—9— Wyatt
Wyatt
Oh, no.
What did he just do?
What did he just say?
Why is Diego here??
Mr. Bellamy stares down Diego with terrifying indifference. It isn’t clear whether he’s looking at a human being or a gnat that just landed on the end of his 9-iron.
I choke back an apology.
Am I capable of one?
Is there a world that even exists where it’s okay to speak to a customer like that?
And not just any customer.
Grant-fucking-Bellamy.
Just when I’m about to speak, Grant laughs.
A full-bellied, eyes-scrunched-up, pleasant laugh.
“Well, aren’t you a funny one,” says Grant as he recovers.
“Wasn’t a joke,” says Diego back, face still stern, unsmiling.
“Clearly not,” agrees Grant congenially. Then he looks at me. “A young pal of yours?”
Young pal.
I hear all the condescension dripping from those two words.
“Neighbor,” answers Diego, despite the question being aimed at me.
“Quite a tight-knit town,” notes Grant, making it sound like a compliment. “Everyone’s so close. So involved. So concerned.”
“I’m s-sorry, Mr. Bellamy, sir,” I quickly interject before Diego can say anything else—and he was a thousand percent about to.
“No need to apologize, no, don’t,” says Grant with a dismissive wave of his hand at me.
“Young men in small towns are protective and stand up for their own. It’s a quality I respect.
” He looks Diego over once more. “Like watchdogs on a porch, barking at anything that passes. Can’t tell a threat from a squirrel. ”
“Did you just call me a—” Diego starts.
Until I’m around the counter, putting myself—and my panicked smile—between them. “We can move this into my office. I think we were just about to arrive at a deal that satisfies both of our—”
“Another time,” states Grant.
Crap. “Really, we can finish now, sir. Diego, please wait outside until we’re—Mr. Bellamy, sir?” He’s gathering up his briefcase and turning away. “Mr. Bellamy. We can finish now.”
He reaches the door and smiles warmly back.
“Your young pal here … Diego, was it? … he has a point. It was unfair of me to invite myself into your shop when it’s closed.
Just goes to show how far you go for your most valued customers.
” He places a hand on his chest when he says that, dignifying himself with that shiny title.
“I know you’ll always do what’s right, Mr. Callahan, to make your customers happy.
” Then he gives another smile to Diego, says no more, and sees himself out.
My heart sinks to my toes. Stomach, too.
I grip the counter and droop my head.
“Problem solved,” mumbles Diego.
I snort in disbelief, shake my head, then face him. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Diego shrugs, folds his arms, eyes the front windows like he’s making sure Mr. Bellamy’s truly leaving. “Why’d you come in for that guy on your day off? Don’t you do enough for that shithead?”
“That ‘shithead’,” I say wearily, “is responsible for half of my store’s income this month alone. Half.”
“And he knows it.”
“So?”
“You’re letting him walk all over you. Don’t you ever say no?”
“Why are you here?” I finally ask, turning from the counter to face him fully.
He looks away. “Because I …” He picks at the corner of a shelf near him for some reason, as if brushing off imaginary dust. “Need to get some …” He clears his throat loudly, looks the other way. “I need some food. For the orchid.”
“Food? For the orchid? … Orchids don’t eat food, Diego. What do you think it is? Audrey II?”
Diego’s face wrinkles up. “Who’s Audrey?”
“The carnivorous plant. From Little Shop of Hor—never mind. Is that why you’re really here?” I take a step away from the counter. He notices, gaze flicking to my feet, eyebrows pulling together. “Is that why you just scared away my most important customer?”
“He’s a shithead.”
“Or are you here to explain why you kissed me and ran off the other night?”
He looks away. All the way away. Neck turned so far, his chin is half-tucked into his shoulder.
I’m a bit surprised by the boldness of my own question.
I’m not sure I meant it to come out so harshly.
But I have, in a sense, been driven quite crazy these past few days trying to figure it out.
All weekend, in fact. I sat front and center in church on Sunday and couldn’t focus on a damned word Reverend Trey was saying.
Was the sermon about love? Forgiving others?
Pokémon? I literally don’t know. The only damned thing on my mind was Diego Valdez and how in the hell I was going to cope with the emotional boner he gave me.
Well, more than emotional, if we’re being truthful here.
Every night since, wrestling with my bed sheets because Little Wyatt kept waking up between my legs with a whole restless fuck-ton of opinions of its own about what to do regarding Diego.
And with Diego.
And on Diego.
Diego, Diego, Diego.
Now the mastermind behind my torture has come out of the dark at last. Appeared right here in my shop.
Ruined one of my most important business deals to date.
“Is that shithead the reason you were cutting up roses at two in the morning?” he asks me.
The question comes out of nowhere.
So does Diego’s gentler tone of voice.
Hits me sideways.
Diego turns to me when I don’t answer. “He’s just … messing with you. Because he can. You’ll never make him happy. He’s just draining you dry. Shitheads like that, they don’t care about guys like us who gotta scrape by to survive.”
Guys like us … Like us.
Diego just put me and him in the same basket.
For half a second, I love that basket. I want to spend my whole life in it, right here in this half of a second, in the strong embrace of Diego’s arms.
Then I find my strength again. “You think I don’t know that? How awful he is?”
“Why put up with it?” Diego fires back.
I stammer. “Because … Because sometimes, I have to swallow my pride. Just part of the business. It isn’t always pretty. Or right. It’s … just what I gotta put up with.”
“You don’t have to put up with it.”
“What do you know?” I come closer. “I’ve spent years building this place after my parents left.
Every wedding. Every funeral. And all the anniversary bouquets.
Should I give my other customers the treatment you just gave Mr. Bellamy?
How about Ms. Hahn? She rejects a bouquet if one sprig of baby’s breath is facing the wrong way.
Or Rhonda, who expects the stems of all her roses to be the exact same shade of green.
Like, the exact same shade. She inspects them, Diego.
She keeps a magnifying glass in her purse.
That lady comes in every Thursday and sometimes Tuesday.
Want me to run those ladies out of my shop, too? ”
He doesn’t say anything.
I let out a breath. “I’m … I’m not saying Mr. Bellamy isn’t a … a shithead.” My voice goes to a whisper. It’s difficult to say out loud, even with Grant gone. “Just sometimes you have to keep … them … around because you need the money.”
Diego leans forward. “That man called me a dog.”
I look down.
To be fair, the second Mr. Bellamy said that, I wanted to knock his pompous jaw right off his face. He’d have lost teeth. I’d be in a jail cell soon after. Then he’d sue my business for every last cent it’s worth by his team of undoubtedly fearsome lawyers.
I shake my head. “I know.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“I said I know.”
After a moment, he looks down. “I’m …” He sighs. “I’m sorry for …” He starts gnawing on his lip, then looks away.
And just when I think the apology might come out, he turns to go, heading for the door.
Seriously?
Again?
“Diego.”
I don’t even realize it happened. I sprang from the counter at once. And now I’m gripping his wrist, and he’s stopped.
And we’re standing just like that. In the middle of the store.
Me, gripping him by the wrist.
Diego has stopped, looking back at me, wide-eyed.
Like he’s terrified of me.
Big strong Diego. Scared. By a flower boy gripping his wrist.
Which is slowly starting to feel more like holding his hand.
“You have soft hands,” I tell him.
His eyebrows creep up his forehead. “H-Huh …?”
“For a mechanic,” I clarify.
Somehow, that confuses him more.
And me.
What the fuck am I saying?
“Sorry, that was, uh, weird,” I mumble. I think I’m blushing. “Don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s fine,” he grunts right back.
Then we lock eyes. For a while.
Saying nothing.
It’s almost unbearable.
“Why’d you kiss me the other night?”
I ask the question in a whisper, as if someone might overhear. Who knows. A town like Spruce, it feels like sets of ears are hiding within the plants.
His hand flinches.
Like he was gonna pry it out of my grip and changed his mind.
He still doesn’t answer.
I don’t think I’m gonna get one. “It … wasn’t a bad thing.
For me.” I can’t believe I’m still talking.
“Haven’t been kissed in a long time. And my ex was …
kind of a jerk. Not that you asked.” And I’m still talking.
“Just that his kisses never lingered. And most of them weren’t really welcomed.
But yours …” I take a breath. It comes in humiliatingly jagged, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“Yours … was quite welcomed. Yours … lingered.”
We’re still locking eyes. Not looking away. Like two bodies in space, weightless, tethered together only by my grip on his wrist. If I let go, we will float apart in opposite directions, lost forever.
Have we gotten closer? Did my grip start tightening, closing the distance between our bodies? Is that my imagination?
“There’s a thing next weekend,” I blurt out.
Diego’s eyebrows go up again. “A thing?” he croaks.
“At the McPhersons’. A sort of dance thing.”
“Dance thing?”
“The guests don’t dance. Well, not unless they want to. It’s the Spruce Ball. Everyone just shows up, eats food, watches a show up on a stage.”
“Uh … okay.”
“You’d probably hate it.”
“Probably.”
“You should come anyway.”
His eyes still won’t leave mine.
I don’t exactly know what’s happening. I don’t know why I’m even inviting him to something I know he won’t go to. Why would he? He wouldn’t even bother to walk twenty feet across the yard to come to my house for a movie night with friends.
“Okay.”
I flinch. Is he saying he’ll come? “Okay?”
Then he steps away from me.
I don’t remember letting go of his wrist.
He’s at the door, then stops. “I’m sorry. Again. For the …” His face scrunches up. “Nah. I’m not, actually.” He looks back at me. “I won’t ever apologize for stickin’ it to the shitheads of the world.” He frowns. “And whether it’s business or not … you shouldn’t have to put up with them, either.”
The door dings on his way out, slowly shutting, and he’s gone. But the burning look in his eyes lingers long after. Even as I stand at the counter reflecting on everything, I can’t stop seeing them. Can’t stop feeling him. Can’t stop reliving the touch of his soft hand.