Page 14 of Down Bad

I watch him for too long.

His arms tensing as he fights the engine.

Scowling. Gritting his teeth. Then sighing in frustration.

The guy never looks happy. Not ever. Not even for a flicker. Not even when working on this car, doing what he loves to do, and it begs the question, why does he even do it? Where’s the joy?

He gives up. Or succeeds. It looks like the same expression on his face either way.

And he glances over at me.

Eyes locked on mine.

His scowl, too.

I don’t wave back. I don’t smile, either. I’m not sure I have any nice left to give that guy.

But I don’t look away either.

Then he snatches his rag off his shoulder, wipes his forehead, and returns his focus back to the car, wrenching and ratcheting, clicking, twisting, tightening.

And I go inside.

When I close the door, I reach for the lock.

For the first time in years.

Fingers on the deadbolt, ready to turn it.

Why did I have that instinct just now?

I let go, annoyed, then pass by the kitchen window without daring to give Diego another look.

—4—

Diego

I check the address on my phone one more time, then look up.

Wishing Blooms.

Green storefront, old wooden planks stretched apart by giant windows lined with flowers, leafy potted plants, and small wooden trinkets you’d find collecting dust on your grandma’s coffee table. The shop is so small, it looks like it’s being eaten alive by the huge crafts store it’s attached to at the side. Almost walked right past it. What stopped me was the faded logo on its front door—a big blue flower with a pinkish half circle enclosing it like a moon.

Swear I’ve seen that logo before.

But can’t bother to think of where, too sapped by this fucking heat and humidity. It rained for two measly minutes, then the sun came out right after to soak it all up like a greedy bastard, leaving the air thick and stifling. I’m drenched in my loose gray t-shirt and wasn’t even out in the rain, the material clinging to every crevice of my chest and back. It’s annoying.

I enter. The tiny bell goes ding. It’s an instant attack on the nostrils, second you step in. Well, it seems like an attack at first, but only until you realize it’s the most pleasant aroma you’ve ever known and makes you feel instantly at home.

I don’t do “pleasant”.

But I feel like ten-year-old me in my tía’s arms again while she giggled and sang silly songs I’d long outgrown but still laughed at.

Old family gatherings in houses I only half-remember, all my relatives around me, something always cooking, a candy dish we were told not to touch until after dinner—but we always snuck in a candy or two when no one looked.

All those memories are inside my head as I walk around the cramped store full of shelves upon shelves of plants and flowers. Row of decorative pots on the floor. Counter of tiny hand-carved figurines. My eyes take in every color that fills the place.

For as many breakable, fragile things that are around me, I’ve instantly got this instinct to keep my hands to myself. I come up to one of the shelves, checking out some weird-looking plant with wide prickly leaves and tiny orange flower buds. I reach to touch it only for one of its sharp leaves to prick my fingertip, causing me to pull back at once.