—11— Wyatt
Wyatt
We’re doing it again.
Kissing instead of talking.
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or kiss him even harder.
Maybe it’s sexier, this thing between us that keeps happening without any discussion or understanding.
It reminds me of my first kisses right after high school. Full of butterflies and terror. Bumbling. Uncertain. An explosive joy that makes me worry I’ll never feel something this good again.
I know nothing about Diego. If this is his first time with a guy.
Or if he’s kissed many men’s lips.
If he’s always this closed-off and reserved, never talking stuff out, preferring actions over words.
There’s something I really like about that. Something more trustworthy than promises.
Like a different, more literal form of “lip service”.
But there’s something more than just a kiss happening.
I can’t ignore the hand he just placed on my cheek.
It’s heavy. Warm. Soft. And shaking slightly.
I don’t think he knows his hand is shaking.
This kiss isn’t a statement. That’s why it’s so gentle. Diego is asking me something.
Maybe I should answer.
I lean in more, returning his strength, bringing my hand to the shelf of his shoulder.
The table is suddenly out of the way. I think we left our chairs, got to our feet, closer together, so the rest of our bodies can take part in this … conversation.
The kiss I return him is full of certainty.
Full of yes.
Full of the appetite I’m sure my soup did nothing to satisfy.
His other hand drags down my side, comes around to my back and tugs. Our hips press together. The kiss deepens.
I’m out of breath suddenly.
He’s kissing me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
Or maybe he’s the one afraid of disappearing.
Is that something he’s used to? People disappearing from his life? Is that why he came by himself to his aunt and uncle’s house? Why he seemed to have nothing he left behind?
Nothing to cling to?
Is that why he’s clinging to me?
I slide my hand into the back of his hair.
His breath catches.
The kissing turns calm again. Diego’s lips release from mine as our foreheads gently touch, coming together. His eyes are closed. We hold each other as we gather our breath.
Saying nothing.
Yet it feels like we just said everything.
I can’t explain it. These moments. When we’re not pretending to be okay. Not playing it cool. Not being polite. When it’s just a fit of physical madness, then calm, and for a moment, we understand each other better than people I’ve shared countless words with my whole life.
Obviously this is my assessment.
Independent from his.
He could just be freaked out and lonely.
Or horny and bad at communication.
Maybe this means nothing to him.
“Sorry,” he breathes out.
I lift my eyebrows. It’s awkward trying to look at him with our foreheads together, faces mere molecules apart. “For what?” I ask as softly as I can manage.
“I don’t … I don’t know how to do this.”
I’m holding his waist. He’s gripping mine. Like two teens at a school dance and the slow song came on and neither of us knows what the hell to do with our stupid hands.
“Neither do I,” I whisper back.
He says nothing. His eyes are closed.
I think it’s easier for him to talk when they’re closed.
When I’m here, but not.
“Really making a mess out of all this, huh,” he mumbles.
“Yep, total fucking mess,” I agree.
He chuckles.
Wait.
Did I just make Diego Valdez chuckle?
It was slight. Barely a breath. But I did it. I made him chuckle.
He lets go of me suddenly and steps back. His eyes twist open. “Your soup’s getting cold.” He clears his throat. “Haven’t eaten all day. Don’t wanna waste it.”
“Yeah, of course,” I quickly agree, fighting some sort of weird fiery blush trying to invade my cheeks, then sit back down at the table with him, and suddenly we’re eating again.
I can’t quite say that the energy is less awkward than before.
Or that anything has improved between us.
But he kissed me again.
And didn’t run away.
And now we’re enjoying minestrone and focaccia together. In silence. Well, not quite silence, as there’s still rain tapping all over the windows.
On second thought, it’s actually pretty peaceful.
I’m not sure it’d be this peaceful with anyone else.
Diego meets my eyes across the table. He just took a giant bite out of a piece of bread. “Superb,” he says through his mouthful. I fight back a laugh, then nod at him for a thank you.
I’m at the sink with our bowls when he goes to the front door. A second before I ask if he’s leaving already, he says, “Rain’s let up. I’m just heading over to get some tools.” At the blank look on my face, he says, “The crooked shelf, remember?”
Oh, right. Greenhouse. “You don’t … have to do that.”
“Nowhere in the whole damned story does Rapunzel fall outta her own tower.” He looks almost offended on her behalf. “I’ll just be five.” And he’s gone.
And in exactly five, he’s back.
I’m standing at the door to the greenhouse, watching.
He’s there with a level. Screws. Drill. He more than fixes it.
He adds additional support. Then he remembers how one of the lower drawer handles wiggled when he passed by and fixes that, too.
I’m just watching him fix this and that, listening to the tree limbs and the edges of my roof dripping from the rain that’s passed.
“Rapunzel really appreciates your hard work.”
“She’d better,” snorts Diego as he adjusts the hinges on the door to the greenhouse itself. Apparently it’s cockeyed. “You talk to these plants?”
“All the time.”
He stops. Eyes me. “Really?”
“Of course.” I let a large nearby leaf of a fern rest in my palm. “You might think it’s stupid, but plants react to kindness. They’re more sensitive than you think.”
He gives it a thought. “Not that stupid.” He glances over at the fence. “Just thinking that means my orchid’s fucked.”
I chuckle. “I think it’ll live.”
He doesn’t respond to that. He just continues tightening the hinge, like it’s the only thing in the universe he knows right now.
When finished, he closes the door. Opens it.
Closes it again. Then nods, satisfied—until spotting my rake leaning awkwardly in the corner.
He straightens that right up, too. Picks a fallen leaf off the floor. Then another.
I’m trying not to smile.
Trying not to think too much.
It’s impossible around him.
Then Diego starts to inspect the table in the middle, eyebrows pulled down critically.
I tell him, “You don’t have to fix everything.”
“Can’t help it,” he mumbles back, not looking up. He crouches down to inspect the table at eye level. Runs a hand over the edge. Mutters something to himself. Then tightens a screw.
I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe. “Your uncle made that table.”
He stops.
“There’s traces of Lottie and Marcos all over my house and my garden, actually.”
After a moment, he rises up. “Y’all were close, huh?”
He asks without looking at me—and in a smaller voice, too.
I nod slowly. “As close as neighbors can be. I sure miss them.”
He peers down, eyes landing on a particular potted plant on the table. Tight little blush-colored buds crowd the stems, not yet open, just holding their breath.
I nod at it. “Bertha.”
He flinches, confused. Then: “Oh … that its name?”
“Yep. She’s my Dianthus. That specific variety is called …
wait for it … Pink Kisses.” I smile at the look on his face.
“Thought you’d like that. Your Aunt Lottie did, too.
Always asked how her Bertha’s doing. Sometimes she’d come back here all on her own and sing to them.
Literally. I’d come back here and catch her standing where you are right now giving it a whole dang concert. ”
He wears a poker face when I talk about his aunt or uncle.
I can’t tell one way or another whether my stories are cool or unwelcome.
“Don’t tell Lottie I told you,” I tease him, not knowing when to stop. “She’ll deny it anyway.”
To my surprise, Diego cracks a little smirk at that. “Alright,” he mumbles in seeming agreement.
I smile, feeling proud of myself.
“I should probably go,” he says.
My smile falters. “Oh. Uh … okay.”
“Getting late.” He gathers up the few tools he brought over.
I step out of the way of the door. He slows down as he passes by, then stops, both of us in the narrow space of the doorway. His eyes bear down on me. His face close to mine. His heat. His breath. His unceasing intensity.
I wonder if I shouldn’t have mentioned his aunt and uncle for some reason. “Thank you,” I tell him softly. “For saving Rapunzel’s life. And maybe mine a little, too.”
His face tightens in this unexpectedly cute, vulnerable way.
He gets uncomfortable when I thank him. Or compliment him. Or show him any kind of affection when his eyes are open.
It’s funny, the things you learn about a person when no one’s saying a word.
“Night,” he says, then gently brushes past me on his way out.
A moment later, I’m at the front kitchen window watching as he enters his house. Soft light comes on in his kitchen. Then goes out soon after. Despite the abrupt end of the night, my fingers are on my mouth as my mind wanders and wanders, feeling the way my lips keep curling upward into a smile.
Even as I put myself to bed, cuddling a pillow and grinning up at my ceiling, I can’t escape the feeling that he’s wide awake in his bed right now, too, still chasing the thrill of tonight.
I don’t think I’m getting any sleep.
You wouldn’t know it the next day. I’m up when I’m supposed to be. At my kitchen counter with my coffee. Smiling through the window with the morning sun. Feeling revived. Almost giddy.