Page 22 of Down Bad

Then reconsider again.

I turn away from the phone and type a reply instead: “Either it’s one of these three options I gave you, or none at all, as they’re the best I’ll offer without cutting off my nuts to make you happy, you insufferable prick, and if my parents you claim to respect so dearly knew how you’ve been trying to fuck this business into …”

I stop.

What the hell has gotten into me?

This isn’t me. This isn’t Wyatt Callahan, the owner of Wishing Blooms who nurtured an injured dove back to life last month and set it free from my front porch with tears in my eyes.

This is Diego’s hot lava coming out of my mouth.

Or my fingers, more specifically.

I delete the reply.

And employ my own brand of standing-up-for-myself: “Thank you for your response, Grant. I am happy to discuss these options I offered in more detail with you very soon. Sincerely, Wyatt.”

I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.

Then wonder if I said too much.

Or not enough.

Was it too vague? Did I seem like I was giving in, or standing my ground?

The only noise that fills my ears is the hum of the cooler in the back and the soft breath of the town outside, the wind picking up and stirring leaves past the front glass windows.

Mr. Bellamy doesn’t reply for the rest of the day.

I guess I’ll take that as a win. For now.

Robby swings by to grab his pickup order early, which saves me having to stay late. By the time I lock up to head off, my nerves have settled. I feel happy and accomplished.

Which I suppose is why the first thing I do when I get home is dig into Lottie and Marcos’s desecrated flowerbed.

The good news is that wildflowers are stubborn little miracles. Mow over them, and half will spring back to life out of spite.

Bad news: Diego found a way to tear over them at exactly the wrong height with the confidence of a tornado.

This may be more work than I counted on.

After changing into an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt I’ve had since tenth grade that still fits me, I fetch my green gloves, shears, trowel, and a flat of small clumps from my backyard patch. I don’t exactly have the Garden of Eden back there. Just a sunny strip that runs down the length of the fence where I let things grow a little bit wilder than my shop would allow. See it as my babies letting their hair down. Bluebonnets in spring—of course. Indian blanket. Coreopsis. Black-eyed Susans. Blue sage. A few stubborn things Lottie calls “sunny nonsense”, always forgetting their names.

As it turns out, she loved sunny nonsense the most.

It’s why I planted them in the front, with some blue sage for pops of color to play off of them.

And it’s all that color Diego murdered.

By accident, allegedly.

I spend a good while crouched in the ruined bed clearing out the shredded stems. Some of the crowns still seem good. Others, not so much. I trim what can be saved, loosen up the soil around the brave survivors, and fill the bald spots with clumps from my yard. The clumps droop immediately, offended by the move, but I press the soil firm around their roots and water them until the dirt turns dark—the best apology I can offer.

They won’t look nice today. Maybe not for weeks in this heat. But in the way of weeds and wild things refusing to die, they’ll damned well try.

And so will I.

I’m in the middle of pressing soil around a transplant when a shadow falls over me.