Page 102 of Down Bad

Wyatt shifts a little, slipping down my chest.

I panic for half a second before catching him. He lets out the tiniest moan before settling his head in my lap, turned away from the TV now, face nuzzled in my crotch like a cat finding warmth.

I don’t move. Hands hovering in the air over him.

Unsure what to do.

The movie continues, but now neither of us are watching it. I finally set one hand on his shoulder, then take the phone with my other. I text Henrietta one-handed that I’ve got a key, so she can just lock up and get the fuck out.

Minus the “get the fuck out” part.

She replies that the showings went well.

Not sure how to feel about that.

She’ll be in touch, she tells me.

I give a thumbs up reaction, then set my phone aside, peering down at Wyatt as he gently breathes in my lap, lips parted slightly, legs twisted up, one curled, one hanging halfway off the couch.

I don’t want to call this adorable.

Or sweet.

It’s actually uncomfortable. And I don’t know what to do. And I keep feeling like I need to get out of here before he wakes up.

The next second, I want to stay right here.

Don’t want this to ever end.

I suddenly realize I’m gently stroking his back. The second it occurs to me, I stop. Then I start again, wondering why I stopped—and why I started in the first place.

Why can I handle Wyatt naked beneath my body, but not fully clothed cuddled into my lap on his couch?

I close my eyes, forget the movie, and throw my head back.

His couch is infuriatingly comfortable. Every inch of its soft, smooth surface like a goddamned hug. Even the cushion my head is sinking into. Even the way the couch cradles my ass.

Cradles us.

Something suddenly bothers me about people walking around inside the house earlier. Poking at my tía’s decorations in the hall. Or my tío’s little enhancements everywhere, like the light fixture over the table, or the sliding door in the back, or the curtain rods.

Walking past my potted orchid with their judging looks.

Sniffing around the back garden that I’ve not even seen.

Asking Henrietta about the wildflowers in the front.

Planning already to tear them out.

To gut the house, rip out its soul, erase its memories, plant all of their own like a fresh batch of boring-as-fuck rosebushes.

I hate each and every last one of them suddenly.

Maybe I ought to thank Henrietta for scaring them all away. Or request she cast some kind of hex on future buyers instead of actually doing her job.

Then I pop my eyes open.

Why the hell am I wishing for this shit to happen? Don’t I want the house to sell? Isn’t the point to get this over with, fix my dad’s car, and get the hell out of here?