Page 26 of Down Bad

Then he’s off my porch and crunching back over the grass to his house. I’m left here holding a plate of food in silence.

I take it inside.

Peel off the foil.

Two brisket sliders. A square of jalapeño cornbread. Scoop of potato salad. A deviled egg. Chocolate chip cookie wrapped in a unicorn napkin.

And tucked against the side is a banana-nut muffin, like an afterthought.

But it’s that afterthought that catches my eye first.

Just like the muffins he brought over in that basket.

It’s the only thing on the plate suddenly that makes sense. It’s like a message. It’s like, hey, here I am, here’s my thinking of you, I asked Billy to bring some, this is specifically for you.

I hate it instantly.

Then it’s the first thing I eat.

One insanely tasty mouthful at a time.

Gone just like that.

Everything else is good, too, I won’t lie. But that muffin sits in me like a hug. Still warm, like it came straight out of an oven and not just room-temperature, plucked off a snack table, and slapped onto a plate.

I leave no crumbs.

I set the plate in the sink and stare through the front window at the not-really-a-movie-night next door.

There’s no way I’m stepping foot in that house.

He invited me, sure. That’s not nothing.

He isn’t forcing me to come. Isn’t guilting me into it, either.

He just brought me a plate of food, made me feel included, let me know it’s an open invite, and went back to entertain his guests.

But why bother?

Why all this unnecessary neighborliness?

I’m not your damned neighbor.

After giving my dad’s book one more try and giving up again, I kick off my clothes and crawl into bed.

Then toss and turn for hours.

Until long after I’m sure the last guest’s gone and it’s just me in this empty house and Wyatt in his.

Sunday morning, I’m running on less than three hours’ sleep.

And the orchid on the front sill looks weird.

Why does it look weird?

I’ve been watering it every day. It gets sun. What the hell?

I pull out my phone and look up “orchid too much water”.