—24— Diego
Diego
I don’t fall asleep easily Saturday night.
When I finally do, I have this crazy dream of sitting at a table with a giant cake in front of me full of sparkling candles.
My friends are all around me.
My mom and dad, in front.
Everyone’s shouting at me to make a wish.
I probably did.
No idea what it was, but all the kids scatter, and there’s a red-nosed clown blowing up balloons in the living room with his real hair peeking out under his curly blue wig.
My mom is hanging out with the other parents in the kitchen drinking wine.
She shoos me away with a little laugh. I’m back in a room full of kids, laughing and shouting and shoving because that’s what boys do.
The clown keeps adjusting his wig between balloon animals.
I go to the other room to get some punch.
My eyes land on the back door.
Through the glass, I see the bench swing. There’s a boy sitting on it, all alone.
Not swinging at all.
I step outside, walk right up to the bench, and ask him why he isn’t inside playing with us.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me.
I don’t know why, but I decide to sit right next to him and say nothing back.
It’s so quiet out here. So peaceful.
I say nothing, he says nothing, and everything’s unexpectedly perfect. For some reason I won’t understand for years, I’m fucking thankful for this moment.
That’s when my eyes pop open.
The dream’s gone.
I’m an adult again, staring at my tío and tía’s ceiling, on a bed that isn’t mine, in a house with unfamiliar air.
I go to the hallway closet, pull down a box, and take it straight to the living room, opening it up on the coffee table. I’m on the hunt as I dive through photos. Sticky albums. Memories and old crap that’s been left behind to deal with when the house sells.
And I’m just about to give up when I turn one more page.
And it’s that birthday party.
Which obviously wasn’t just a fucking dream.
I see the photo, taken by my mom, maybe my tía, or even my dad, from the back window of our old house, a mystery observer.
Two boys on the swinging bench.
Ten times more vivid than I remember. We didn’t look happy, but we didn’t look sad. Just sitting there. Not swinging at all.
Was that me and Wyatt?
The question sits with me and my coffee in the kitchen, long before the sun’s even risen.
The orchid stares at me from her spot on the counter, like a tired cartoon fairy godmother in the shape of a flower, mildly interested in my wellbeing, maybe just as much as I am in hers, all out of magic, just waiting for the morning, for something to happen.
Hours later, I make a decision: I’m going to church.
For the first time since my dad died.
Nah, this isn’t some big thing. Not a grand emotional turn or sappy bullshit moment where I come to terms with a loss that I’ve already processed years ago. It’s Sunday. I’m just going to church. Equivalent to getting some fresh air. Means nothing.
Even if Wyatt’s there.
The quiet boy who may or may not have come to one of my birthday parties and joined me on a swinging bench to not swing.
To not ask if I was okay.
To do me a favor and not say anything at all.
I’m just going to church. That’s it.
The weather does me no favors, so it’s balls hot as I walk to the church.
My lower back and pits are soaked when I finally show up at the doors, which are open.
An older couple’s walking up the steps when I approach.
The lobby only has a few people, none of them paying me any mind.
That’s fine, since I don’t want any mind paid to me.
I’m just fine minding my own business over here.
Different story when I’m at the doors leading into the chapel.
The smell of old wood and people’s perfume hitting my face.
The rows of wooden pews.
The backs of heads filling them, every row, all the way to the front, rows and rows of fucking hair.
A father in the back putting his hand on his son’s shoulder, a kid, leaning in and saying something. The kid laughs.
Suddenly it isn’t a thirty-two-year-old man standing here.
It’s a kid who’s still got his dad.
His mom hasn’t left.
He’s got this feeling he’ll never be alone. The world is always around him. His dad laughs all the time and is a happy drunk at parties. Tío Marcos is with him, smoking on the back porch where they think my mom and Tía Lottie won’t find them.
That kid was so fucking happy.
Because his life hasn’t happened yet.
He hasn’t become a teenager, where he started seeing all the cracks in his parents’ marriage. How his mother’s smiles were too tight to be real. She threw parties all the time to distract everyone from what was happening. Smiles and laughter and confetti.
Like my own birthday parties.
Like some clown fussing with his wig, keeping up the illusion that he’s not just a person at a gig making a living.
Even as a teenager, I was becoming less and less fooled by the fantasy that my life was perfect just because my mom could smile through it all, teaching me that kindness is a lie most adults learn how to use to control the world around them.
Then Dad died.
And in a lot of ways, so did she.
I’m not gonna take the next step into the chapel. I realize that right now. It’s a lost cause.
I turn and see myself the fuck out of this place.
Drop my ass on the front step of the church, right at the edge of the shade where the awning ends.
I rub my eyes, then rub my hair, then stare ahead at nothing, not wanting to think about it a second longer.
And suddenly it’s like I’m on a swinging bench.
Choosing not to participate in that crazy party inside.
Enjoying the silence like those two boys were, long ago.
Does Wyatt remember that party …?
“Suffocating, huh?”
I look up.
Some chick’s standing there. Black skirt. Purple blouse. Thick brown hair.
She sits down next to me with a sigh, pats me on the knee like we’re lifelong friends, and mumbles, “I can’t do church.
Thought I could tough it out for my brother.
Nope. None of that. Not a fan of organized religion.
I’m … not sure what that means exactly,” she adds, leaning into me, “but my ex said it a lot, and so I just caught on. Not a fan of organized anything, really. Not even drawers. Do you smoke?”
I shake my head.
“Me neither.” She pauses. “I mean, I used to. It’s my ex’s fault.
And if you had any on you, I’d be tempted to start that bad habit right back up today.
This weekend is not goin’ the way I wanted.
I mean, is it so bad to wanna stay close with your loved ones?
We’ve only got so much family left, and the little bit we got seem bent on gettin’ as far the fuck away from us as they can.
Oh, look at me, cussin’ on a Sunday. Just throw me in a basket and ship me to the Devil.
” She rolls her eyes and hugs her knees, smirking at the sun.
“Gosh dang it, I could use a drag right about now.”
“And I could use silence.”
The words fly out before I can stop them.
She laughs, surprising me. “Touché,” she mumbles back with a bit of attitude. “Came out here for silence myself, can’t seem to shut the hell up. Maybe it ain’t anyone in there that’s the problem. I’m the problem.”
“You’re the one who said it,” I mutter, looking away.
This woman could have a twenty-minute conversation with a parking meter before realizing no one’s listening.
After a minute of the silence I wanted so bad, I’m suddenly so sick of shoving everyone away. The silence out here is starting to become as crushing as the noise in my head. “Maybe some families are better off staying apart,” I mumble.
She eyes me. “Jesus, what’d your family do? Kill your cat?”
“Didn’t have a cat.” I cross my arms over my knees, looking off. “Had a fish tank.”
“Me too. Well, fishbowl. Betta fish. ‘Til the dang cat got to it, speaking of cats. Terrible.”
“Just saying, if loved ones wanna get away from you, maybe you should let them.”
“Why?”
“Because if they wanna leave so bad, why stop them? Your life’s probably better off without ‘em. Why fight for someone who won’t fight for you?”
“Hmm. Good point.” She nods slowly. “People can be selfish sometimes. Family’s sure no exception. Guess some of us have a harder time letting go than others. My brother’s one of them.” She nudges me. “So who won’t fight for you? Mind if I ask?”
I look at her, annoyed.
“What?” she throws back. “I’m only in town another day or so. Telling me your secrets is like throwing it into a fire. They burn into the wind with me. Come on. Open up. Let’s have a moment. You mentioned family. Your mom? Dad?”
“Shut up.”
“Just let me therapy you. I minored in psychology. Might have a pearl or two.”
“I don’t need pearls. I need to learn how the fuck to become the guy who plants the flowers instead of mowing over them.”
She snorts at me. “That a metaphor?”
I don’t answer, looking away.
She leans into me, seriously fucking invading my space. “You know, sometimes, old things need to get ‘mowed over’ to make the room for new things to grow.”
I keep seeing that last look Wyatt gave me in the car.
He was mad. Actually mad. Telling me off.
I’d probably have found it hot had he not also hit too close to home with his words.
Have I always been the guy who destroys pretty things?
Could that be why my mom didn’t stick around?
“See?” says the woman, mistaking my silence for being struck by her wisdom. “Told you I’ve got some pearls. So tell me more. I’ll get you straightened out. What the hell’s got you out here? Hiding from someone?”
“No.”
“Did your feet catch fire in there?”
I roll my eyes.
“Lady troubles?”
Suddenly I’m done with strangers striking up conversations, so I get up and decide to just head back home.
“Boy troubles?”
I stop.
She’s at my side the next instant like a leech. “Knew it! I just had this feeling. Every hunk or cutie you meet here’s into guys. I swear, straight ladies must die slow deaths in this town.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“So what’d he do?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh. So what’d you do?”
I’m done with her again, heading down the sidewalk.
“Oh, shit, it’s you, huh?” She hurries by my side, not leaving me alone. “Hey, I’m not judging, no one’s perfect. But you came to church alone, couldn’t make it all the way inside, then sat out here contemplating the existence of the sun until I valiantly—”
“Our chat’s over,” I growl.
“Is your guy someone you’d fight for? … someone who’d fight for you?”
I stop again and turn to her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you seriously incapable of minding your own business?”
“That’s why you’re struggling today. He’s the perfect guy. And you’re perfectly miserable for him. And you’re afraid he’ll hurt you and leave just like your family and that big fish tank did.”
I work something in my jaw.
Trying not to spit out something ugly.
She must see it, because finally, at fucking last, she backs off.
“Look. Whatever you’re blaming yourself for, I can see it in those pretty eyes of yours, you’re probably full of shit, self-sabotaging, and just need to get over yourself and make amends.
” She makes some weird-ass gesture in the air that doesn’t make sense.
“Grow the new flowers, get what I’m saying?
Mow those old ones. Even a dead lawn grows back after a harsh-ass winter.
Want some more metaphors? I can poop ‘em out faster than Shakespeare.” She gives me a little smirk, says, “Good luck,” and makes her way back to the church, leaving me staring after her in confusion.
I’m drenched in sweat by the time I get home.
Sit in the undeservedly refreshing AC with the TV on for noise in the living room, box full of memories still dumped on the coffee table, staring at the wall, the ceiling fan twirling over me.
You’re not my boyfriend.
Wyatt’s words keep chasing their tails around my head, over and over.
And that chick who bullied me into conversing with her.
Convincing me for half a second that I stand a chance fighting for whatever’s growing between me and Wyatt. Something better than what was festering before. Something I can’t name.
Maybe neither can he.
Can’t believe that woman got under my skin so fast.
Fucking know-it-all psychology minors.
The next second, a skeletal woman with giant, bushy hair and glassy eyes emerges from the depths of the hallway like a ghost.
I literally shit myself and scream.
Until I realize it’s Henrietta. “Didn’t you get my text?
Showing in an hour. More potential buyers.
Sunday’s best day for ‘em. Why do you look like you fought with a toilet and lost?” She squints at the TV.
“I hate reality shows. Ain’t nothin’ real about them except human beings starved for attention. ”
I’m finally able to breathe again. “I’ll get outta your hair.”
“Not before you help me fix the place up. Bathroom’s clogged, swear I didn’t do it, but I did sort of race in here after stopping at a hoagie place off the freeway and ain’t nothin’ about that meal’s sittin’ right with me, not even the Dr. Pepper. Why’s all this shit out here on the coffee table?”
I’m learning quick with Henrietta there’s no filter and no limit and no damned boundaries.
The buyers arrive sooner than expected. I haven’t left yet.
So when Henrietta lies to them and says I’m just “another interested party”, I guess in some effort to pressure the actual buyers into thinking there’s competition for the house, I go right past them on my way out and mutter, “Don’t inspect that bathroom too close.
Something’s haunting the pipes in there. ”
Henrietta tells me without any words how much she does not appreciate my extra commentary.
I head out.
Stop on the porch.
And realize I have nowhere to go.
Wyatt’s back from church, judging by the presence of his car in the driveway.
I could go over. Knock. See if he’s up for killing some time.
Pretend we didn’t just fight the other day.
Not talk about Mr. Bellamy so I don’t blow up.
Not talk about the way he lets the town steamroll over him so he doesn’t blow up.
The next minute, my phone buzzes. I look down.
Speak of the devil. A text from Wyatt.
SOS, it reads.
I squint. Then look over at his house.
He’s at the kitchen window staring right back.