Page 34 of Down Bad

I attract a certain kind of guy, I guess.

But Diego’s different.

And he stopped himself before kissing me. Yes, I noticed. He stopped right in front of my face, as if asking for permission first.

All of that anger in him. All of that determination it must’ve taken for him to come over to my house at that hour, to march up those steps, to put himself in front of me.

Was kissing me the plan all along?

Or an accident?

And if this conundrum couldn’t get any worse: I was the one who initiated the kiss when he hesitated.

I took a bite of the forbidden papaya.

It was juicy.

And I wanted more.

Yikes, sorry, what a terrible metaphor. But seriously, can I be blamed? I’m running on an hour or two of subpar sleep and can barely hold myself back from beheading roses that have done me absolutely no wrong.

But now I’m worried I went too far. Or didn’t go far enough?

It could very well be that I should have chased him back to his house, tried stopping him, said something, done something.

Now all I can do is wonder.

And resist an urge to stop by the auto shop during my break.

To keep myself from doing just that, I take my happy ass in the opposite direction of the auto shop and park myself at Country Lovin’ for lunch. I treat myself to the town’s best crepes, because why the hell not? Nothing about today or last night makes any sense, so why should my lunch? The more time I spend treating myself to these scrumptious crepes, the less time I waste worrying over who I kissed.

And touched.

And let pin me to the wall.

And flung against the railing of my porch.

And gripped his body like it was the last thing I’d ever know.

Or the first.

I drop my fork on the floor. Twice. By the fifth time I ask for a refill of juice, Ken himself comes out of the kitchen to make sure I’m okay. I’m shoving a mouthful of crepe in when I tell him I’m super. It’s clear upon my departure that neither he nor Mr. Love himself are buying it.

Then I turn the corner and reach the front of my shop.

Only to stop short when someone’s standing at the door.

Diego.

Then he turns to face me.

Oh. Not Diego. “Afternoon, Mr. C,” says Cash, a recent Spruce High graduate, swiping aside curly black bangs out of his eyes. “You look terrible.”

I stop. “I’m going to interpret that as concern for me.”

“It is.”

“Then thank you.”