—12— Diego
Diego
The fuck do you wear to a ball?
A small-town ball with no one you know, at that.
I have no idea what to expect. I’ve combed through all of my clothes I own seven times without a damned clue. Last time I ever donned a suit was at my dad’s funeral. It was a rental. Who’s got time to own fancy clothes you only wear once before letting them collect dust in the back of a closet?
Don’t even know if there’s any clothing rental anything in this dinky town. Be lucky to find a thrift shop in walking distance, let alone anything that has an outfit in my size that screams “ball”.
Gonna need a damned fairy godmother to pull this off.
And those are in short supply these days.
I wrinkle my face up at the window nearby, the corner of the house next door in view. I don’t doubt he’ll have insight into what the hell I should wear. He’s the one who invited me to this thing tonight, anyway.
I go through the clothes I have—again—and drag out a plain-ass white button-down shirt. But I have no dress pants to go with them. Would a pair of okay jeans fly in a small town like this? How fancy can a small-town ball be?
Didn’t want to do this, but I go to a specific bedroom I’ve been avoiding since I got here. Go to the closet. Open it.
It’s empty.
Of course it is. Why would my uncle leave any clothes behind? They left. Moved out completely. Didn’t even take the furniture. I guess wherever they went, they planned to start fresh.
Must be nice.
It was a last resort, checking the closet. I’m actually thankful, because the last damned thing I’d want to do is show up to a ball in my uncle’s oversized slacks with a belt choking it in place.
I’m not gonna waste another minute flip-flopping through my clothes pretending I have a clue what I’m doing.
So it’s in my plain white button-down and decent jeans—the only pair I got without any holes—that I drag myself outside, over the lawn, and to Wyatt’s front door.
I hate myself for a second, tell myself to chill, lift my knuckles to knock, then my fist, then drop my hand to my side and shake my head.
What’s the big deal? He’s come over two or three times this week wanting to check up on how things are going with the car. I haven’t scared him off. Things are okay.
Why am I a stupid sack of nerves today?
I press the doorbell.
Easier to do than a knock, I guess.
I wait ten seconds.
Ten more.
Then I ring the doorbell again, this time with an ear to the door to make sure I hear it.
Still no answer.
I’m at the other end of the porch peering in through the glass of his front window when the rumble of a car engine behind me makes me spin around. Someone pulls up to the curb and stops. Window rolls down.
A woman’s round, sweet face pops out. “Lookin’ for Wyatt? He ain’t home, hon.”
My eyes flick to the driveway.
Am I really that freaked out by bad fashion that I didn’t notice a whole damned vehicle missing?
Suddenly the woman’s out of her car and heading straight up the driveway. “He’s at the McPherson’s gettin’ his flowers set up. Did you need somethin’?”
I stare her down.
This woman with a voice as airy as cotton.
She taps a hand to her cheek. “Jesus, help me, I just realized you would not remember me from Eve. I’m Patricia.
Patty Parker. I live down the street. Thick as thieves with your dear auntie Lottie.
Babysat you nine, ten times. My, how you’ve grown!
” Her eyes do a dance all over me. “My, how you’ve grown,” she repeats in a deeper tone.
“Mercy.” Then she appears instantly ashamed of herself and pats her cheek the way you wake up someone who’s concussed.
“I am someone’s mother, Lord forgive me. ”
That last part she says to herself.
I have no idea what just happened.
“Sweet darlin’, is that what you’re wearing tonight?”
I glance down at myself, then back at her.
“You know what?” She takes hold of my hand, which catches me so off-guard, I nearly fall off the porch when she says, “We live just down the street. I was just headin’ into town to meet Dale for a little—Oh, what am I doin’, you didn’t ask.
Come. I’m gonna help you, sweet darlin’, just like Lottie would expect me to. ”
I don’t remember getting in her car. Or arriving at her house.
Hanging next to her front door, printed on a plank of polished white oak: God sees everything, but your neighbor sees more.
All I know is one minute I’m on Wyatt’s porch, the next, I’m in someone’s bedroom while Patty empties two closets onto a bed.
“Dale!” she hollers. Then: “Oh, Lord, he’s not even home. I’m shoutin’ at walls. Don’t worry, we’ll find somethin’ in your style.”
Next second, I’m left alone to try twenty things on while she shouts from the other side of the door. “My son Bobby left some stuff in his closet, but I think he’s smaller than you. Oh, you know what? Think he’s got a jacket that’ll match the—Yes, I’ll go check! Try on the pink one, don’t forget!”
I pick up a pink shirt, squinting at it.
“The other pink one!” she calls out—despite having no eyes in the room and having no clue which shirt I just grabbed. “Not the one with the doohickey on it. We’re goin’ to a ball, not church.”
No idea what doohickey she’s talking about.
I’m on my fourth outfit when she’s back in the room, three jackets over her arm. “Nope,” she says, flinging one onto the bed after slapping it to my chest for a look. “Nope. Absolutely not. Oh, maybe, if you got a nice boutonniere …”
This goes on for a while.
When I finally speak, my words come out like gravel. Haven’t talked since I got here. “Weren’t you supposed to, uh …” I clear my throat. “… meet your husband someplace an hour ago?”
“What husband?” she mumbles dismissively before dumping an armful of shoes onto the floor. “You want a pair that’s shiny … but not too shiny. You wanna look like a thousand bucks, darlin’, not a million. No one likes a million.”
Next come the ties.
No power on earth could prepare me for the ties.
“No. Not happening. Nope. No.” She keeps rejecting tie after tie, holding each one up to my neck.
“You’re not an accountant. No, you’re not a butler.
You’re—Oh, maybe a bowtie could work. Do you wanna try a bowtie?
I can fetch some. Bobby wore ‘em to death back in high school. Do you know Bobby? Have you met? He must be so nervous right now, up at the pavilion doin’ last-minute prep stuff for their dance …
Oh, right, the bowties. Gimme a minute!”
Turns out, I’ve got lots of minutes to give.
A whole afternoon of them.
It’s while helping me figure out a bowtie—I’ve never tied one in my damned life—when she says, “You and Wyatt gettin’ along?”
I’m already a hair away from losing my mind from all of this close proximity with this woman I just met. And now she goes and brings up Wyatt?
“I’m only askin’ because you two sure hit it off as kids.”
My eyes go blank.
What’d she just say …?
“He’s always been a nice boy,” she goes on.
“Too good for this world, I always said. I was friends with his mama, too—Shelley. We all went to school together, all of us grew up together. Nadine, too, whose younger son Jimmy is my son-in-law. Bobby’s dance partner.
Did Wyatt give you the scoop on who’s who?
Do you already know this stuff? Just tell me to shush it and I’ll quit blabberin’. ”
We hit it off as kids …?
“Why do you look funny?” She stops tying the tie and steps back.
“Do you not remember? You and little Wy-Wy? Oh. Well, it was probably just once or twice you two were playing together in the yard, to be fair. Thirty-odd years ago. Both of you were single digits. It was so long ago. The two of you were makin’ up games so fast, it would not have surprised me to hear if you two were still in touch.
But …” She shrugs. “Never mind. I talk too much. Since my Bobs moved out to be with his hubby, I just chew off the ears of any young man I’m left around, can’t save myself.
” She finishes the tie, then smiles. “It does make me smile to see you two reconnected. All these years later. Saw you two tinkerin’ outside with that car in your driveway the other day, passin’ by on my way to Bonnie’s … ”
It’s difficult to keep up with her.
I’m still stuck on the idea of Wyatt and I playing in a yard as kids. Making up games. Hitting it off.
I don’t have many good memories of my childhood.
It annoys me instantly that I remember none of this.
Shouldn’t I have happy things to look back on, too, instead of all the bad shit?
Thinking of Wyatt like some kind of light I’m trying to fish out of the dark pisses me off more than it should.
I don’t know when she stopped talking, but the woman steps back and takes me in with a long, happy sigh.
“Lottie would be so proud,” she says under her breath.
Then her eyes light up. “Could I snap a pic and send it to her? It’ll break her heart.
I can’t wait.” I guess something shows on my face because she quickly shakes her head, mutters half to herself, “Never mind, I’m silly,” then brushes off my shoulders and says, “You’re ready, sweet darlin’. ”
I almost ask, ready for what?
But a few hours later, I’m back home, standing in front of a mirror in the dining room, hair freshly combed, beard trimmed short and cleaned up, and I just flicked on a light because the sun started edging down the sky.
That’s when the doorbell rings.
I take a breath, tell myself I’m ready to face this ball, and go to the door.
Screw being ready to face the ball.
I wasn’t ready to face what’s at my door.
Wyatt.
Christ.
He’s wearing blue. Not flower-shop blue—a rich, deeper blue. Some fitted jacket. His cutely messy hair behaving for once. Eyes sparkling through all of that. Faint smile curling his lips.
The guy really cleans up.
Shit.
“Wow,” whispers Wyatt, who’s done a onceover of his own.
I perk my chest up. “Why’re you so surprised?”
His smile deepens, almost turning into a laugh.
“No, no, I’m not. I …” He shrugs. “Actually, I am. You look … stunning, Diego. I wasn’t sure if you had an outfit for tonight.
It didn’t even occur to me to ask until just a few hours ago while I was setting up at the McPhersons’, and I thought to call you, then realized we still don’t have each other’s numbers, and then—”
“Had some help,” I cut in. He looks at me, startled. “Patty. The woman from down the street.”
It takes him a second. “Oh. P-Patricia, you mean? Mrs. Parker? Oh …” That only seems to give him more questions.
Suddenly I notice the flower on his lapel. A small pink burst of color in the sea of blue.
Part of his collar is off.
I reach out without thinking. Adjust it. Then realize the other side’s crooked now because I tugged too hard. Now I’m fixing both sides of his collar with my hands framing his face.
Then suddenly our eyes meet.
I stop.
How I reached for him was so quick. So natural. Barely gave it a second thought.
I let go at once. “Flower’s a nice touch,” I mumble. “Like it.”
After a second, he smiles. “Good thing you do, ‘cause …”
He performs a magic trick. Suddenly he’s got a second one.
He takes a step toward me.
I stumble back and hit the doorframe with a comical bang.
When my body realizes I’m not being attacked, but that Wyatt is gently placing something on my lapel—a pink flower to match his own—I relax at once, becoming lost in his sweet eyes.
Wyatt’s eyes, focused on the flower, fixing it to my jacket.
So close I could kiss him again.
What is it about doorways and front porches and how fucking close they bring us?
“We’re matching,” he says, like a funny observation.
Then looks at my eyes again.
I’m probably breathing funny.
He lets go of the flower, but stays close. “Ready?”
Something inside me is jumping around like a sugared-up boy on a playground. Chasing another boy. Screaming. Carefree. Is this what we were like as kids? Carefree? Jumping around? … Happy?