Page 12 of Down Bad

Diego is suddenly seated in a chair right next to it, head down, looking at something. Phone, maybe. Or a book?

I fight an instinct to draw my own curtains shut, realizing I’m fully visible if he turns his head on a whim.

But he doesn’t.

He just sits there, staring down at something.

And I just sit here in my armchair, sweating internally, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Wyatt, buddy, is there a raccoon?”

I snap my eyes onto Chad, asker of the question. “Uh, no.”

“You’ve looked outside, like, nine times.”

I wonder if this is my chance to bring it up. That’s kinda why I threw an impromptu movie night thing, right?

So I start: “Actually, it’s my—”

“You could call HHPC,” says Ethan.

Everyone in the room turns to him, sitting by himself in the corner by my potted hydrangeas with an opened bag of Twizzlers on his lap, gnawing on one.

I think I literally forgot he was here.

It’s sort of an accident he gets roped into our movie nights. He came with Harrison and Hoyt once, the cousin to Turtle, a fellow guy they know from Gary’s ranch. Ethan’s quiet. Keeps to himself. A little on the eccentric side. But so’s Turtle, so that makes sense. He’s about ten years younger than us. Gay … I think. Doesn’t have any friends his age, but also doesn’t actively pursue them.

Except us, I guess?

Ethan peels his eyes from the TV. “Happy Home Pest Control. HHPC. The Myers’ business. They can handle the raccoon.”

“Oh, sweetie, I don’t think there’s a real raccoon,” says Lance. “Chad is just a big cute oaf, and I think the raccoon’s a metaphor.”

“We just got a raccoon out of our attic,” volunteers Tanner.

Then Lance has something smart to say, Tanner makes a snide remark about Chad being “extra feisty” tonight, Ethan laughs way too hard at that, and the imaginary raccoon outside the window is long forgotten. It’s just as well, because Billy shows up a second later from the kitchen with a tray of Italian-inspired finger foods that look like a tasty little marriage between tiny pizzas and fancy garlic breads.

I wonder suddenly if I should’ve invited Diego over, too.

Then I laugh that the notion even crossed my brain.

Seriously? Grumpy, hates-the-world Diego? Gobbling on these fancy-ass snacks? Watching a movie with a bunch of gay dudes? He’d sooner thank me for that toolbox I got him. Or apologize for holding an argument with me with his shirt off.

Shit.

Now I’m thinking of my sweet and adoring neighbors’ nephew with his shirt off.

Former neighbors, I should get used to saying.

They’re gone. Some part of me won’t accept that fact.

Like they’re just on a trip and will be back soon, and Lottie and I can hang out on either one of our porches laughing about all the funny kids playing in the street, or whatever ridiculous story she just heard from the ladies at her book club.

That’s all gone now.

Replaced with an ugly car. Ugly blinds.

A shirtless angry man.