Page 45 of Down Bad

I don’t think I’m gonna get one. “It … wasn’t a bad thing. For me.” I can’t believe I’m still talking. “Haven’t been kissed in a long time. And my ex was … kind of a jerk. Not that you asked.” And I’m still talking. “Just that his kisses never lingered. And most of them weren’t really welcomed. But yours …” I take a breath. It comes in humiliatingly jagged, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. “Yours … was quite welcomed. Yours … lingered.”

We’re still locking eyes. Not looking away. Like two bodies in space, weightless, tethered together only by my grip on his wrist. If I let go, we will float apart in opposite directions, lost forever.

Have we gotten closer? Did my grip start tightening, closing the distance between our bodies? Is that my imagination?

“There’s a thing next weekend,” I blurt out.

Diego’s eyebrows go up again. “A thing?” he croaks.

“At the McPhersons’. A sort of dance thing.”

“Dance thing?”

“The guests don’t dance. Well, not unless they want to. It’s the Spruce Ball. Everyone just shows up, eats food, watches a show up on a stage.”

“Uh … okay.”

“You’d probably hate it.”

“Probably.”

“You should come anyway.”

His eyes still won’t leave mine.

I don’t exactly know what’s happening. I don’t know why I’m even inviting him to something I know he won’t go to. Why would he? He wouldn’t even bother to walk twenty feet across the yard to come to my house for a movie night with friends.

“Okay.”

I flinch. Is he saying he’ll come? “Okay?”

Then he steps away from me.

I don’t remember letting go of his wrist.

He’s at the door, then stops. “I’m sorry. Again. For the …” His face scrunches up. “Nah. I’m not, actually.” He looks back at me. “I won’t ever apologize for stickin’ it to the shitheads of the world.” He frowns. “And whether it’s business or not … you shouldn’t have to put up with them, either.”

The door dings on his way out, slowly shutting, and he’s gone. But the burning look in his eyes lingers long after. Even as I stand at the counter reflecting on everything, I can’t stop seeing them. Can’t stop feeling him. Can’t stop reliving the touch of his soft hand.

—10—

Diego

I sleep facedown in the pillow like I’m smothering myself.

It’s all I can do to keep from fucking the bed in frustration.

The next minute, I’m in the kitchen with the orchid, like it’s my only friend in town. Depending on me to keep it watered. And if I let it down, it dies. Slowly.

Didn’t think about all this when I bought it.

But I swear, its petals are looking at me.

Judging me.

“You tell me what to do, then,” I bark at them, annoyed. “Tell me what to do about the guy next door. You know him better than I do, sitting on a shelf in his store for however long.”

The orchid gives no advice. No wisdom. No guidance.