Page 103 of Down Bad

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.

—21—

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.”