Page 113 of Down Bad

“I never said we’re boyfriends,” I suddenly snap back.

He chuckles and goes for a sip of water, shaking his head.

The waitress comes by with the check a second later. I snatch it straight out of Wyatt’s hands, causing him to stare at me wide-eyed. “You’ve given enough freebies for a day.” I pull out my card and hand it to the waitress, who probably thinks she’s become a witness to a cute lovers’ quarrel and looks way too giddy about it.

Leaving the restaurant, I don’t feel any better than I did when we entered. When he heads to the car, I watch him. Then my eyes drop to his ass, which look so good in the jeans he’s wearing today that they alone could stop me from saying another damned word about anything. I follow him, probably hypnotized, get back in the car, and let the country songs on the radio do the talking.

“You’re not a freebie,” he says while driving.

“You gotta learn to say no.”

“Diego …”

“And I’m gonna teach you one way or another. You’re gonna learn how to put douchebags in their rightful place. There comes a point when it ain’t nice anymore to keep condoning that shit, you get what I’m saying? And if you don’t—”

“I almost did put him in his place.”

His whole tone changes, turning harsh.

He turns hard onto our street. “And had I not stopped myself, I could’ve lost my biggest client. I don’t think you realize … how … how tough it is to run a business. To care for something delicate. It takes finesse. It takes setting yourself aside. Thinking of others.” He peels into his driveway with a scowl and puts the car in park. The country music keeps playing, its happy energy fighting the heated change in Wyatt’s tone. “My business will tank without him. Like it or not, he’s a necessary evil.”

“Necessary evil? No fucking evil is necessary, Wyatt.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No. You don’t understand.”

He undoes his seatbelt and faces me, full angry now. “Great. So instead of me putting up with asshole Bellamy telling me how to run my business, you’d rather me just put up with asshole Diego telling me how to run my business?”

I squint at him. “I’m not telling you how to—”

“I know what I’m doing. I can put up with guys like him. I’ve been putting up with guys like him. Until …” He stops, gritting his teeth. Then he lets out a livid huff and says, “Goddamn it, I’m the kind of guy who plants the flowers, Diego, not the one who mows over them because they looked at me funny.”

He shuts off the car and gets out.

So do I.

But I guess the conversation’s over. Or was it an argument? Our first fight? Because he marches up to his porch and heads on inside. The door slams behind him.

I get the idea pretty fast that I’m not invited in.

When I’m back in my own house, door shut, the silence that swallows me up is fucking awful. Can still smell last night’s stench of Henrietta’s store-bought cookies in the air. I head to the kitchen and look out the window. His house is dark. No lights on.

Like he’s not in there fuming. Pissed at me. Again.

The potted orchid stares at me from across the kitchen. I walk up to it, touch some of its leaves. Does he think I’m not delicate? Am I still the guy who mowed over the flowerbed? Will I always be? I come closer to the orchid. “What’d I do wrong?” I ask it.

It doesn’t answer.

—23—

Wyatt

Maybe I was too harsh.

I stare at the coffeemaker as it bubbles, grumbles, and pops.

Maybe I wasn’t harsh enough.