—20— Diego #2
First: he’s a terrible person to watch movies with. “Oh, I love this part,” he tells me before every single part he loves. And there are countless.
Second: “Did you see that?” he says every time something big happens. Yes, Wyatt, I saw that, since I am watching the same damned screen as you are and have eyeballs.
Third: we really are just watching the movie.
No flirty reach-into-the-popcorn-bowl-at-the-same-time.
No teasing my foot with his.
The tub of popcorn literally separates us like a cock-blocking barrier of unbuttered frustration.
Like Wyatt really did just invite me over to kill time until that house-that’s-not-really-mine becomes mine again.
I know how to fuck. I know how to make him moan in all the right ways. I know how to satisfy.
But I don’t know how to watch a movie.
How to people.
How to do this.
“I watched this with my sister when I was, like, eight.” He lets out a little chuckle. “She had to explain half of it to me. I mean, I didn’t need her to, but she did anyway.”
“Why do you let her win at chess?”
He looks at me, confused. “I … I don’t let …” Then he squints. “How’d you know that?”
“You told me the night of the Ball while I drove us home,” I remind him. “Said it’s ‘easier’ or something. What’d you mean?”
Sober Wyatt stares ahead at the TV, probably wondering what else Drunk Wyatt might’ve revealed.
“I guess it’s just … um …” He swallows and licks his lips.
“She needs a win. More than me. In life. She needs … wins.” He puts on a smile and faces me.
“I feel like it’s the least I can give her, for being such a great sister growing up. ”
“But why?”
His eyebrows pinch together. “I just told you.”
“But why does her winning have to mean you losing?”
“Who said anyone’s losing?”
“It’s a game. Someone wins. Someone loses.”
He picks up a single popcorn kernel and flicks it at me.
It rolls down my shirt and plops unexcitingly onto my lap.
“Just because someone wins doesn’t mean the other loses.
Maybe we both win. She enjoys a victory.
And I enjoy the satisfaction of knowing my big sister is now having a …
slightly improved day because she murdered both my bishops, beheaded my queen, and backed my king into a corner cowering for his life behind a wall of pawns. ”
Before I know what to say to that, my phone buzzes. I pick it up and read a text from Henrietta.
“Is it sold?” asks Wyatt.
I hear the weird shift in his voice, like he just asked a sensitive question or something.
I pocket my phone. “Not yet. The first showing went well. But two more sets of buyers are stopping by tonight. Might be another hour or two before I’m out of your hair.”
“Why not stay in my hair?” He throws an arm over the back of the couch. “Still got the rest of the movie, and maybe another one after it. Y’know … if you want.”
I gaze into his eyes. That puppy-dog excitement behind them.
It isn’t the same as his in-the-mood-to-get-banged look.
I think he just wants me to stay.
I don’t know what to do with a look like that. I think I’d rather him just want to fuck.
“I can make more popcorn,” he says, and his voice sounds like we’ve already decided on our own personal movie night. “But first things first, you’ve got to see how this ends. Trust me, you will not see it coming.” He settles back into the couch and watches the TV.
After a second, I do, too.
He’s surprisingly silent through the whole climax.
Movie ends in its promised bang.
The good guy gets the girl.
Bad guy’s dead in a rain of hellfire.
Credits roll.
He actually watches the credits. “So many people are involved in making these movies happen,” he says, like it’s a new concept. “More than just the leading actors, y’know. It’s incredible.”
I stare at him instead of the screen, wondering if he knows his level of thinking of others is what I find incredible.
Ten minutes later, the next movie’s on.
Another ten, popcorn bowl’s on the coffee table, forgotten.
Then we’re slouched against each other’s sides somehow. His shoulder pressed to mine.
I put my arm over the back of the couch just to stop my bony shoulder from digging annoyingly into him.
His head slides onto my chest a minute later.
It’s not until I hear Wyatt’s breathing change that I realize he hasn’t said a word the whole beginning of the movie. I’m about to say his name, but stop when I realize his grip on the throw pillow he was clutching released.
He fell asleep.
On me.
I can still slip out from under him. Leave him be. Wouldn’t be the first time I left him sleeping in his own house.
My phone lights up on the arm of the couch. I can read it from here. Henrietta. She’s giving me the all-clear and asking whether she should wait for me or lock up on her way out.
Wyatt shifts a little, slipping down my chest.
I panic for half a second before catching him. He lets out the tiniest moan before settling his head in my lap, turned away from the TV now, face nuzzled in my crotch like a cat finding warmth.
I don’t move. Hands hovering in the air over him.
Unsure what to do.
The movie continues, but now neither of us are watching it. I finally set one hand on his shoulder, then take the phone with my other. I text Henrietta one-handed that I’ve got a key, so she can just lock up and get the fuck out.
Minus the “get the fuck out” part.
She replies that the showings went well.
Not sure how to feel about that.
She’ll be in touch, she tells me.
I give a thumbs up reaction, then set my phone aside, peering down at Wyatt as he gently breathes in my lap, lips parted slightly, legs twisted up, one curled, one hanging halfway off the couch.
I don’t want to call this adorable.
Or sweet.
It’s actually uncomfortable. And I don’t know what to do. And I keep feeling like I need to get out of here before he wakes up.
The next second, I want to stay right here.
Don’t want this to ever end.
I suddenly realize I’m gently stroking his back. The second it occurs to me, I stop. Then I start again, wondering why I stopped—and why I started in the first place.
Why can I handle Wyatt naked beneath my body, but not fully clothed cuddled into my lap on his couch?
I close my eyes, forget the movie, and throw my head back.
His couch is infuriatingly comfortable. Every inch of its soft, smooth surface like a goddamned hug. Even the cushion my head is sinking into. Even the way the couch cradles my ass.
Cradles us.
Something suddenly bothers me about people walking around inside the house earlier. Poking at my tía’s decorations in the hall. Or my tío’s little enhancements everywhere, like the light fixture over the table, or the sliding door in the back, or the curtain rods.
Walking past my potted orchid with their judging looks.
Sniffing around the back garden that I’ve not even seen.
Asking Henrietta about the wildflowers in the front.
Planning already to tear them out.
To gut the house, rip out its soul, erase its memories, plant all of their own like a fresh batch of boring-as-fuck rosebushes.
I hate each and every last one of them suddenly.
Maybe I ought to thank Henrietta for scaring them all away. Or request she cast some kind of hex on future buyers instead of actually doing her job.
Then I pop my eyes open.
Why the hell am I wishing for this shit to happen? Don’t I want the house to sell? Isn’t the point to get this over with, fix my dad’s car, and get the hell out of here?
Even if I still haven’t decided where I’m heading next?
I don’t know why it’s the first time I’ve had this thought, but suddenly thinking about where I’m off to next is sounding less like running toward something and more like running away.
Wyatt chooses that exact moment to shift his arms, cling to me tighter, mumble something that sounds like, “Very good, very good,” before settling back into sleep.
I close my eyes again and lay my head back.
Then, when I’m absolutely sure no one on earth can see me, I let myself smile.