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)
Then he nods. “Let me see what I can do.”
The man grins. “You’re an angel, y’know that? That’s what I’ll put in my review. ‘The angel of Spruce’ … an angel with flowers.” He lets go of Wyatt’s shoulder. “Send me a new quote by the end of the day, if you can. Time’s tickin’. Balls are rollin’. Hopefully not any heads.” He laughs at his own joke. Wyatt does, too. Then he flips his shades back down over his eyes and breezes right out. I’m not even here.
After the man’s gone, Wyatt turns to the counter, peering at the printed-out quote the man left.
“That guy always talk to you like that?”
Wyatt doesn’t look up. “He’s a regular.”
“Wasn’t my question.”
“Then ask a different one.”
“Fine. Which flowers am I buying for the front?”
“None.” He half turns to me, staring off at a shelf somewhere. His voice is eerily calm. “The wildflowers I planted for Lottie came from my own backyard. I grow them. I’ll replace them.”
He won’t look at me now.
Won’t budge.
He put on a mask for that guy. And it’s off now.
I don’t know how that makes me feel, that suddenly I’m not a person he wears a mask in front of.
“You know he was an asshole, right?”
Wyatt rolls his eyes. “You’re not helping, Diego.”
“And he’s taking advantage of you.”
“You don’t understand anything.”
I take the orchid right back off the shelf. “Fuck it, I’m buying this. Ring me up.”
“Diego, I said it can’t—”
“Not for the front. For inside the house. For me.” I go to the counter with it, right next to him, and set the potted orchid right on top of that stupid quote, startling him. “Ring me up.”
Wyatt glowers at me.
Hiding nothing anymore.
No smiles left in him.
He rings me up in silence. I pay in silence. Then I walk to the door hugging the potted orchid to my chest, and with a ding of the bell, I’m out.
And that night, I’ve got a potted orchid in the window.
Freshly watered.
Staring me down like a challenge to see if I can take care of something that isn’t me. To see if I can keep it alive.
Through that same window, Wyatt’s house in full view.
The glow from his kitchen. His silhouette falling over one of the nearby curtains, standing somewhere inside.
Funny, how all the words we exchanged, the only ones I seem to remember are him thanking me for trying to do the right thing.
Thanking me.
It should make me feel good.
But all I can do is stand here at this window, pretending the orchid in front of my face means nothing while wringing the hell out of my tía’s favorite dishcloth and wondering what it is about that guy I still can’t stand.
—5—
Wyatt
He bought the wrong flower.
For the wrong reason.
And placed it in exactly the right window.
Those ugly blinds are raised up to make room for the orchid. It isn’t quite perfectly placed, but it’s there to make the house not look like a monster moved in.
Of course he’d pick an orchid. Fragile. Dramatic. Impossible to plant outside, yet still somehow my problem.
Still just as in my face as he is.
And when I’m sitting at the dining room table at 1 AM, a tiny dim light hanging overhead, rest of the house dark, even the front porch light off, tapping away on my laptop, it isn’t Mr. Bellamy’s face that keeps appearing in my thoughts.
It’s Diego’s.
His lopsided lips.
His subtle squint of irritation.
How all of his hatred of the world lives in his biceps when he crosses his arms, puffing them up like balloons.
That guy always talk to you like that?
I keep typing, not thinking of Diego.
You know he was an asshole, right?
I take a sip of water, then set the glass down too hard.
He’s taking advantage of you.
I’m out of the chair and at the window, glaring across the yard at my former neighbors’ house. It’s dark. Garage door closed. Even with no lights on, the nearest streetlamp casts an eerie bluish glow over the orchid in the window.
Well, he hasn’t killed it yet.
That’s a good sign.
I can’t help wonder how Lottie and Marcos can be one kind of way, and their nephew can be another entirely. I don’t see a speck of Lottie in him. I see Marcos’s handsomeness, annoyingly. And his build, too, maybe. I never knew Marcos’s brother—Diego’s dad—who always remained a mystery and of whom Lottie and Marcos rarely ever spoke of themselves.
I’m surprised I never wondered why until now.
Is there bad blood between their families I don’t know about?
I wonder if I should call Lottie up. See how she and Marcos are doing. Tell them Diego’s looking after the house fine. That he’s got it under control. That there’s nothing to worry about.
Then beg them to come back.
On my hands and knees, if I must.
No sooner than the thought comes that I’m standing right by Diego again in my shop. Him staring me down. Orchid still in his grip, even though I’m pretty sure I put it back on the shelf. The sharpness in his eyes that could slice my resolve in half. I could even feel the breath from his flared nostrils on my cheek.