Page 43 of Down Bad

He looks away. All the way away. Neck turned so far, his chin is half-tucked into his shoulder.

I’m a bit surprised by the boldness of my own question.

I’m not sure I meant it to come out so harshly.

But I have, in a sense, been driven quite crazy these past few days trying to figure it out. All weekend, in fact. I sat front and center in church on Sunday and couldn’t focus on a damned word Reverend Trey was saying. Was the sermon about love? Forgiving others? Pokémon? I literally don’t know. The only damned thing on my mind was Diego Valdez and how in the hell I was going to cope with the emotional boner he gave me.

Well, more than emotional, if we’re being truthful here.

Every night since, wrestling with my bed sheets because Little Wyatt kept waking up between my legs with a whole restless fuck-ton of opinions of its own about what to do regarding Diego.

And with Diego.

And on Diego.

Diego, Diego, Diego.

Now the mastermind behind my torture has come out of the dark at last. Appeared right here in my shop.

Ruined one of my most important business deals to date.

“Is that shithead the reason you were cutting up roses at two in the morning?” he asks me.

The question comes out of nowhere.

So does Diego’s gentler tone of voice.

Hits me sideways.

Diego turns to me when I don’t answer. “He’s just … messing with you. Because he can. You’ll never make him happy. He’s just draining you dry. Shitheads like that, they don’t care about guys like us who gotta scrape by to survive.”

Guys like us … Like us.

Diego just put me and him in the same basket.

For half a second, I love that basket. I want to spend my whole life in it, right here in this half of a second, in the strong embrace of Diego’s arms.

Then I find my strength again. “You think I don’t know that? How awful he is?”

“Why put up with it?” Diego fires back.

I stammer. “Because … Because sometimes, I have to swallow my pride. Just part of the business. It isn’t always pretty. Or right. It’s … just what I gotta put up with.”

“You don’t have to put up with it.”

“What do you know?” I come closer. “I’ve spent years building this place after my parents left. Every wedding. Every funeral. And all the anniversary bouquets. Should I give my other customers the treatment you just gave Mr. Bellamy? How about Ms. Hahn? She rejects a bouquet if one sprig of baby’s breath is facing the wrong way. Or Rhonda, who expects the stems of all her roses to be the exact same shade of green. Like, the exact same shade. She inspects them, Diego. She keeps a magnifying glass in her purse. That lady comes in every Thursday and sometimes Tuesday. Want me to run those ladies out of my shop, too?”

He doesn’t say anything.

I let out a breath. “I’m … I’m not saying Mr. Bellamy isn’t a … a shithead.” My voice goes to a whisper. It’s difficult to say out loud, even with Grant gone. “Just sometimes you have to keep … them … around because you need the money.”

Diego leans forward. “That man called me a dog.”

I look down.

To be fair, the second Mr. Bellamy said that, I wanted to knock his pompous jaw right off his face. He’d have lost teeth. I’d be in a jail cell soon after. Then he’d sue my business for every last cent it’s worth by his team of undoubtedly fearsome lawyers.

I shake my head. “I know.”