Page 86 of Down Bad

With that, he saunters off for the parking lot, and I’m left with two sweaty hands and a set of blank eyes.

And a lingering image of Diego swiping drinks out of my hand.

Bringing me a water bottle.

Me wandering away in a giggling fit.

Who the hell was I last night?

I’m still thinking about it through brunch, which takes place at Patsy’s Pastries & Pies. It’s a whole crowd of us, Nadine sitting down some ways from me, intent on chatting with me after eating, but I might as well be floating in the clouds for as unfocused as my mind is right now.

How Diego was practically scowling at me this morning when he came over for his jacket.

Then offered to drive me to church.

Did my dishes and took out my trash.

Seemed offended I’d even suggest he might take advantage of me in my drunken state last night.

I really don’t know Diego Valdez at all, do I?

I’m still in a stupor long after brunch—and after Nadine chats with me and sets up a meeting for Wednesday at her house—when I pull into my driveway and turn off the car. I get right out, shut the door, then just stand there staring at the wildflowers.

They’re blooming. Bigger than I expected them to. Fuller and brighter. Maybe better than they were before Diego thoughtlessly mowed them down.

I don’t remember crossing the grass, but I’m standing in front of the flowerbed suddenly, hearing all of Lance’s words again. Did you know he’s protective?

Are you his emotional support florist?

He kept looking at you like you were the only person in the whole damned place …

Then I look up.

Diego is at the window, staring back at me.

Same revealing tank top from this morning. Tattoos down his arms. Short hair, matted and messy. His eyes, dark, intense.

He disappears.

The front door opens.

I don’t even think. I just go to the door, step inside, and he’s right there.

I pick up the scent of motor oil and grease. It’s always faintly there when I’m around Diego. I think I’ve started to attach those manly, mechanical aromas to him. Pavlov’s Dog. The trail of oily, greasy car scents drawing me to him, waking my salivary glands.

Expecting dinner.

“Survived church?” he asks in a grunt.

I nod.

He doesn’t say anything for a short moment, just staring at me, perhaps noticing my silence. Then he nods over his shoulder at the fridge. “Need a pick-me-up? Juice? Coffee?”

I blink my eyes away from his chest where they’d just gotten trapped between his pecs.

Juice. Coffee.

Why is my mind suddenly in the thunderstorm room again? As if he’s still hovering over me. Pressing me down. Face in front of mine. Hot breath on my cheeks. Furious eyes.