Page 126 of Down Bad

Not to mention Diego, with whom I’m owed (or perhaps owe) a conversation about one or two things. But if there’s something I know, he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. He answered my SOS. That says something, doesn’t it?

“Why do people keep lookin’ over here?” grunts Diego.

It isn’t the first question I thought he’d ask. “What?”

“I keep seeing people staring.”

I look out at the restaurant.

Six pairs of eyes flick away.

One of them lingers. A frequent customer of mine. She adjusts her glasses, gives me a wiggle of her fingers for a hello, then goes back to her coffee and conversation.

Then I remember last night. And where we live. “The town … sort of thinks we’re a thing now,” I explain with a wince.

Diego looks at me. “A thing?”

“It’s Connie’s fault for being nosy,” I quickly blurt, “and then announcing it to everyone at the party last night.”

“Nosy?” cuts in Connie with half a laugh. “Nosy about my own brother who suddenly keeps things from me?”

Diego huffs. “He has a right to his privacy, y’know.”

Her face goes cold. Then she tilts her head. “Y’know … I’m still tryin’ to figure somethin’ out …”

“Here we go,” grunts Diego, sitting back.

“You’re dating my brother. But went on to me at the church earlier about lettin’ people go and mowing over flowers … which I’m starting to gather was not a metaphor.”

“No shit,” he mumbles.

“Then,” she goes on, ignoring him, “after my brother calls you over, first damned thing I hear outta your mouth is that you two aren’t boyfriends. So which is it?” She looks at him across me. “Are you with my brother, or are you taking off on him?”

I sigh. “Connie …”

“Simple question,” she says, voice light. “I’m not armed with my pliers right now. Not gonna take him to the ground, either. I mean, I could, but I won’t.”

I rub my eyes fiercely.

Diego leans forward to get a good look at her. “I’m just stating facts. He and I aren’t boyfriends.” Then his eyes flick to me. “Your brother was fast to point that out the other night.”

I shoot him a wounded look. “That’s not what I meant.”

His face scrunches up. “The hell else could you’ve meant?”

“Wait,” interjects Connie, looking at me. “You’re the one who pushed him away?”

“I-I wasn’t—” I turn to her. “He was just trying to tell me how to run my business. Thinks I’m a doormat.”

“I never said ‘doormat’,” grunts Diego.

“You kinda are a doormat, though,” says Connie.

Now it’s her I’m shooting a wounded look at. “Hey!”

Then Diego comes back with: “I just think you’re too damned nice to people who don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, he’s doing that again?” asks Connie.