Page 81 of Down Bad

I stare.

The fuck was that?

I take hold of his shoes and pop them off one by one, setting them on the floor by the bed. Then I sit him up, slide his limp-ass limbs out of his jacket. Undo his tie, gently tug it off his neck. Fold all that up, place the stack on a chair by his closet.

I catch sight of a piece of paper on his nightstand. His grocery list. The hell’s his grocery list doing by the bed? Eggs. Skim milk. Lunch meat. Bread. Bananas. Arthritis cream. Dog food.

Wait, dog food? Wyatt doesn’t own a dog.

Arthritis cream?

Is this someone else’s list? Does Wyatt get groceries for some sweet old lady down the street?

Why do I instantly believe that’s exactly the case?

I leave him to sleep and head for the door, only to stop at the sight of dirty dishes on the counter. When I approach, there’s also smudged glasses in the sink, one still rimmed at the bottom with orange juice. Really, Wyatt?

The sight of it is so annoying, I peel off my jacket, fling it over a nearby chair, roll up my sleeves, and nudge the faucet on. After a minute of scrubbing and rinsing—for real, it’s that easy, Wyatt—the dishes are sitting in the dish drainer.

That’s when I notice the trash bin.

Full to the top and overflowing with leaves, stems, and other discarded plant parts. What the hell, Wyatt?

So I’m on that nonsense, too. Hunt for bags in the cupboards under the counters. Find them in a cramped laundry closet by the door leading to the garage. Lavender-scented bags. Gross. Change out the trash. Decide lavender isn’t so bad actually. Haul the trash to a red-topped bin outside, swing it in, head back inside to wash my hands.

Then I’m at the bedroom door.

Wyatt is still exactly as I left him. Even with one hand over his chest like he’s pledging allegiance to the flag.

He doesn’t snore.

As if even in his sleep, he’s afraid to take up too much space.

To make too much noise.

Disturb the bushes outside his window.

I find a blanket sitting on a cushy ottoman-thing in the corner of his room, green-and-black checkered, feels like soft fleece. I put it over him, covering him to the neck. He still doesn’t move, even a little bit, breathing so softly I can barely hear it.

“Night, flower boy,” I say just as quietly, then go.

My house feels different when I’m back in it, less cold, empty, and judgy. More warm. Patient. Even the orchid, which calmly sits there in the dark, no complaints. And when I look out the window, Wyatt’s house feels different, too. Like it’s closer somehow.

I go to sleep in my clothes, figuring I’ll shower in the morning, like Wyatt. Has nothing to do with wanting tonight to stick around a little longer.

Nothing at all.

In the morning after my shower, I’m in a towel, hair dripping, standing at the counter making myself toast, when I spot activity in Wyatt’s front kitchen window. Our houses are so close, I can see the poor guy standing at his counter blinking in slow motion, like he’s trying to remember his own name.

I’m not much of a drinker. But judging from last night, neither is he, and he’s having the hangover from hell—an unintentionally hilarious thing to say about a guy who’s already late for church.

I pity him.

Just a teeny bit.

It’s when I’m getting last night’s clothing out of the wash and into the dryer that I realize I’m short an important piece.

The jacket.