Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Diego’s just trying to do the right thing, isn’t he?
“Thanks,” I make myself say. Then: “We can use a sprinkle.”
“A sprinkle?”
“Yes. A light dusting.”
“The fuck’s a light dusting? I got a whole 40-pound bag.”
“You don’t need to spoil wildflowers. That’s the whole beauty of them. Very difficult to kill.” I reconsider. “Unless you’re armed with murderous machinery and a vendetta against pretty things.”
“So you gonna use it or not?”
I side-eye the bag. “Yes. A dusting. Like I said.” After a second, I add: “We can save the rest, or I can use it in my backyard and pay you back for it, or—”
“No need.” He walks off, clomps onto the porch, and goes into the house, door awkwardly fumbling shut instead of slamming.
That guy doesn’t do anything nice.
Not even when doing something nice.
I consider the lump of a bag sitting next to me, crinkled across the front, almost like it’s trying to smile. Diego’s gift.
He didn’t have to do this. He chose to.
This is how he apologizes, I tell myself.
After taking a breath, I cut it open and give the flowerbed my promised dusting of compost, taking care not to bury the crowns of the transplants. When finished, I close up the bag and step back.
We’ll see if these new guys survive. I have hope for them.
I close my eyes and give myself a minute.
It’s really been a day.
The sun’s almost gone when I’m back inside, showered, and in my flower-print PJ pants and t-shirt—yes, a bit on-the-nose, but they were gifts from my sister. I’m waiting on the microwave to decide my dinner’s done when I spot Diego out in the yard.
A stack of decorative edging stones sits next to him.
He’s making a border. Gently laying them out one by one. He nudges a stone. Turns it a little one way, then the other. Considers each placement like an artist.
I watch him even long after dinner’s ready. Watching him like a puzzle I can’t figure out.
But catch myself smiling.
—6—
Diego
I have the worst timing in the world.
Walk down to the end of the driveway to check the mailbox for something Lottie said might show up, and there stands Wyatt by his car, about to head to work. He’s peering at the flowerbed. I guess I froze in place because he looks over at me and says, “Your stones look nice, Diego,” gives a little nod, then gets in his car and heads off. I’m still standing there long after he goes, mail hanging from my grip, staring down the road.
I get to the auto shop right when a shipment is coming in, so I’m put to work the second I show up, which I guess is fine because it takes my mind off of Wyatt and the row of stupid stones I laid out to protect the flowerbed from monsters like me.
But not for long, since Joel’s wife Mindy shows up to bring him his lunchbox he forgot, then mentions something about a movie night at Wyatt’s. “I don’t wanna turn him down again, babe. Can’t we get your mom to watch the boys?” Joel sighs too hard at that, mumbles, “I’m only goin’ if Tanner and Billy are, ‘cause Lance keeps givin’ me these looks when I go, and I don’t know what I did wrong to him, but it’s just gonna be awkward if I—” “He’s like that with everyone,” she cuts him off, “and if you’re gonna be like that, then I’ll just go myself and you can stay with the kids.”
I bear listening to them go back and forth for as long as I can stand before clocking out to take a break, since there aren’t any customers anyway.
Then I can’t even enjoy that. “Hey, uh …” Joel appears at the coffeemaker, wincing. “Like, I didn’t mean to ignore you, or …”
I’m confused before he’s started. “Huh?”
“Wyatt’s movie night things. They’re kinda just … somethin’ he sorta-kinda started doin’ recently … kinda.”
That’s a lot of kindas. “So?”
“Did he invite you? I’m sure you’re welcome to go, too. I know you live just next door. Wyatt always welcomes extra guests. That’s just the kinda guy he is. Never turns anyone away. I just—”
“I’m busy,” I grunt back, not wanting to hear the rest, take my lunch outside to the curb, and eat under the shade of an oak tree growing way too close to the sidewalk, pushing up the pavement.
As if that wasn’t enough, that evening, the second I turn the corner and cross the street to my house, I spot Wyatt watering my flowerbed. I fight an instinct to ask what the hell he’s doing when he looks up, catches my eye, and says, “Evening, neighbor. I’m just giving them a little love, don’t mind me.”
“Wasn’t gonna,” I mumble.
Either he doesn’t hear me, or chooses not to, because then he has the fucking nerve to look back at me and say, “I’m having a few friends over Saturday night—tomorrow, just a few people, not a big deal, not a big thing. It’s a movie night, but no one actually watches the movie. We chat, eat whatever anyone brings over …”