hears her out.
Something about that expression on his face—an expression that’s definitely one you make when no one’s watching, when you don’t need any walls up, when you can be miserable in peace—and I suddenly feel ashamed for standing here eavesdropping.
The cat leaps off the fence in one explosion of energy.
Wyatt’s eyes snap my way.
I back away from the fence, trip over something, fall back on my ass. Then I half-run, half-crawl back to the door and slip inside the house like I just became a spooked cat myself.
I take a shower for some reason.
Thinking on Wyatt. How different he looked when talking to his sister.
How small he sounded.
Is everyone in his life like that? Making him hide or set aside every last part of him until nothing’s left to see? Spending all his energy convincing everyone around him he’s fine when the guy’s clearly not?
How the hell am I the only one who notices this?
I let the hot water run over my head and drown out whatever else it is I’m thinking. “He isn’t your responsibility,” I say to myself through the steam. I gotta say it three or four times. “This house is your only responsibility. Not him.”
The next morning before sunrise, I leave the plate on his front porch bench. Washed twice. Dried once. Unicorn napkin folded on top, because what the hell else do you do with a unicorn napkin?
I don’t leave a note.
Notes are for people who know what to say.
Later when I’m at the auto shop, where it’s busy as fuck for no explainable reason other than just Saturday madness, I’m deep in the pit working on an oil change, Carl above shouting this and that back at me, pretending I can hear him.
Doesn’t matter, I could do a hundred of these with my eyes closed.
A busy day at the shop isn’t my problem.
I’m not gonna figure out Wyatt until I deal with him directly.
That involves a conversation I’m not ready to have.
But when Joel finally tells me to go on break—despite it still being busy, him insisting I’ll never take one if I don’t do it now—I make my way toward Wishing Blooms.
And stop across the street.
Staring at the shop.
Its tall glass windows. Leafy plants filling the front. Knowing he’s in there. Maybe with customers. Or totally alone.
Both those prospects scare the shit out of me.
I return to the auto shop immediately, clock back in, and bury myself in the hectic day. Joel is surprised to find me back so soon and asks what I possibly ate that quickly. My courage, I’d answer, but throw myself into a tire rotation job instead.
Sunday morning, I wake up and decide it’s easier to just knock on his door right now and have a talk. I tell this to myself after a cup of coffee. After another cup of coffee. And then I tell it to the orchid, looking healthier every day after taking Wyatt’s advice.
The second I’m about to head outside, I spot Wyatt coming out of his house—and he’s in his church getup. A fitted plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up neatly. Khaki pants that turn his ass into a ten-course buffet. Hair styled so cute, I could bite my knuckles.
And I can’t deal with any of that shit.
So I chicken out—again—and stay the hell away. After Wyatt’s gone, I open the garage and get to work on my dad’s car, if only to drown out the rest of my thoughts.
It’s Monday when I’ve decided enough is enough. Today, I will talk to Wyatt. He doesn’t work Sundays and Mondays, and I go in late today, so it’s perfect. I check myself ten times in the mirror. I slap myself in the face. Then I let myself out onto the front porch.
His car’s gone.
I frown, pissed off instantly.
Did he go in to work? On his day off? Is that a thing he does?
I answer my question with a lengthy walk into town. And sure enough, Wyatt’s car is parked outside his store, even though the little sign on the window still reads “closed”.
No customers? Just us? Works for me.
I head across the street and let myself into the shop.
Then stop short.
Wyatt at the back. Tensed face. Fingers curled on the counter.
In front of him, that dickhead customer in a golf polo, shades on his head, and a slimy-ass smirk on his face like he’s got Wyatt and the whole town under his rich thumb.
I hated him the first time I saw him.
I hate him a thousand times more today.
“Diego …” comes Wyatt’s voice, surprised to see me.
For a second, the tension is released from his face.
Is that because of me?
Did my intrusion actually relieve him?
“Sorry, son,” says Mr. Dickhead, leaning against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle, “but Mr. Callahan’s busy.”
I go to the counter, unfazed, and plant myself by Wyatt’s side. “Maybe you should invest in a pair of glasses, old man,” I say right back, “because that sign outside says ‘closed’.”