—10— Diego #2
Instead, I say, “Hot soup sounds great.”
His eyes are full of confusion.
Then delight. “Great.”
Despite him telling me to wait, I hop out of the car same time as he does, then the pair of us bolt up to the front porch. After he shakes off his green umbrella and sets it by the bench, he goes in first and kicks off his shoes on a mat by the door. I do the same.
His house smells so clean. Looks clean, too. It’s weird, having caught glimpses of the inside of his house through the windows, and now standing inside it, breathing the air, socked feet on his cool, hardwood floors.
He returns to me with a towel—a warm yellow one with tiny green stripes. “The minestrone will take a bit to warm up,” he tells me, “so make yourself comfy, kick back, look around.” His voice is a little strained. Not its usual easygoing self. “But not the garage.”
Rubbing my hair with the towel, I stop at a display case full of decorative dishes and porcelain figurines. Tiny white horse. Tiny white ballerina. Tiny white owl. My reflection in the glass covers a porcelain cottage, placing my face over it. “What’s in the garage?”
“It’s where I stash the bodies.” He pauses for laughter.
There’s none. “My, uh … dad. He had hobbies. The garage is where they’re all ‘coexisting’, we’ll call it.
I never go out there. There’s probably a hundred brown recluses lurking between his things, I don’t want to press my luck just to poke around some hubcap collection. ”
I look back at him. “Hubcap collection?”
“Seriously, don’t go into the garage. It’s so awful.”
“He collected hubcaps …?”
“Among many odd things. Exhaust pipes. Old gas tanks.” Then he stops and smacks his head. “Oh, crap, I just made it even more interesting. I forgot you’re into cars. Just forget I said anything.”
“Well, now I can’t.”
“Didn’t I mention the brown recluses? If you want something interesting to look at, you should see my greenhouse. It’s a total vibe. Especially when it’s raining like this.” He stops suddenly and peers at me. “Wanna … see it?”
I stop, too, towel dangling from my hands.
Would it be weird if I told him I already have seen it through a slit in the backyard fence a few nights ago?
I shrug.
That’s my way of saying: sure.
He understands.
I’m not sure whether the soup is still warming up or he just ditched it altogether, but Wyatt leads me through the house and out the back door.
His patio is a small rectangular cement slab that is covered by a slanted tin roof—loud as hell when it’s raining—but leads right into a greenhouse that has the opposite effect.
Second we step inside, the rain is muffled and soft.
It’s more spacious in here than it seemed with a distant glance through the fence.
Wyatt launches right into introducing every plant.
They have names. Like Harold. Sally.
Mortimer.
His voice is refreshingly calm, even if I don’t really catch any of what he’s saying.
I just follow him slowly around the table in the center, nodding, watching his lips move, seeing the light in his eyes every time he gets excited.
He’s about to trip over a bag of soil as he talks on and on, not paying attention to his feet, so I slip past him and tug it out of the way.
“Oh, thanks,” he says, then just carries on.
I notice one of the shelves is crooked and give it a little nudge. Still crooked. When I notice Wyatt’s stopped talking, I give him a look. “I’ll bring my tools next time. To even out the shelf. So your vine thingy here doesn’t fall off if you bump into this.”
Wyatt blinks. “Next time …?”
I freeze.
Was that weird? To assume he’d invite me over again?
I shrug. “If you want.”
After a minute, he nods, then says, “Her name’s Rapunzel. The ‘vine thingy’. Because of the … the long vines. Get it?”
I don’t. But I nod like I do, then gently nudge the plant away from the edge so it isn’t so close.
I don’t realize my hand is resting on the counter below. Right where he’s got his own. Our fingers graze.
I look at him at once, like he just shocked me or something.
He looks back, appearing just as startled.
Our bodies are close again.
Unless he’s counting on something happening out here in this cute little greenhouse of his, he’s got to be less reckless about where he puts his hands and how close he gets that face of his.
“Minestrone’s ready,” he says.
I nod, eye contact not breaking.
It seems difficult for him to pull away from me. But he does. I give Rapunzel another look—Oh, right, the vines are like long hair, like Rapunzel’s—then follow him back to the house.
Cut to the two of us at a small table. Too small. He sits on one side. Me, the other. But there’s barely any space between us, we might as well be sitting in each other’s laps.
The aroma of the soup hits me like I haven’t eaten all day.
Come to think of it, I haven’t.
Skipped lunch, it having rained the whole damned day and all.
“Focaccia,” he explains with a gesture at the plate of bread in the middle of the table between our bowls. “I made it. Soup, too. Italian grandparents, mom’s side, I was doomed to inherit recipes. Thanks, Nonna,” he adds with a cute shrug.
I can barely hold back a second longer before I take a whole mouthful.
Next second, I’m coughing and hissing as it scalds my tongue.
He chuckles at me. “Should’ve blown on it first.”
“Who’s got time for that? I’m hungry.” But when I go for my next bite, I take his advice.
He watches me for a moment, a little curl in his lips, before he starts to enjoy his own bowl. This is some seriously tasty soup.
I shift my foot, about to tell him how damned tasty this is—and accidentally step on his.
He notices, flinches, then says, “Sorry.”
Of course he’d apologize when I was the one who stepped on his foot. “It’s fine,” I mumble, confused.
At least I’m just in my socks. Could’ve been my big-ass shoes squashing his undefended toes.
Then I realize he hasn’t pulled his foot away.
Neither have I.
“You seem less angry this evening.”
I look up at him, almost dropping my spoon. “Huh?”
“Calmer,” he clarifies. “You seem … calmer.”
His foot gently moves.
Stays next to mine.
My heart does something funny. “It’s the soup.”
He lifts his eyebrows, waiting for more.
I don’t say more.
His foot moves again, even gentler.
I can’t bear to move mine. It feels like I’m inviting something to happen if I do. And I’m not sure I know what would happen.
Doubt a game of footsy was on the menu tonight.
“It’s … g-good,” I say. Did I just stutter? “Real good.”
“I’ve got a lot of it,” he says back—foot moves again—then he gives a friendly smile. “So if you ever want some, just come over.”
He really knows how to choose his words.
I’m starting to think he knows exactly what he’s doing. To me. To my sanity. To my feet.
“So …”
I look up at the sound of Wyatt’s voice, spoon still in the bowl, frozen in place.
“Are we just …” He twirls his spoon in the soup bowl. “… never gonna talk about … the kiss?”
I swallow.
Stare at him.
Our feet still touching.
“We don’t have to,” he goes on, not quite looking at me. “But it’s … starting to feel weird. Not talking about it.”
I understand him. I even agree.
But what the hell are we supposed to say?
How am I supposed to open my mouth and make words or any sense out of how I’m feeling right now?
Kissing is easy.
Talking is terrifying.
I let go of my spoon and reach over the table.
Wyatt looks at my hand, startled, then at my eyes when my fingers reach his face, caressing the side of his cheek. He has no idea what the gesture means. Neither do I. Suddenly I’m over the table, closer and closer to his mouth, to those lips.
And we kiss.
Again.
But gentler.
Almost not even a kiss. Just a meeting of lips. An experiment. Dipping a toe in the pool again, still scared of falling all the way in.
Or maybe this is just my way of “talking about it”.
I’m still using my mouth, aren’t I?