—21— Wyatt
Wyatt
I wake up with my face buried in Diego’s crotch.
I don’t realize this for a few seconds.
But when I do, I twist my neck and look up, finding Diego’s head lolled back on the couch, deep breaths drawing in and out, filling the whole house.
It’s still dark.
The TV is off. I’m guessing the movie finished and the TV did its polite little “Are you still watching?” courtesy prompt before auto-shutting off. Ah, technology.
I don’t know if Diego’s comfortable like that.
Or if he’s gonna wake up with a crick in his neck worse than what Jacky-Ann gave me at the flower shop.
But something about the peace and quiet of the house mixed with the gentle rush and pull of Diego’s breaths hypnotizes my face right back into his lap, and I drift off again.
Second time I wake up, sunlight’s in my face, and I’m alone on the couch. The throw pillow has been tucked under my head, and my maroon Game of Thrones blanket is covering me with the words “Hear me roar” stitched at the top, hitting my eyes before I realize I’m even awake.
Then I smell burnt toast.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and spot Diego in the kitchen. He’s at my pantry door, appearing in the middle of a quest figuring out my admittedly confusing sense of organization.
I get up and come to the kitchen. “Toast burning?”
My question startles him. He turns to the toaster.
“Fuck.” He ditches whatever he was looking for in the pantry and fetches the unsalvageable bread.
Something’s sizzling on the stove, too. Eggs.
He grabs the handle and brings it to the table where a couple of plates are sitting.
“Hope you like well-done,” he says—I’m not sure if he’s joking—then serves us a couple plates of eggs and toast with a side of ham lunchmeat I keep for late-night sandwich cravings.
Diego made us breakfast.
The words repeat as I sit here eating with him across the table from me.
No amount of butter can save the toast, but I choke it down anyway.
He either puts on a great face or isn’t at all fazed by the charred slabs of stone he made us in my toaster.
The eggs are super overdone, but I don’t mind. The ham is hammy.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I tell him.
“No big deal,” he mumbles without looking, then chomps off another bite of ham.
Birds are on my front porch, which happens a lot in the early mornings, and I hear them chirping away as we eat in silence. I ask about the realtor situation. He tells me no one’s biting the bait yet. I nod as I cradle my cup of coffee and blow on it.
Yeah, he made coffee, too.
When I’m washing dishes afterwards, I notice the faucet isn’t dripping when I shut it off. Did Diego have something to do with it or is it just a coincidence?
“You working late?” I ask at the front door before he heads back to his place to get cleaned up and change.
“Dunno. Depends on the shop, I guess,” he mumbles back.
“Ah, okay, makes sense.”
“You?”
“Probably not. Unless Jacky-Ann’s back for round two.”
“Just tell the Nadine lady to get her own gift for her husband.”
“Be nice, Diego.”
“She acts like she’s queen of Texas.”
“Well, this part of Texas, she sorta is.”
“If you say so.”
We both glance off toward the street for some reason, as if we heard something. We didn’t. The wind is playing through the thin branches of the tree in my front yard, setting several of the leaves free as they drift by.
“Gonna need to rake this mess up soon,” mumbles Diego.
“I can do it after work.”
“I’ll help.”
“Alright.”
He crosses his arms. Still doesn’t leave my porch.
I just linger next to him, front door left open behind me, wind playing in my hair now.
The porch birds have relocated to the branches of the tree, chirping noisily and doing whatever birds do.
Like gossiping about how stupid human beings are, probably.
“Anyway, guess I’m off,” he says, turning to me.
And I lean into him, aiming my lips instinctively toward his.
Then stop.
What the hell am I doing? Kissing my husband before sending him off to work?
Am I about to remind him to pick up the kids from school?
“Sorry,” I mumble, pulling away.
Until Diego chases my mouth, causing me to fall back against the wall, and presses his lips to mine.
And it isn’t just a peck.
It’s a kiss that literally silences the gossipy birds in the trees.
A kiss that stops the wind.
That makes me forget whether I’m even wearing clothes.
Then he ends it, pulling away, and looks into my eyes like he’s pissed.
“Sorry for what?” he grunts.
Smirks.
Then leaves the porch.
I stand there in a daze, watching him cross the grass, enter his house, and not once look back. I don’t realize my heart is jumping around excitedly in my chest, totally thrown off-balance by that man who just set me straight yet again.
He can burn my toast every damned morning if that’s the kiss I get to enjoy afterwards.
I’m still thinking about it even at the flower shop, touching my lips at the counter like they’re made of some alien material I can’t identify, reliving the porch kiss over and over.
Then I’m thinking about how I woke up, snuggled in my own blanket, head resting on a pillow.
Diego did that.
How did I fall asleep?
When did I lie down?
Did we both fall asleep on the couch cuddled together and I somehow missed it?
I don’t know.
I can’t get my act together any better when Cash comes in like he always does, slings his backpack behind the counter, then goes on dumping his teenage drama all over me. I’ve caught precisely zero percent of his story when he stops and says, “What’s with you today? Did something happen?”
I’m absentmindedly sucking on the end of my index finger. “Someone fixed my faucet,” I murmur back.
Cash blinks. “Congratulations …?”
I even ate Diego’s terrible eggs. Choked down his burnt toast.
And … liked it …?
“So what should I do about him?” asks Cash after delivering the rest of his story. “What would you do if you were me?”
My eyes spot an orchid.
Then imagine Diego when he was here, swiping it straight off the counter, claiming it.
The same way he claims me.
“Let him grab you and pin you against something,” I answer. Silence follows. I blink. Glance at Cash. Realize who I’m talking to. “Emotionally, I mean.”
“Oh.” He looks off. “Yeah, I get it.” He squints. “I think.”
My eyes land on the clock over the door. “Shit! I forgot about Bellamy.”
“Bella-who?”
I turn to Cash. “I’ll pay you for the day if you help me load my car for a delivery I’m twenty-minutes late on.”
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“But I’m bored and have nothing to—”
“Hold down the fort ‘til I’m back.”
Cash blinks. “Seriously?”
The next twelve minutes are a storm of boxes, vases, flowers, and way too much ribbon.
Cash asks a hundred questions, like he hasn’t been working at my shop one day a week for years, but by the time I’m out the door, he has crossed his arms and said, “I got you, don’t worry about a thing here,” with a dutiful nod.
I’m still fumbling with my seatbelt when I drive off.
It isn’t a small drive out to Brookfield, either. I was so caught up this morning with Diego that I forgot I’d planned to make this delivery first thing before the weekend. But the morning got away from me, and now I’m going to be well over an hour late when I’d intended to be early.
And when I finally arrive at his office in uptown Brookfield, I am drenched in shame-sweat and certain my deodorant did not survive the travel.
This is not an ideal look for me, entering a prim and wealthy place like Brookfield, where even the parking spaces outside of this sleek, blemish-free building look mopped daily.
I approach the building as I take in the ritzy street lined with name-brand this and specialty-store that, grunting under the weight of the box I’m carrying.
I almost drop the whole order as I negotiate my way through a revolving door, then spill into a lobby the size of a castle, echoey and tall, with floors so polished I can see my own panicked face looking up at me next to my feet.
The front desk clerks (there are four) are all busy. I check an unhelpfully exhaustive directory posted on the wall in sleek black marble and fine gold lettering, then make a wild guess where Mr. Bellamy’s office is. Before boarding the elevator, I second-guess myself and check the directory again.
Then I spot a girl. Maybe six or seven. No one nearby as she stands next to the elevator, appearing to be wiping her eyes. She’s in a school uniform, one arm tucking books into her side.
And I notice she’s crying.
Silently.
A silent movie of a little schoolgirl crying.
I don’t know what possesses me, other than feeling lost and on the verge of tears myself, but I rush over to the elevators and crouch down by her. “You okay, sweetie? Something wrong?”
She stops sniffling at once and just looks at me, blinking her big reddened eyes.
“I get it,” I tell her, adopting some weird sort of dorky talking-to-children voice, like I’m a character on a corny TV kids show she probably doesn’t even watch. “Today just isn’t the day, is it?”
Her swollen eyes drop to the flowers sticking up out of the top of the box.
“Pretty, huh?” I smile. Then I reach in and slip out one flower from an arrangement, knowing it won’t be missed, and offer it to the girl.
She takes it at once, eyes transfixed on the petals.
“Keep it. Pretty flower for a pretty girl.” I rethink the sentiment.
“Not that we should continue reinforcing this idea that prettiness is the ultimate aspiration. Sure, pretty flowers may sell more, but it’s the interesting ones I like best. They mean more.
Trust me, you don’t know this yet, maybe you’ll discover it in college, but it’s a zillion times more valuable to be interesting than pretty. ”
“Wish someone told me that back in college,” comes a voice.