Page 40 of Down Bad

A lot of listening.

His face is somewhere else. Far away. Eyes sinking deeper and deeper the longer he hears her out.

Something about that expression on his face—an expression that’s definitely one you make when no one’s watching, when you don’t need any walls up, when you can be miserable in peace—and I suddenly feel ashamed for standing here eavesdropping.

The cat leaps off the fence in one explosion of energy.

Wyatt’s eyes snap my way.

I back away from the fence, trip over something, fall back on my ass. Then I half-run, half-crawl back to the door and slip inside the house like I just became a spooked cat myself.

I take a shower for some reason.

Thinking on Wyatt. How different he looked when talking to his sister.

How small he sounded.

Is everyone in his life like that? Making him hide or set aside every last part of him until nothing’s left to see? Spending all his energy convincing everyone around him he’s fine when the guy’s clearly not?

How the hell am I the only one who notices this?

I let the hot water run over my head and drown out whatever else it is I’m thinking. “He isn’t your responsibility,” I say to myself through the steam. I gotta say it three or four times. “This house is your only responsibility. Not him.”

The next morning before sunrise, I leave the plate on his front porch bench. Washed twice. Dried once. Unicorn napkin folded on top, because what the hell else do you do with a unicorn napkin?

I don’t leave a note.

Notes are for people who know what to say.

Later when I’m at the auto shop, where it’s busy as fuck for no explainable reason other than just Saturday madness, I’m deep in the pit working on an oil change, Carl above shouting this and that back at me, pretending I can hear him. Doesn’t matter, I could do a hundred of these with my eyes closed. A busy day at the shop isn’t my problem.

I’m not gonna figure out Wyatt until I deal with him directly.

That involves a conversation I’m not ready to have.

But when Joel finally tells me to go on break—despite it still being busy, him insisting I’ll never take one if I don’t do it now—I make my way toward Wishing Blooms.

And stop across the street.

Staring at the shop.

Its tall glass windows. Leafy plants filling the front. Knowing he’s in there. Maybe with customers. Or totally alone.

Both those prospects scare the shit out of me.

I return to the auto shop immediately, clock back in, and bury myself in the hectic day. Joel is surprised to find me back so soon and asks what I possibly ate that quickly. My courage, I’d answer, but throw myself into a tire rotation job instead.

Sunday morning, I wake up and decide it’s easier to just knock on his door right now and have a talk. I tell this to myself after a cup of coffee. After another cup of coffee. And then I tell it to the orchid, looking healthier every day after taking Wyatt’s advice.

The second I’m about to head outside, I spot Wyatt coming out of his house—and he’s in his church getup. A fitted plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up neatly. Khaki pants that turn his ass into a ten-course buffet. Hair styled so cute, I could bite my knuckles.

And I can’t deal with any of that shit.

So I chicken out—again—and stay the hell away. After Wyatt’s gone, I open the garage and get to work on my dad’s car, if only to drown out the rest of my thoughts.

It’s Monday when I’ve decided enough is enough. Today, I will talk to Wyatt. He doesn’t work Sundays and Mondays, and I go in late today, so it’s perfect. I check myself ten times in the mirror. I slap myself in the face. Then I let myself out onto the front porch.

His car’s gone.