Page 83 of Down Bad

“I’ll do it,” I tell him. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m okay. Just a little headache. Everything’s … loud. Even when it’s quiet. Y’know what I mean? And …” He takes a breath and lifts his eyebrows. “Do you want to come? With me?”

That question is like a dart to the heart.

I’m instantly transported to the last time I stepped foot inside a church.

All the constant murmuring behind my back.

Fake condolences and bullshit.

The stifling air.

Weepy, piteous glances.

“I just came for the jacket,” I mutter half to myself, then head the rest of the way off the porch.

He isn’t done. “Diego?”

I stop again, now in the grass. “Yes …?”

He’s in the grass, too, right in front of me. Quick on his feet, I guess. Didn’t even hear him come down the steps.

“I just … I just want to know if …”

“You want to know what?”

He breathes funny as he tries to collect his thoughts. They’re slow. I notice how he’s slouching, too. How he keeps looking down at my chest instead of my eyes.

The guy is literally terrified he did something wrong. Or plain ticked me off. Is it such a bad thing to enjoy him worrying a little?

“What’s the problem, Wyatt?” I ask, trying not to torture him too badly. “You think we got it on after the party or something?”

His eyes glue to mine, unblinkingly.

He swallows.

“That it?” I take a step toward him. “You think … after soiling that priceless rug in that fancy-ass palace last night …” I bring my voice low, right up to his ear. “… with my fingers inside you …” Then I pull back and get a look at his face. “… that I drove you all the way to your house … and had my way with you?”

I’m literally handing him a whole bag of nightmares.

The guy can barely breathe.

“If that’s what you think I’d do to someone who’s passed out drunk …” I shake my head and click my tongue. “… you don’t know me at all.”

He comes back. “N-No. I didn’t mean to ask if you … y-you did anything to me like that, or took advantage, or … No, I don’t think that of you at all. I … I was just—”

“It’s fine,” I say with a smirk. “Don’t go wetting your khakis. You didn’t embarrass yourself.” I step back, then add, “Much.”

He looks down, picking at his nails. Then he squints, lifts his gaze from the grass, and asks, “By the way, did you … uh … happen to do my dishes …?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” I grumble, then turn and head back to the house, jacket hanging heavy over my arm.

—17—

Wyatt

I’m standing outside the church and can’t focus on a thing.