—22— Diego
Diego
Wyatt pulls up to the curb. Pops his trunk. Grabs a couple of empty boxes. Slams the trunk shut with an elbow. Fumbles at the door. Can’t manage to get it open. Drops a box. Scowls.
I come to the door and open it for him.
He’s crouched by the fallen box, then looks up, stopping at the sight of me. “What’re you doing here?”
I lean against the door and cross my arms. “What’re you not doing here?”
“I was out doing a delivery,” he says with a defensive bite in his voice. When he finally gets the box into his grasp, another one drops. He lets out an annoyed sigh.
I pick it up for him, then gesture inside. He rolls his eyes and walks past me into the store. I follow him in.
He stops by the counter and asks the moody teenager there, “You okay? I’m so sorry I’m late. Your mother’s probably so mad.”
The teenager looks at me. “He wouldn’t leave.”
“Why would I?” I grunt back.
“I told you Mr. C went to do a delivery.”
“Still doesn’t explain who you are.”
“Dude, who the hell are you?”
Wyatt snatches the empty box from me with a sigh. “Nice to see you guys became best friends while I was gone.” He takes it to the back with the others, then says, “Cash, thank you so much for holding down the fort. I’ll pay you for the day, promise.”
“It’s okay, Mr. C,” he says, still eyeing me. “I’ll be coming back tomorrow. Y’know. ‘Cause I work here.”
I scrunch up my face. “Why the hell didn’t you just say so?”
“Because you’re fun to dick with,” the kid answers. Before I can say something back, he slings his backpack over his shoulder and says, “I can stay longer, Mr. C, if you need me to.”
“He’s safe with me,” I growl back, annoyed at the implication in his eyes.
Wyatt holds back a snort and says, “Think I can manage, Cash. Please give Stella my regards.”
The dude stares me down the whole way out of the store.
I stare him down right back.
When he’s gone, I turn to Wyatt. “The whole time I was here, being dodgy as fuck, wouldn’t say who he was or where you were or—” I bring my voice down. “What kind of a delivery takes the whole damned afternoon? Was your client in Hong Kong?”
“What’s this?” he asks, pointing at a container in the fridge.
I come up to the counter. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting here for you?”
“I do not.”
“I’ll let you guess. Hint: over an hour at least.”
His eyes tighten. “Am I supposed to thank you?”
“It’d be a start. And that’s lunch,” I answer him. “Though may as well be dinner by now.”
He pulls the container out of the fridge. A salad. It sits next to a cup of green tea dripping in sweat, ice melted, napkin wrapped around it soaked through. He looks at me. “You got me lunch?”
“Yeah. So?”
He looks at it. Then puts it back in the fridge next to the tea. “That was … thoughtful.”
His voice is weird. Like he’s still somewhere else. Lost in his mind. He shuts the fridge door, then just stares at it for a moment, not saying anything.
I don’t know how to react to it. Is he pissed I got him lunch or something? “Nothing happened.”
He looks at me. “What?”
“While you were gone. Just a few customers. Your kid handled them. Employee. Whoever.” I clear my throat. “Woman named … uh … Lily … or Lila …”
“Delilah.”
“Yeah, Delilah. Stopped by asking for you.”
He nods. “I’ll call her in the morning.”
“Something up with you?”
He looks at me, for a second about to shake his head no. But something stops him. Then he sighs and, after ducking under the counter, says, “I still have a few local deliveries to make, so I—”
“Is it that bag of dicks who was here before? Is that who you just made a delivery to?”
He sighs again. “Diego …”
“Did he say something? That shithead in a golf polo? Did he—”
“He was in a suit today.”
My fingers curl against the counter. “Didn’t know you’re still dealing with that guy. I thought you ditched him. Turned down his contract or … or whatever. You don’t need his stupid business or his condescending prick presence.”
“And I thought you understood that I value my customers.”
“Even the ones who don’t value you?”
He rises from behind the counter with a huge bushel of pink flowers that instantly make me cover my nose, they’re so fragrant. “I’m closing my shop to make my deliveries. Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. Is there anything else you want me to say sorry for, or can I go?”
I frown at him. “You mad at me?”
“Am I?” He departs the counter and starts gathering up other flowers and things, then heads into the back room.
I stand here, wondering what the hell’s going on. Maybe he’s still cooling off after dealing with that guy and he’s just taking it out on me. Big deal, I can handle that. But I’d rather him yell and bitch about it with me rather than give me the cold shoulder like I did something wrong.
When he comes back out with one of those empty boxes now filled with bouquets, flowers, packages, and other stuff, I take the box right out of his hands, startling him. “I’m off for the day. I’ll come with and help.”
He stands there with a look on his face like he’s about to do exactly what I wanted: explode all over me with his frustration.
Then he just says, “Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” and starts off toward the door, his keys jangling in his hand. I follow him out, confused.
Ten minutes later, the car’s loaded up.
Off we go without another word.
First delivery is an old lady in a cul-de-sac.
She’s on her porch with a shaggy, mean-looking cat in her lap.
“Oh, darling,” she says in greeting as Wyatt brings her a decorated basket full of flowers, the big pink ones that made me gag.
“Right there’s fine, yes, right there. Oh, they’re even more pretty than I remembered! ”
“Your porch light’s still out,” he notices, pointing.
“Oh, don’t mind that,” she says, eyes lost on the flowers. “My grandson’s coming over Sunday to fix it.”
“You said that the last two Sundays.”
She shrugs. “He’s a busy boy.”
The next thing I know, Wyatt’s on a ladder changing it himself while the woman watches from her chair, talking his ear off about how her brave, handsome son’s going to be a firefighter someday, and if there’s anything this world can use less of, it’s fires.
I just stare at Wyatt doing this chore and can’t help but think to myself: Are you kidding me? Everyone in Spruce, too? You just can’t say no to a single damned request, can you?
At the next delivery, a sleepy-eyed woman pays only half.
“I promise I’ll have the rest for you Sunday at church service, or early next week at the latest. My idiot husband twisted his ankle at work and we had to order one of them dang boot things. Do you know how expensive they are? It’s stupid. It’s just stupid.”
“Don’t worry, next week’s fine,” Wyatt warmly assures her.
Then we’re back in the car.
And I’m staring Wyatt down while he whistles to himself and drives like nothing’s going on in the world but happy dreams and butterflies. Just a few deliveries, and his whole tune’s changed.
This kindness disease of his runs deeper than I thought.
It isn’t just that dickhead Bellamy from the shop. It’s everyone in town. Everywhere.
“I’m sorry the delivery’s late,” says Wyatt to a slender woman with reddish-blonde hair, who’s apparently called Gran. She meets us near the front of the busy-ass restaurant she runs. “I know you wanted to have these for service tonight, but—”
“Nonsense, it’ll be fine, no one’ll notice, too busy stuffin’ their faces.” She eyes me. “Who’s this truck-full-a’-smiles?”
“My neighbors’ nephew Diego,” he says simply.
“Lottie and Marcos’s? Whose? Marcos, if I had to guess from that snide look you’re givin’ me,” she teases.
“Marcos, he mastered that look, too, when he had a part-time job here back in the day. Yep,” she then adds, “I’ve been around that long.
I know I look like a princess, but I’m older than you think.
” After a second, her voice lowers and she says, “Sorry about your father. I do remember him. Strong-willed guy. Great work ethic. Seems like you turned out a fine young man, yep, just like him, looks like it to me, no doubt, especially knowin’ your father and uncle the way I do. ”
Don’t know what to say to that.
So I don’t say anything.
She turns back to Wyatt. “Did I order thirty-five or forty?”
“Thirty-five,” answers Wyatt, then leans in and says, “but just in case you were off by a table or ten, I threw in fifteen extra for an even fifty.”
“Bless your heart, you know me too well. I can haul two sacks of flour over these bony shoulders but can’t recall my own son’s birthday.
Eat tons of cauliflower now,” she says, wagging a finger at us, “so you still got a good brain in your old age.” Then she nods at the door behind her.
“Once Walt’s out of the bathroom, he’ll get on those flower arrangements. Just leave ‘em here’s fine.”
“Tell your son I said hi,” says Wyatt sweetly, “and, um, hope poor Walt isn’t having another of his … weekends.”
“When isn’t he?” grumbles Gran before heading off.
By the time we’re back in the car, I’m not sure what the hell to think. Her sentiment about my dad wasn’t needed. Not even sure I feel any certain way about it, other than I don’t need someone to tell me how great a man my dad was. No one will live up to him. I already know that.
But I guess hearing it from someone other than myself wasn’t the worst thing.
Except I didn’t need to hear that my glare in any way reminds her of Tío Marcos. Maybe next time I see this Gran lady, I’ll dare to give her a smile. That oughta scare the shit out of her.
Also, what the hell good does cauliflower do for your brain? That shit just makes you fart.
“Do you always give your customers so much free stuff?”
He’s pulling up to the curb of a house on our street. “Who …? Oh, you mean Deidra?”
I have no idea which one that was. “The Gran lady.”
“Gran? From Gran’s Home Kitchen who knew your dad?”
As if I need reminding. “You gave her fifteen free arrangements. Fifteen.”