Page 60 of Down Bad

“You’ll get it,” I tell him.

He meets my eyes and says nothing.

But he doesn’t look away.

Not today, he may have said. But his voice wasn’t hopeless. It’s like what he meant was really: Maybe tomorrow.

That’s one of the things I noticed about Diego. I wrote it off as stubbornness at first. But I’m starting to see it as something else.

Once something matters to him, he refuses to quit on it.

He doesn’t give up.

—12—

Diego

The fuck do you wear to a ball?

A small-town ball with no one you know, at that.

I have no idea what to expect. I’ve combed through all of my clothes I own seven times without a damned clue. Last time I ever donned a suit was at my dad’s funeral. It was a rental. Who’s got time to own fancy clothes you only wear once before letting them collect dust in the back of a closet?

Don’t even know if there’s any clothing rental anything in this dinky town. Be lucky to find a thrift shop in walking distance, let alone anything that has an outfit in my size that screams “ball”.

Gonna need a damned fairy godmother to pull this off.

And those are in short supply these days.

I wrinkle my face up at the window nearby, the corner of the house next door in view. I don’t doubt he’ll have insight into what the hell I should wear. He’s the one who invited me to this thing tonight, anyway.

I go through the clothes I have—again—and drag out a plain-ass white button-down shirt. But I have no dress pants to go with them. Would a pair of okay jeans fly in a small town like this? How fancy can a small-town ball be?

Didn’t want to do this, but I go to a specific bedroom I’ve been avoiding since I got here. Go to the closet. Open it.

It’s empty.

Of course it is. Why would my uncle leave any clothes behind? They left. Moved out completely. Didn’t even take the furniture. I guess wherever they went, they planned to start fresh.

Must be nice.

It was a last resort, checking the closet. I’m actually thankful, because the last damned thing I’d want to do is show up to a ball in my uncle’s oversized slacks with a belt choking it in place.

I’m not gonna waste another minute flip-flopping through my clothes pretending I have a clue what I’m doing.

So it’s in my plain white button-down and decent jeans—the only pair I got without any holes—that I drag myself outside, over the lawn, and to Wyatt’s front door. I hate myself for a second, tell myself to chill, lift my knuckles to knock, then my fist, then drop my hand to my side and shake my head.

What’s the big deal? He’s come over two or three times this week wanting to check up on how things are going with the car. I haven’t scared him off. Things are okay.

Why am I a stupid sack of nerves today?

I press the doorbell.

Easier to do than a knock, I guess.

I wait ten seconds.

Ten more.