Page 100 of Down Bad

I turn to him. “Huh?”

“Even if the buyers are late, they could still take a while to go through the house, ask their questions, all that. And we never just hang out, you and I. So why don’t we … put something on? Some movie you like. What do you like?”

I can’t remember the last time I had the patience for a movie, let alone just an episode of a series.

But the idea of watching something next to Wyatt.

On that little couch I spotted in his living room.

Is he inviting me to a “movie” so we can “watch” it while we do “whatever usually happens” when we “get too close”?

These thoughts alone help me forget whatever the hell might or might not be happening next door. “You pick.”

“Great! I’ll get the popcorn going.”

Ten minutes later, we’re on his couch, a classic red-and-white striped plastic tub between us overflowing with popcorn. And he’s put on a movie, some action adventure I already forgot the name of, and is eagerly curled up watching it.

I learn a few things real fast.

First: he’s a terrible person to watch movies with. “Oh, I love this part,” he tells me before every single part he loves. And there are countless.

Second: “Did you see that?” he says every time something big happens. Yes, Wyatt, I saw that, since I am watching the same damned screen as you are and have eyeballs.

Third: we really are just watching the movie.

No flirty reach-into-the-popcorn-bowl-at-the-same-time.

No teasing my foot with his.

The tub of popcorn literally separates us like a cock-blocking barrier of unbuttered frustration.

Like Wyatt really did just invite me over to kill time until that house-that’s-not-really-mine becomes mine again.

I know how to fuck. I know how to make him moan in all the right ways. I know how to satisfy.

But I don’t know how to watch a movie.

How to people.

How to do this.

“I watched this with my sister when I was, like, eight.” He lets out a little chuckle. “She had to explain half of it to me. I mean, I didn’t need her to, but she did anyway.”

“Why do you let her win at chess?”

He looks at me, confused. “I … I don’t let …” Then he squints. “How’d you know that?”

“You told me the night of the Ball while I drove us home,” I remind him. “Said it’s ‘easier’ or something. What’d you mean?”

Sober Wyatt stares ahead at the TV, probably wondering what else Drunk Wyatt might’ve revealed. “I guess it’s just … um …” He swallows and licks his lips. “She needs a win. More than me. In life. She needs … wins.” He puts on a smile and faces me. “I feel like it’s the least I can give her, for being such a great sister growing up.”

“But why?”

His eyebrows pinch together. “I just told you.”

“But why does her winning have to mean you losing?”

“Who said anyone’s losing?”