Page 105 of Down Bad

Diego did that.

How did I fall asleep?

When did I lie down?

Did we both fall asleep on the couch cuddled together and I somehow missed it?

I don’t know.

I can’t get my act together any better when Cash comes in like he always does, slings his backpack behind the counter, then goes on dumping his teenage drama all over me. I’ve caught precisely zero percent of his story when he stops and says, “What’s with you today? Did something happen?”

I’m absentmindedly sucking on the end of my index finger. “Someone fixed my faucet,” I murmur back.

Cash blinks. “Congratulations …?”

I even ate Diego’s terrible eggs. Choked down his burnt toast.

And … liked it …?

“So what should I do about him?” asks Cash after delivering the rest of his story. “What would you do if you were me?”

My eyes spot an orchid.

Then imagine Diego when he was here, swiping it straight off the counter, claiming it.

The same way he claims me.

“Let him grab you and pin you against something,” I answer. Silence follows. I blink. Glance at Cash. Realize who I’m talking to. “Emotionally, I mean.”

“Oh.” He looks off. “Yeah, I get it.” He squints. “I think.”

My eyes land on the clock over the door. “Shit! I forgot about Bellamy.”

“Bella-who?”

I turn to Cash. “I’ll pay you for the day if you help me load my car for a delivery I’m twenty-minutes late on.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“But I’m bored and have nothing to—”

“Hold down the fort ‘til I’m back.”

Cash blinks. “Seriously?”

The next twelve minutes are a storm of boxes, vases, flowers, and way too much ribbon. Cash asks a hundred questions, like he hasn’t been working at my shop one day a week for years, but by the time I’m out the door, he has crossed his arms and said, “I got you, don’t worry about a thing here,” with a dutiful nod. I’m still fumbling with my seatbelt when I drive off.

It isn’t a small drive out to Brookfield, either. I was so caught up this morning with Diego that I forgot I’d planned to make this delivery first thing before the weekend. But the morning got away from me, and now I’m going to be well over an hour late when I’d intended to be early.

And when I finally arrive at his office in uptown Brookfield, I am drenched in shame-sweat and certain my deodorant did not survive the travel. This is not an ideal look for me, entering a prim and wealthy place like Brookfield, where even the parking spaces outside of this sleek, blemish-free building look mopped daily.

I approach the building as I take in the ritzy street lined with name-brand this and specialty-store that, grunting under the weight of the box I’m carrying. I almost drop the whole order as I negotiate my way through a revolving door, then spill into a lobby the size of a castle, echoey and tall, with floors so polished I can see my own panicked face looking up at me next to my feet.

The front desk clerks (there are four) are all busy. I check an unhelpfully exhaustive directory posted on the wall in sleek black marble and fine gold lettering, then make a wild guess where Mr. Bellamy’s office is. Before boarding the elevator, I second-guess myself and check the directory again.

Then I spot a girl. Maybe six or seven. No one nearby as she stands next to the elevator, appearing to be wiping her eyes. She’s in a school uniform, one arm tucking books into her side.