Page 63 of Down Bad

His smile deepens, almost turning into a laugh. “No, no, I’m not. I …” He shrugs. “Actually, I am. You look … stunning, Diego. I wasn’t sure if you had an outfit for tonight. It didn’t even occur to me to ask until just a few hours ago while I was setting up at the McPhersons’, and I thought to call you, then realized we still don’t have each other’s numbers, and then—”

“Had some help,” I cut in. He looks at me, startled. “Patty. The woman from down the street.”

It takes him a second. “Oh. P-Patricia, you mean? Mrs. Parker? Oh …” That only seems to give him more questions.

Suddenly I notice the flower on his lapel. A small pink burst of color in the sea of blue.

Part of his collar is off.

I reach out without thinking. Adjust it. Then realize the other side’s crooked now because I tugged too hard. Now I’m fixing both sides of his collar with my hands framing his face.

Then suddenly our eyes meet.

I stop.

How I reached for him was so quick. So natural. Barely gave it a second thought.

I let go at once. “Flower’s a nice touch,” I mumble. “Like it.”

After a second, he smiles. “Good thing you do, ‘cause …”

He performs a magic trick. Suddenly he’s got a second one.

He takes a step toward me.

I stumble back and hit the doorframe with a comical bang.

When my body realizes I’m not being attacked, but that Wyatt is gently placing something on my lapel—a pink flower to match his own—I relax at once, becoming lost in his sweet eyes.

Wyatt’s eyes, focused on the flower, fixing it to my jacket.

So close I could kiss him again.

What is it about doorways and front porches and how fucking close they bring us?

“We’re matching,” he says, like a funny observation.

Then looks at my eyes again.

I’m probably breathing funny.

He lets go of the flower, but stays close. “Ready?”

Something inside me is jumping around like a sugared-up boy on a playground. Chasing another boy. Screaming. Carefree. Is this what we were like as kids? Carefree? Jumping around? … Happy?

—13—

Wyatt

There are exactly two kinds of people who attend the Annual Spruce Ball Fundraiser for the Arts.

The ones who arrive fashionably late.

And the ones who arrive an hour early because they secretly hope no one else is there yet.

Maybe there’s a third kind this year.

Us: the kind who have no idea what the hell they’re doing.