—16— Diego
Diego
I drive us home in Wyatt’s car.
He had three more drinks.
Maybe four.
I’m not letting him behind any wheel tonight.
“He’ll get over it,” says Wyatt sleepily, head drooped back on the passenger seat.
It takes me a sec to realize he’s talking about his friend. “It isn’t his business what we were doing,” I say back. “And my name ain’t Derek.”
“I can’t believe I missed Jimmy’s dance.”
I don’t even know who Jimmy is or whether he was any of the people we met. “Someone probably recorded it.”
“Isn’t the same as seeing it live. In the flesh. From the second row. With your own …” He turns his head toward me, looking me up and down. “… eyes.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I don’t get drunk. I get fun.” He sighs. “Or so says Connie.”
“That your sister?”
“Yep. My one and only. One of my birthdays, she came from outta town, it was a whole surprise thing, and after two rounds of shots at Tumbleweeds, she said I was the funnest I’ve ever been.
Funnest? That a word? Most funnerest. Most fun?
” He laughs at himself, then pauses. “Wait, how’d you know Connie’s my sister? ”
I stare blankly at the road. “Lucky guess.”
He gives it another second of thought, then lets it go and curls up like a cat in his seat, tugging on the seatbelt. “We play chess on an online app. I let her win. Every game.” He yawns, rubs his face, droops his head back again. “She doesn’t know.”
I frown. “Why?”
“It’s easier that way. Everything’s easier that way.”
I leave it alone. Debating the rights and wrongs of letting your sister believe she’s a secret chess grandmaster isn’t a battle worth waging on four-to-five glasses of wannabe moonshine.
The drive home is way longer than I thought, especially in the dark. Starting to think calling those rich folks “Spruce residents” is either a local joke or this town’s borders stretch ten counties.
But then we’re in his driveway, and the car’s off.
And Wyatt’s sound-the-fuck asleep.
I nudge him once. Twice.
Nothing.
I get out of the car and come around, opening his door.
I undo his seatbelt, scoop him into my arms, kick shut the door, and head to his front porch.
The door’s unlocked—I swear, Wyatt, I just don’t get you—so I manage to get it open without dropping him, shove my way inside, bump it shut behind me, and hunt for his bed.
I lay him down gently.
And of course it’s then that he squirms, squeezes an eye open, mumbles, “Sexy kitten, doin’ your thing, mmm, butter that bread,” and immediately passes back out.
I stare.
The fuck was that?
I take hold of his shoes and pop them off one by one, setting them on the floor by the bed. Then I sit him up, slide his limp-ass limbs out of his jacket. Undo his tie, gently tug it off his neck. Fold all that up, place the stack on a chair by his closet.
I catch sight of a piece of paper on his nightstand. His grocery list. The hell’s his grocery list doing by the bed? Eggs. Skim milk. Lunch meat. Bread. Bananas. Arthritis cream. Dog food.
Wait, dog food? Wyatt doesn’t own a dog.
Arthritis cream?
Is this someone else’s list? Does Wyatt get groceries for some sweet old lady down the street?
Why do I instantly believe that’s exactly the case?
I leave him to sleep and head for the door, only to stop at the sight of dirty dishes on the counter. When I approach, there’s also smudged glasses in the sink, one still rimmed at the bottom with orange juice. Really, Wyatt?
The sight of it is so annoying, I peel off my jacket, fling it over a nearby chair, roll up my sleeves, and nudge the faucet on. After a minute of scrubbing and rinsing—for real, it’s that easy, Wyatt—the dishes are sitting in the dish drainer.
That’s when I notice the trash bin.
Full to the top and overflowing with leaves, stems, and other discarded plant parts. What the hell, Wyatt?
So I’m on that nonsense, too. Hunt for bags in the cupboards under the counters.
Find them in a cramped laundry closet by the door leading to the garage.
Lavender-scented bags. Gross. Change out the trash.
Decide lavender isn’t so bad actually. Haul the trash to a red-topped bin outside, swing it in, head back inside to wash my hands.
Then I’m at the bedroom door.
Wyatt is still exactly as I left him. Even with one hand over his chest like he’s pledging allegiance to the flag.
He doesn’t snore.
As if even in his sleep, he’s afraid to take up too much space.
To make too much noise.
Disturb the bushes outside his window.
I find a blanket sitting on a cushy ottoman-thing in the corner of his room, green-and-black checkered, feels like soft fleece. I put it over him, covering him to the neck. He still doesn’t move, even a little bit, breathing so softly I can barely hear it.
“Night, flower boy,” I say just as quietly, then go.
My house feels different when I’m back in it, less cold, empty, and judgy. More warm. Patient. Even the orchid, which calmly sits there in the dark, no complaints. And when I look out the window, Wyatt’s house feels different, too. Like it’s closer somehow.
I go to sleep in my clothes, figuring I’ll shower in the morning, like Wyatt. Has nothing to do with wanting tonight to stick around a little longer.
Nothing at all.
In the morning after my shower, I’m in a towel, hair dripping, standing at the counter making myself toast, when I spot activity in Wyatt’s front kitchen window.
Our houses are so close, I can see the poor guy standing at his counter blinking in slow motion, like he’s trying to remember his own name.
I’m not much of a drinker. But judging from last night, neither is he, and he’s having the hangover from hell—an unintentionally hilarious thing to say about a guy who’s already late for church.
I pity him.
Just a teeny bit.
It’s when I’m getting last night’s clothing out of the wash and into the dryer that I realize I’m short an important piece.
The jacket.
Where the hell did I put the jacket?
Oh, right: I took it off before I did Wyatt’s dishes.
Seriously? I have to go back over there now?
After talking myself into it and out of it twenty times, I kick myself out the door in a pair of gym shorts and a tank and make my way over to his front porch.
With my hand on the doorknob, I almost let my ass right in like I live here before remembering myself.
I lift a fist and give the door a couple bumps.
Wyatt answers almost immediately. “Huh?”
I frown. “The hell kind of a greeting is that?”
“Sorry. I’m …” He wrinkles up his face. “It’s been a …”
I notice he’s half-dressed. Khaki pants and a loose belt missing one of the belt loops, like he slid it on and forgot to actually fasten it. One sock on, one sock off. Just a white undershirt. Hair messy. Eyes red and swollen.
He’s a mess.
An adorable mess, but still a mess.
“Did you, uh … drive us home?” he asks slowly.
“You don’t remember?”
“I … don’t remember getting home at all.” He rubs his head as he avoids looking me in the eye. “Don’t think I’ve … ever blacked out like that. Hope I didn’t, uh … do anything. Or say anything. Did I?” he asks suddenly, looking horrified by the thought. “Did I do or s-say anything weird?”
I point at the kitchen chair behind him. “I left my jacket.”
He’s completely confused by my words until he follows my line of sight. “Oh.” He goes to it—though staggers is a more fitting term—and takes it into his arms. “I didn’t even notice.” He blinks, staring at it, then turns. “Did you … bring me inside and …?” He goes quiet.
I have no idea what he’s actually asking.
Did I bring him inside and fuck his brains out?
Did I bring him inside and do his dishes and take out his trash and tuck him into bed?
I don’t answer. I come in, take the jacket from him, mumble, “Need to return this to Patty,” before heading back to the door.
He catches me on the porch. “Diego?”
I stop on the first step and turn. “What?”
“It’s just …” He swallows. Clears his throat. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Licks his lips. “I feel like … like … last night … we …”
“You shouldn’t drink so much.”
“I know.” He rubs his head. “I didn’t think I had.”
“It isn’t good for you.” I nod at him. “You’re gonna be late.”
He looks at me, blinking. “What?”
“To church.” After a few more seconds of just standing here staring at each other, I frown. “You gonna be okay to drive? Or do I need to take you there myself?”
“I-I’m okay,” he insists.
“I’ll do it,” I tell him. “I’ll drive you.”
“No, it’s fine, I’m okay. Just a little headache. Everything’s … loud. Even when it’s quiet. Y’know what I mean? And …” He takes a breath and lifts his eyebrows. “Do you want to come? With me?”
That question is like a dart to the heart.
I’m instantly transported to the last time I stepped foot inside a church.
All the constant murmuring behind my back.
Fake condolences and bullshit.
The stifling air.
Weepy, piteous glances.
“I just came for the jacket,” I mutter half to myself, then head the rest of the way off the porch.
He isn’t done. “Diego?”
I stop again, now in the grass. “Yes …?”
He’s in the grass, too, right in front of me. Quick on his feet, I guess. Didn’t even hear him come down the steps.
“I just … I just want to know if …”
“You want to know what?”
He breathes funny as he tries to collect his thoughts. They’re slow. I notice how he’s slouching, too. How he keeps looking down at my chest instead of my eyes.
The guy is literally terrified he did something wrong. Or plain ticked me off. Is it such a bad thing to enjoy him worrying a little?
“What’s the problem, Wyatt?” I ask, trying not to torture him too badly. “You think we got it on after the party or something?”
His eyes glue to mine, unblinkingly.
He swallows.
“That it?” I take a step toward him. “You think … after soiling that priceless rug in that fancy-ass palace last night …” I bring my voice low, right up to his ear.
“… with my fingers inside you …” Then I pull back and get a look at his face.
“… that I drove you all the way to your house … and had my way with you?”
I’m literally handing him a whole bag of nightmares.
The guy can barely breathe.
“If that’s what you think I’d do to someone who’s passed out drunk …” I shake my head and click my tongue. “… you don’t know me at all.”
He comes back. “N-No. I didn’t mean to ask if you … y-you did anything to me like that, or took advantage, or … No, I don’t think that of you at all. I … I was just—”
“It’s fine,” I say with a smirk. “Don’t go wetting your khakis. You didn’t embarrass yourself.” I step back, then add, “Much.”
He looks down, picking at his nails. Then he squints, lifts his gaze from the grass, and asks, “By the way, did you … uh … happen to do my dishes …?”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I grumble, then turn and head back to the house, jacket hanging heavy over my arm.