—14— Diego
Diego
I don’t need another drink.
Neither does Wyatt.
We both know that.
“Is it always like this?” I ask after dodging two kids racing by our legs.
“Not at all,” says Wyatt, then pauses. “Yeah, kinda.”
We’re walking along a pathway around the pavilion.
The back of the house is filled with people, too.
Tables of catered food. Spots for taking photos.
A big fucking fountain. I couldn’t have imagined a mansion like this existed anywhere close to the small town I’ve been in these past few weeks.
Of course I’ve heard this and that at the shop.
Mayor Strong’s big property. All the farmlands around the outskirts of town.
But being here in person is something else, seeing it for myself, witnessing the community of this place.
I wonder why Tía and Tío are moving away from all of this.
Then I wonder why it’s the first time I’ve wondered that.
“Oh, hey, Diego,” greets Joel as we pass by him on the path. He doesn’t change much, even in a shirt and tie. He literally wipes the sweat off his brow with his tie before asking, “Wouldn’t happen to have seen my two rugrats runnin’ around here like a pair of—?”
“That way,” directs Wyatt with a pleasant smile.
“Lifesaver.” Then Joel stops. “Please don’t tell Mindy I lost our kids. It was my one job. I looked away for half a second, then—Hey, I see you! This ain’t a game! Hey!” Joel takes off running, his shoes squeaking along the pathway.
Wyatt looks at me.
I look at him.
He’s holding back a laugh.
I can’t help but crack a smile.
“That, uh, drink ran through me, actually,” he admits. “Think I need to do the opposite of drinking.”
“Me too.”
“Really?” He nods back at the house. “There’s bound to be a bathroom or seven. And I’m pretty sure all the fancy port-a-potties out here are taken. Wanna do a little … exploring with me?”
I shrug and give a nod.
Off we go.
Wide stone steps lead toward a set of back doors.
All the noise fades the moment the doors shut behind us.
The difference is instant. Outside, it’s all laughter and people talking over each other. In here, it’s stunningly quiet. Not silent. The world out there still exists, but just feels far away at once.
We slowly move down a tall, wide hallway.
Someone in a suit passes by us, smiles and nods without a word, and their clacking footsteps disappear around a corner.
Paintings stare down from walls taller than my old apartment building.
Hardwood floors and tiles shine beneath my feet so brightly, I feel guilty walking over them.
Somewhere behind us, unseen, a grandfather clock chimes the quarter hour.
“Can you imagine living here?” asks Wyatt, looking lost in his thoughts.
I’m gazing at the side of his face as we walk. I don’t think he even notices. “No.”
“My mom always envied the McPhersons. Every time a party was thrown here, long before the first Spruce Ball. When you work so hard every day of your life, and you aren’t seeing the big dream happening around you like you thought you would as a kid …
” He sighs to himself. “Sometimes, I don’t think my parents handed the shop down to me. I think they just gave up.”
I’m walking right by his side. Hands almost grazing. “Why do you say that?”
“I think my mom just wanted freedom. My dad, too. They had enough saved up. Ran off leaving me holding the bags. Don’t get me wrong,” he quickly adds. “I’m happy with the store.”
“Don’t sound it.”
“I am. Really.” He shoots me a look that turns into a laugh. “I would be crazy to still be working there if I wasn’t. And besides … who else would run it?” He looks off. “My sister’s doing her thing. And my mom and dad are …” He shrugs. “I guess they’re happier.”
“But are you?”
“Of course.” His walking slows. “Yes, I’m—Of course I am.”
“Just asking.”
He puts on a smile and tilts his head my way. “Guess I’m not used to … being asked if I’m happy.” He looks ahead.
I already figured as much.
This whole town feeds on his kindness. No one checks in. No one stands over him to tell off the vultures.
It pisses me off.
“You okay?” he asks.
I’ve tightened up my jaw. “Guess I know a thing or two about moms running off, leaving their son to clean up the mess.”
He frowns at me. “What do you mean?”
Next second, I’m furious I let that out. “Nothing.” I look away.
“Your mom?”
“Said never mind.”
He doesn’t question it further.
After a little longer of walking, I let myself look at him again, studying the side of his face. Even when Wyatt’s serious, there’s this totally calm sexiness about him. I’d put money down there’s more fight in this guy than he lets on.
More fight than anyone in this whole town even knows.
Then he stops. “Okay, I have no idea where the bathroom is.”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”
“I feel like we might’ve passed one coming in …?”
I look around, not even having paid attention to where we’ve been walking. “You’ve been in this place how many times? Didn’t these rich people throw a Fourth of July thing here last month?”
He shrugs, then says, “Fun fact, it’s usually the Strongs’ who host all of the big events, but I think Mayor Nadine’s let go of the reins a bit, and Miss Cassie has this big ol’ house, and—You didn’t ask for the whole story,” he suddenly realizes, shutting himself up, then pointing at a random hall. “I vote that way.”
“Are we about to get lost in this place?”
“Aren’t we already?” He goes ahead of me.
I follow again, hands in my pockets.
We wander past rooms bigger than the house I’m staying in. A library with ladders. Some kind of music room. A sitting room I’m pretty sure no one ever actually sits in, from how clean it looks.
“How many random-ass rooms do rich people need?” I catch myself mumbling.
“I am happy in life, by the way.” He sighs. “I’m surrounded by what I love. My plants and flowers. I suspect they love me back. It’s like having hundreds of lovers all at once, and they show me love with their fragrance and their bold and colorful beauty.”
“Sounds fucking lonely.”
He stops at the door to another room and frowns back at me. “Speak for yourself, Mr. Won’t-Come-To-My-Movie-Nights.”
We stand at the doorway together.
There’s a fireplace at the other side.
A wall of windows. Curtains.
Big beautiful rug.
“This room is just for dramatically standing in place during a thunderstorm,” he announces grandly, like a tour guide.
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself.
He peers over his shoulder at me. “Did you just—?”
My face is already flat again. “Nah.”
“I just made you laugh.”
“Are we even looking for a bathroom anymore?”
“Did we ever have to pee? Or was it an excuse to get away?” He walks across the room to the windows and peers through the curtains. “We probably walked right past all of them.”
“Dunno. Wasn’t looking.”
He turns from the windows. “You weren’t?”
I shrug.
His eyes are on me for a while. Then he squints. “What were you looking at, then?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
It’s like I actually don’t know for a minute.
I wasn’t looking at the fountain outside. Or the big-ass stage and its lame, uninspired flowerpots at the front of it.
Wasn’t really looking for a bathroom, either, clearly.
Somewhere between getting up from the table and wandering into this giant rich-person museum, I stopped paying attention to everything else.
“What?” says Wyatt, like he’s still waiting for an answer.
I look at him. Really look at him.
The cute, almost stern way his eyebrows lift while he waits.
How the jacket fits him better than anything has a right to.
The knot of his tie, slightly loose, maybe out of nervousness, or because he felt hot and tugged at it absently.
That curl that keeps falling onto his forehead no matter how many times he brushes it off.
What the hell have I been looking at?
“You.”
Then I freeze.
I’m not sure who said that. It didn’t feel like me. But it wasn’t Wyatt. And we’re the only two people in this room.
There was a trace of a smile on his face a second ago.
It’s gone now.
“Me …?” He’s breathing a bit deeper now. Belatedly brings a hand to his chest, as if asking “Me?” again without his voice.
Well, there’s no taking it back now.
I shrug, then say, “Yep,” as my fingers clench in my pockets.
He drops his hand. For half a breath, he literally looks like he’s devising an escape plan. Then he lets out a short laugh, goes quiet again, and starts rubbing the back of his neck.
And his face is turning red.
I stare at him.
Mouth going dry.
Why isn’t he saying anything? Why’s he just standing there? Why is he killing me with this white-hot silence right now?
I can’t stand it. “Thunderstorm room, huh?”
The question comes out choked. Not even in my voice. Like an alien took over and I’ve got no hope to shut my ass up.
He looks at me. “The what?”
I step inside. “Y’know … what you just called this room, the place to stand in during a thunderstorm.” I stop by a fancy couch, the kind you’d see in some 17th century palace. “I don’t see any big thunderstorm out there.”
“Don’t jinx it,” he warns. “My phone did show a 5% chance of precipitation tonight.”
“Would it be the worst thing?” I take a few steps closer.
“Um, yes? Cissy would have a … a conniption.” He’s starting to ramble nervously.
“Do you realize how much planning went into tonight? She had to postpone the whole thing by three weekends because of the concert last month. Not sure why, but she did. She’s probably more messed up about her son leaving than she admits.
Oh, and not to mention everyone got all dolled up tonight, and if it dares to start raining—”
“You got pretty dolled up yourself.”
He goes quiet.
Then looks at me again.
I’m closer. A lot closer.
His eyes drift down to the pretty flower he put on my chest, his pink boutonniere. “And you,” he says softly.
The way he’s looking at my chest.
The thoughts I’ve gotta assume he’s having.
Us playing footsy under his table again, ignoring his delicious soup, hearts fluttering all over the damned place.
I don’t know how much game I’ve got left.