Page 27 of Down Bad

I look up “orchid leaf wrinkled”.

And “how to not kill orchid”.

Then “do orchids hate windows”.

And “moth orchid care simple not complicated easy”.

Then “how indirect is indirect light???”

I resent every fucking answer this thing spits back at me. The wordy DIY videos. Bored-sounding gardeners. Chipper ones, too. I snort when some site tells me to put an ice cube in the pot. What the hell is a plant gonna do with an ice cube? Am I being trolled?

Wyatt leaves his house in a pair of khakis and a plaid shirt all buttoned up and fitted. Handsome, styled hair. Wristwatch. Shoes that shine in the morning sunlight. Didn’t take him for much of a churchgoer, but there he is, obviously heading there.

He stops at the side of his car and peers over at my house.

I duck beneath the counter, nearly taking the orchid with me.

When I lift my head back up, he’s driven off, gone.

In the late afternoon, I’m outside working on the car when he comes back home. I pretend not to notice when he gets out of his vehicle. And again when he waves. I pretend I’ve got my nose too far in the engine to see him—even though I can see him clearly. He hesitates before dropping his hand, and something in my chest does a stupid little twist.

Fine. Let it twist. He’ll learn to stop trying so hard with me.

He stays there for a moment by his car. I won’t flatter myself and assume he’s waiting for me to respond. He’s probably giving the flowerbed a looking over, making sure I didn’t destroy it while he was at church.

Then: “Might want to pull it back from the window a bit.”

I lift my head from the engine.

He’s closer suddenly. Crouched by the flowerbed, watering it.

When’d he come closer? When’d he get the hose?

I flinch away. “Huh?”

“Orchid.” He nods at the front window. “Too much sunlight.”

His eyes in the afternoon sun are sparkling.

Like fucking diamonds.

What am I supposed to do about that?

“They like indirect sunlight,” he goes on, his voice annoyingly patient, “and our front windows are southwest-facing, so maybe not the best unless they’re blocked by shear curtains. Like the ones that … used to be there.” It looks for a second like he’s about to say something else, then changes his mind. “And they like—”

“Ice cubes, I know.”

Wyatt blinks. “Ice cubes …?” He sucks in his lips. “Someone’s been on the internet.”

I grip my wrench tighter—uh, no, I mean my ratchet. “Just tell me what the hell’s up with the ice cubes.”

He brushes off his pants when he rises. “It’s just a trick to give it water slowly. But they’re tropical plants. It could cause shock to the roots. Only water it if it looks dry. Could be just once a week, might be enough. Room-temperature water. You can even take it to the sink, water the bark thoroughly, let it drain all the way—”

“All of that’s necessary?” I cut him off.

He shrugs. “Most plants can be fairly forgiving, so don’t stress too much. Love is the main thing. Just love on ‘em. Same way I’ve gotta love on my roses even if they have thorns. Same way you … have to love on that car of yours.”

I stare him down, gritting my teeth.