Page 23 of Down Bad

I don’t look.

If I don’t look, he isn’t there.

Then a heavy bag drops onto the ground next to me, causing me to jump.

Compost.

I turn to him, but all I see at first are his legs.

In his same work outfit.

Don’t you dare go there again, brain.

When my eyes finally negotiate their way up to his sour face, his expression helpfully snaps me out of it. “What’s this?”

“Don’t you need it?”

“Not for wildflowers.”

He frowns—as in, more than he already is. “The guy said this’ll help anything grow.”

If I had to guess, he went to the gardening section at Hadley’s Hardware, and if it’s Mr. Huntington he dealt with, that man will sell sunscreen to a cactus.

Diego’s just trying to do the right thing, isn’t he?

“Thanks,” I make myself say. Then: “We can use a sprinkle.”

“A sprinkle?”

“Yes. A light dusting.”

“The fuck’s a light dusting? I got a whole 40-pound bag.”

“You don’t need to spoil wildflowers. That’s the whole beauty of them. Very difficult to kill.” I reconsider. “Unless you’re armed with murderous machinery and a vendetta against pretty things.”

“So you gonna use it or not?”

I side-eye the bag. “Yes. A dusting. Like I said.” After a second, I add: “We can save the rest, or I can use it in my backyard and pay you back for it, or—”

“No need.” He walks off, clomps onto the porch, and goes into the house, door awkwardly fumbling shut instead of slamming.

That guy doesn’t do anything nice.

Not even when doing something nice.

I consider the lump of a bag sitting next to me, crinkled across the front, almost like it’s trying to smile. Diego’s gift.

He didn’t have to do this. He chose to.

This is how he apologizes, I tell myself.

After taking a breath, I cut it open and give the flowerbed my promised dusting of compost, taking care not to bury the crowns of the transplants. When finished, I close up the bag and step back.

We’ll see if these new guys survive. I have hope for them.

I close my eyes and give myself a minute.

It’s really been a day.