Page 5 of Down Bad

All his eyes. All his intensity. None of the car or the ratchet in his hand. All me.

And in that look, I see myself clearly for the first time: sweaty, smiling too hard, and weaponizing muffins.

My niceness has never looked so ugly before.

I step back. I trip over another tool. I won’t make the mistake of calling it another wrench, even if it looks like one. “Seriously. Toolbox. They’re cheap. Hadley’s Hardware, three-minute drive, if this old thing you’re working on even drives.”

The crease between his eyebrows deepens.

Even his shirt seems to tighten, all his muscles tensing up.

I get the feeling he’s holding back.

Maybe so am I. “Welcome to the neighborhood … for however long you decide to stay in it.” Then I take myself and whatever remains of my pride and haul it back home.

I feel his stare between my shoulder blades until the second the door of my house shuts behind me.

My back slams against it.

Silence.

I take a breath, my first real one since crossing that driveway that used to smell of flowers and whatever delicious supper Lottie was cooking up inside, but now only reeks of motor oil.

The smolder of his eyes lingers in my mind.

The loaded silence between his words.

The strength in his clenching hands.

I really fucking miss the Valdezes.

—2—

Diego

Me and a basket.

Living next-door to a basket case.

Crumbs of the banana-nut muffins scatter over Tía Lottie’s breakfast table. I sit in a chair on one side licking a finger. Basket’s on the other, emptied except for that damned papaya.

I hate papaya. That’s Tío Marcos’s thing.

Probably why I hate it.

I should’ve thrown the whole basket away just like that Wyatt told me to. But like he said, who doesn’t love muffins, right?

Damn, I hate how good they tasted.

Wyatt, with his basket and his tight little mouth and offended eyes, as if I declared war on him for not knowing a wrench from a ratchet. Who cares what you call a tool as long as it does its job?

I don’t trust nice guys. They always want something.

They just smile and wait for you to hand them what they feel they’re owed. Just for being nice. Just for smiling. They keep score. They show up on your driveway and offer welcome baskets, and then you owe them conversation for the rest of your life.

Sounds like a living hell to me.

I lick the last crumb off my palm and have a stare-off with the remaining papaya like it’s Tío himself. Yellow-green. Overripe and ugly. He used to slice the stuff open and eat it with lime every Sunday after church.