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)
And literally can’t even.
Despite still wearing my own. Tightly. Refusing to believe that this is how any decent person treats someone they just met.
He’s their nephew they love and adore … He’s their nephew they love and adore … He’s their nephew—
I plop the basket on top of his folded blue tarp.
His eyes flick to it. “Said I don’t need it.”
“No one needs a welcome basket,” I respond kindly. “They just accept it. You’re free to throw it away after I leave like a normal person.”
He lifts his face from the engine.
Gives me his full attention.
All of it.
All his eyes. All his intensity. None of the car or the ratchet in his hand. All me.
And in that look, I see myself clearly for the first time: sweaty, smiling too hard, and weaponizing muffins.
My niceness has never looked so ugly before.
I step back. I trip over another tool. I won’t make the mistake of calling it another wrench, even if it looks like one. “Seriously. Toolbox. They’re cheap. Hadley’s Hardware, three-minute drive, if this old thing you’re working on even drives.”
The crease between his eyebrows deepens.
Even his shirt seems to tighten, all his muscles tensing up.
I get the feeling he’s holding back.
Maybe so am I. “Welcome to the neighborhood … for however long you decide to stay in it.” Then I take myself and whatever remains of my pride and haul it back home.
I feel his stare between my shoulder blades until the second the door of my house shuts behind me.
My back slams against it.
Silence.
I take a breath, my first real one since crossing that driveway that used to smell of flowers and whatever delicious supper Lottie was cooking up inside, but now only reeks of motor oil.
The smolder of his eyes lingers in my mind.
The loaded silence between his words.
The strength in his clenching hands.
I really fucking miss the Valdezes.
—2—
Diego
Me and a basket.
Living next-door to a basket case.
Crumbs of the banana-nut muffins scatter over Tía Lottie’s breakfast table. I sit in a chair on one side licking a finger. Basket’s on the other, emptied except for that damned papaya.
I hate papaya. That’s Tío Marcos’s thing.
Probably why I hate it.
I should’ve thrown the whole basket away just like that Wyatt told me to. But like he said, who doesn’t love muffins, right?
Damn, I hate how good they tasted.
Wyatt, with his basket and his tight little mouth and offended eyes, as if I declared war on him for not knowing a wrench from a ratchet. Who cares what you call a tool as long as it does its job?
I don’t trust nice guys. They always want something.
They just smile and wait for you to hand them what they feel they’re owed. Just for being nice. Just for smiling. They keep score. They show up on your driveway and offer welcome baskets, and then you owe them conversation for the rest of your life.
Sounds like a living hell to me.
I lick the last crumb off my palm and have a stare-off with the remaining papaya like it’s Tío himself. Yellow-green. Overripe and ugly. He used to slice the stuff open and eat it with lime every Sunday after church.
Don’t like to think about the last time I stepped foot in one.
My phone goes off at the kitchen counter where I left it. Only one person on earth ever calls me anymore. Don’t even have to check it to know who it is.
I take the call to the back door. “Hey, Tía.”
“Why do you sound disappointed to hear from me so soon?” asks Tía Lottie, sounding like she’s swallowing up a smile. “Have you eaten?”
I don’t peer back at the table full of crumbs. “Yep.”
“How’s the house?”
Didn’t take very long for her to lose all faith in my capability of looking after it. “Burned to the ground. Good thing you called. Wanted to ask if your insurance is decent.”
“Diego.”
She says my name so sweetly. It’s worse than when my tío says it harshly. “House is still standing,” I revise my answer.
I hear her smile when she says, “Good to hear. Did Wyatt stop by yet? I told him you’d be staying there awhile.”
In other words, she gave him a loaded warning. “Maybe.”
“Diego.”
Again, with the sweet tone. “Muffins and papaya.” I lean back against the doorframe.
“Wyatt’s so thoughtful. I hope you were nice to him.”
“He left without a black eye.”
“Please be kind.”
“I was. Didn’t you catch the no black eye part?”
She moves on. “Your tío says the yard needs mowing, what with all the rain we got last week. Sweetheart, can you manage that? Sooner than later?”
I flick a finger at the flimsy little hook they use for a lock on the back screen door, wondering how low the bar was set on their faith in me, if cutting grass is the test. I already figured I’m the last resort on a long list of people to look after this old house.