Page 151 of Down Bad

I snatch it and use it anyway, wiping off my eyes.

He sits back with a sigh, crosses his arms, and tilts his head as he keeps looking at me, studying me. “Come live with us.”

I look up like I didn’t hear him, squinting. “What?”

“Not forever. Just until you get your—”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Well, that’s great to hear ‘cause I wasn’t offering any. I’ve got shit you can help with around our new place. My back isn’t as spry as it used to be. Knees sound like celery. Just stay with us until …” He shrugs. “Until you figure out what’s next. Door’s open, Diego.”

Don’t know if it’s the way he says my name.

His voice going softer in a way I haven’t heard in years.

Like saying my name still carries a piece of my dad with it.

He tells me the door’s open.

Starting to wonder if I’ve been relying too much on opened doors lately.

Isn’t it about time I open my own?

“Sit tight,” I tell him, getting up. “I’ll get you another plate.”

“Discreetly,” he mutters back, glancing toward the front desk. “Think that guy’s been eyeing me, knowing I’m not really a guest here, and I’m enjoying sharing this bad breakfast with my nephew more than anyone’s got a right to.”

I eye him. “Seriously don’t think they give a shit, Tío.”

He looks at me.

I look at him.

He cracks a smile.

I try not to.

Then I’m off back to the buffet to fill another plate I won’t eat.

—31—

Wyatt

Cash was right. Shocker.

I’ve been over the books for the past several days. I cut some expenses. I made long lists. Reviewed my current pricing schemas and compared them against what I was charging Bellamy. The income he brought in was certainly meaningful, but the rush jobs, constant discounts, and extra demands chewed through so much of the bonus profit.

I guess that’s exactly what a man like Grant Bellamy is.

Impressive on paper. Hollow in reality.

I need to make changes. Not for Diego who called me out. Not because my sister has this wimpy, pushover idea of me I’m trying to prove wrong. Maybe not even for my parents who are—I’d put money on it—drunk in an RV park someplace, happy as can be.

Maybe I’m not even doing this for me.

“Ms. Linny,” I recite in the mirror late Monday morning when no one’s at the shop because we’re closed. “Due to rising s-supply costs, I, uh, regretfully must increase the price for out-of-season—” No. Too corporate. “Dolores! Hi! Um … Flowers cost more now.” Ugh, seriously? “Tracy, I’m so, so sorry, but I must charge extra for rush deliveries, even on Sundays …”

I sound like I’m holding her begonias hostage.