—13— Wyatt
Wyatt
There are exactly two kinds of people who attend the Annual Spruce Ball Fundraiser for the Arts.
The ones who arrive fashionably late.
And the ones who arrive an hour early because they secretly hope no one else is there yet.
Maybe there’s a third kind this year.
Us: the kind who have no idea what the hell they’re doing.
The McPherson estate sits at the edge of Spruce like a queen on a grassy throne.
The house itself is huge, but the backyard is what everyone’s coming for tonight.
The pavilion glows beneath strings of lights stretched between old oak trees.
Music already drifts across the lawn. Round tables are spread out from the stage, filling up one by one.
Glasses clink as chatter and laughter rise like smoke from all the clusters and cliques of guests formed around us.
Someone’s laughter rings out loud enough that I know exactly who it is.
(Nadine Strong, in case you were wondering.)
I have no idea how Diego is gonna handle meeting so many people here. I might’ve intentionally understated to him precisely how many attend this event, including people from out of town. Fairview. Brookfield. Houston. Even as far north as Dallas. I heard some might be coming in from Dreamwood, too.
The long-ass stretch of driveway was already so crowded and we parked so far away, half the journey was walking to the house.
Diego’s right by my side.
Like the shoulder of his jacket and mine fused together.
I don’t think he’s the type to admit he’s nervous or out of his element, but I can see it in his eyes.
Well, whenever I look at them, that is. Which isn’t much.
(On account of how significantly more likely I am to crash into walls when gazing at them.)
We file into a long, chatty line formed at the bar. I treat us to a couple drinks. It’s anyone’s guess what I even got. Then we drift away and linger somewhere in the back of the pavilion.
Yes, he’s still glued to my side.
No, we haven’t said a word since arriving.
Actually, I think I might’ve asked him what he wanted at the bar. I’m not sure what he said back. Now we both have drinks in hand, and I don’t even know if either of us got what we wanted.
Then I frown.
Why am I the nervous one?
This is my home. These are the people I know and love. Why am I acting like I’m just as out of my element as Diego? Shouldn’t I take the lead here and show him around, introduce him to people, and get this ice on our faces broken?
I take a breath, then glance at Diego. “You okay?”
You’d think I threw a fist into his ribcage, the way he flinches and nearly spills his drink. “Huh? What?”
“It’s a lot more people this year.”
He doesn’t quite look at me, just leaning in slightly to hear me over the noise and the music.
Even out here in the open, it’s loud. He doesn’t quite respond, at least not with words, just giving a stiff adjustment of his neck (does that count as a nod?) and taking the first sip of his drink.
His eyes scrunch up. “The fuck is this?”
No idea, I almost say, but instead push on: “It’s probably more crowded because of the concert last month.”
He leans in again. “What?”
“The concert … Back here. There was a—” I give up that topic, too. “Your aunt and uncle had a lot of friends. Wanna meet some? Mrs. Strong is right over there, and she’s—”
“Nah, it’s alright,” he says back.
I’m not surprised he isn’t in the mood to meet people.
I am surprised how oddly polite his response sounded.
It’s already crowded, but more people keep arriving, flooding in like ants, filling every empty spot of grass around the pavilion and within its central area where the round tables face the stage.
“I’ll give you a few pointers,” I start anyway. “If Mrs. Tucker comes at you, just let it happen.”
He chokes down another gulp. “Let what happen?”
“She hugs. Everyone. Strangers. Stray cats. Everyone.”
He frowns. “I’m not a hugger.”
“You can’t fight her off. Literally impossible.”
“She can try.”
“She will win.”
“No, she won’t.”
I chuckle and nudge him in the ribcage—again, he overreacts, startled, this time shooting me a look—and I decide to redirect the focus. “I haven’t seen them yet, but we might encounter the guys I usually have over for my movie nights.”
“Okay.”
“Just in case you change your mind and come to one.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I used to have them every week. Then stopped. Then started up again a year ago. Then didn’t have one for months and months. Just recently felt inspired again, and …” I turn to him. “Do you just hate having fun or something?”
He lowers his glass, turning fully to me, too.
The glower on his face slowly softens.
He takes a breath.
“Just … a bit …” He closes his eyes, his drink lowering even more. “… a bit overwhelmed.”
I instantly know how difficult that was for him to admit.
And I’m about to say something encouraging back when a face pops up between us from out of nowhere: Lance’s. “What’re you doing all the way over here? Chad and I snagged ourselves a table up in the front. Saved you a seat.”
“Oh, thanks! But …” I nod at my side. “Got two?”
Lance turns his eyes onto Diego. It takes him a second to see a human being, I think, and not a runway model ready to leap onto the stage wearing one of his designs. “Good God,” is all he says.
We both hear.
I don’t think he meant us to.
“This is Diego,” I introduce him. “Lottie and Marcos’s nephew. He’s living in their house ‘til it’s sold. Diego, this is Lance.”
“Who’s Lottie and—oh, your neighbors. Former neighbors. I’m an asshole, I forgot.” Lance smiles at Diego. “Nice to meet you, and we absolutely can make a second spot. We’ll just steal a chair from someone else’s table and squeeze it right in.”
I grimace. “You know Cissy and her seating charts …” I start.
“And you know me and my tendency to not give a fuck.” That earns a snort from Diego, which Lance notices, then smirks as he goes on: “Ethan was with us, but left to be with his cousin Turtle and the others from Gary’s ranch—Hoyt and Harrison, too.
Boo. It’s their loss. Our table is so much closer to the front.
There might be something up with that Ethan.
He’s … extra clingy lately. Tried to talk us into letting him stay on our ranch for a few days.
Do you know anything I don’t? Never mind.
Are y’all coming or not? I’m bringing Chad back a beer. He’s cranky.”
I glance at Diego, asking him with my eyes.
Diego returns an uncertain glance of his own.
And then we’re following Lance through the crowd and down the winding aisles of tables.
Diego, even when following me, stays so close, it’s like wearing a backpack.
I have to stop now and then for someone to pass in front of me, and Diego presses into my back each time, giving me the sensation of being in his arms.
Wrapped like a blanket with my back against his chest.
His face by my neck. Breath on me.
And just a turn of my head one way, and there he is, gazing at me with those intense eyes, not daring to let me out of his sight.
I’ve never felt like someone’s source of strength before.
But something about how he stays so close makes me feel like my presence is the one thing keeping him from losing his shit.
Is he really just doing all of this for me?
Am I torturing him by bringing him here?
I think I keep expecting Diego to get bored. Or to finally reach his limit. To be over it once and for all. To give up on me and this town and his borrowed suit and just leave. Every encounter risks that. Every friendly face. Every breath.
Instead, whenever I turn around, there he is.
Soon, we’re seated at the table. Lance wasn’t kidding; we have a full-on view of the stage from the right side, only one other table in front of ours, filled with the Evanses—Cassie, Fabian with his girlfriend Nadia, and her daughter Vanessa with boyfriend Robby.
It makes sense Lance would sit here; he and Cassie are in business together with his fashion design.
Our table is small. Lance’s boyfriend Chad is seated next to the Kings: Tyrone and Omar with their daughter Kelsey, who appears dramatically bored.
I’ve invited the Kings out for my movie nights several times, but they’re always busy or got stuff going on.
They live way out in the boonies near Lance and Chad’s ranch and have dinners at each other’s houses, feeling at times more attached to one another than to Spruce.
Lance actually confessed that to me one of my movie nights when he was a little tipsy: my gatherings help him feel more connected to everyone in town.
I felt a pinch of pride. I am quick to greet them and introduce Diego, though it doesn’t inspire much conversation beyond some initial small talk.
I laugh at something Chad says, then fall into awkward silence when the topic changes to something about ranch life, sipping my drink and ignoring the nervous sweat dripping down my back.
Diego leans into me. “That one of yours?”
I’m confused for a second until I follow his line of sight to the flowery centerpiece on the table. “Oh, that? Yeah, it is.”
He nods thoughtfully, then eyes the floral arches around the perimeter of the space. “But not those.”
I peer at them, too. “Right.”
He eyes the stage. “And not those things, either.”
He’s referring to the potted plants that dot the lip of the stage from one end to the other, each one perfectly identical to the next as if they were copy/pasted. “Nope.” Then I give him a look. “You can actually tell which ones are mine and which ones aren’t?”
He shrugs and crosses his arms. “Yours are better.”
I smirk. “You’re just saying that.”