Page 118 of Down Bad

Beau next deau? I squint at him. “Huh?”

“Or is he a bore next door? I’m trying to rhyme n’ be cute. Let me.” He leans in. “I know something hot is up between you two.”

I snort. “Like you thought something was hot between me and the new employee at the gym? Or the assistant at the dentist? Or even Samuel two summers ago?”

“Never said a word to Malcolm, promise.”

“Nothing’s ‘up’ between me and my neighbors’ nephew.”

“You keep calling him your neighbors’ nephew like he’s a kid fresh outta college. He’s literally our age.”

“And has one foot out the door.”

“Oh? That’s the rub? So you’re not entertaining anything with him only because he’s about to leave?”

“No, no. I was just pointing out that they’re selling the house, so he’s only here until—”

“He could still stick around. Virginia’s always got extra rooms at the Spur Inn. Aren’t you pals with her? Or why not let him stay here? Don’t let that hot mechanic frolic outta town before you—”

“Hot mechanic?” blurts Connie.

From across the whole fucking house.

Everyone’s silent. Billy and Tanner peer over the couch at us. Bridger. Anthony. Malcolm and Samuel, caught mid-hug. Harrison and Hoyt, too, from the snack table. Mindy, her fingers pinching a tortilla chip dripping in salsa. Cole and Noah. Chad. Even Ethan, looking up from his phone.

“Are you datin’ a hot mechanic next door?” asks Connie in the ringing silence, oblivious to the horror on my face.

And proving she was, in fact, paying attention to our whole conversation, all the way over here by the front bay window with Lance’s rum and coke and my stupefied eyes.

Then Joel appears from the kitchen. “Wait a dang sec. You mean Diego? You and Diego are a thing?”

—24—

Diego

I don’t fall asleep easily Saturday night.

When I finally do, I have this crazy dream of sitting at a table with a giant cake in front of me full of sparkling candles.

My friends are all around me.

My mom and dad, in front.

Everyone’s shouting at me to make a wish.

I probably did.

No idea what it was, but all the kids scatter, and there’s a red-nosed clown blowing up balloons in the living room with his real hair peeking out under his curly blue wig. My mom is hanging out with the other parents in the kitchen drinking wine. She shoos me away with a little laugh. I’m back in a room full of kids, laughing and shouting and shoving because that’s what boys do. The clown keeps adjusting his wig between balloon animals.

I go to the other room to get some punch.

My eyes land on the back door.

Through the glass, I see the bench swing. There’s a boy sitting on it, all alone.

Not swinging at all.

I step outside, walk right up to the bench, and ask him why he isn’t inside playing with us.