Page 82 of Down Bad

Where the hell did I put the jacket?

Oh, right: I took it off before I did Wyatt’s dishes.

Seriously? I have to go back over there now?

After talking myself into it and out of it twenty times, I kick myself out the door in a pair of gym shorts and a tank and make my way over to his front porch.

With my hand on the doorknob, I almost let my ass right in like I live here before remembering myself.

I lift a fist and give the door a couple bumps.

Wyatt answers almost immediately. “Huh?”

I frown. “The hell kind of a greeting is that?”

“Sorry. I’m …” He wrinkles up his face. “It’s been a …”

I notice he’s half-dressed. Khaki pants and a loose belt missing one of the belt loops, like he slid it on and forgot to actually fasten it. One sock on, one sock off. Just a white undershirt. Hair messy. Eyes red and swollen.

He’s a mess.

An adorable mess, but still a mess.

“Did you, uh … drive us home?” he asks slowly.

“You don’t remember?”

“I … don’t remember getting home at all.” He rubs his head as he avoids looking me in the eye. “Don’t think I’ve … ever blacked out like that. Hope I didn’t, uh … do anything. Or say anything. Did I?” he asks suddenly, looking horrified by the thought. “Did I do or s-say anything weird?”

I point at the kitchen chair behind him. “I left my jacket.”

He’s completely confused by my words until he follows my line of sight. “Oh.” He goes to it—though staggers is a more fitting term—and takes it into his arms. “I didn’t even notice.” He blinks, staring at it, then turns. “Did you … bring me inside and …?” He goes quiet.

I have no idea what he’s actually asking.

Did I bring him inside and fuck his brains out?

Did I bring him inside and do his dishes and take out his trash and tuck him into bed?

I don’t answer. I come in, take the jacket from him, mumble, “Need to return this to Patty,” before heading back to the door.

He catches me on the porch. “Diego?”

I stop on the first step and turn. “What?”

“It’s just …” He swallows. Clears his throat. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Licks his lips. “I feel like … like … last night … we …”

“You shouldn’t drink so much.”

“I know.” He rubs his head. “I didn’t think I had.”

“It isn’t good for you.” I nod at him. “You’re gonna be late.”

He looks at me, blinking. “What?”

“To church.” After a few more seconds of just standing here staring at each other, I frown. “You gonna be okay to drive? Or do I need to take you there myself?”

“I-I’m okay,” he insists.