Page 71 of Hurricane Love

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Wylie was practically begging for validation, his confidence at an all-time low. He didn’t like this messy, needy version of himself, not at all.

“You’re not. You’re irreplaceable.” Diego released a long, drawn-out sigh. There was only so much Wylie could read into it, and even that felt risky.

“Well,” Wylie said into the lengthening silence.

“You’re going to make it, Wy. You can do this. I know you can.”

“Thanks,” Wylie said hollowly, feeling depleted by the pep talk rather than inspired. Diego might be right that he could do it, but he still didn’t want to do it alone.

“Talk soon?” Diego asked when it seemed neither of them were going to say anything more.

“Sure,” Wylie said with a despondent sigh.

They ended the call and Wylie stared into space for another twenty minutes. Despair sat like days-old pizza in the pit of his stomach, and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

CHAPTER 16

DIEGO

Diego was still mullingover his phone call with Wylie days after they spoke. Their conversation had only served to cast doubt on his decision to put space between them. He thought he’d be giving Wylie a clean break and allowing him to focus on school. He’d also thought that Wylie’s absence might offer Diego some clarity, but his emotional state of mind was as murky as ever.

After leaving his second session with his new therapist, Dr. Bob, he had more questions than answers. Even though Dr. Bob was pushing ninety, he was still sharp as a tack, and he was making Diego work for it.

What doyouthink it means? What is it thatyouwant from life? What areyournext steps to achieve that goal?

Apparently there were no cheat codes in therapy. Diego was expected to solve his own problems.

They’d talked about some of his attachment issues, how it was difficult for him to let people in and how, when they got too close, he tended to back off and try to put distance between them. How it had likely developed as a protective measure to prevent himself from being hurt. But there were tradeoffs.

Was what he’d done to Wylie? Was he denying himself apotentially wonderful relationship because of his own fear of being hurt or betrayed?

There was a term for it, he’d learned: self-sabotage.

Tuesdays were a big day for him now. He had his meeting with his probation officer in the morning, followed by a therapy session with Dr. Bob, then dinner at his mom’s house. It was a lot of peopling in one day, and a lot of self-reflection, so he was more than a little drained when he walked up to his mother’s modest two-bedroom home in Lakeside Heights from where the bus had dropped him off a few blocks away.

He needed to get himself a car. And car insurance. It was too damn hot outside to be walking around everywhere or waiting for the bus. And a car would make it possible for him to visit Wylie, if he was still welcome. And even though he was dog-ass tired, the extra shifts at the pit still weren’t enough to distract him from missing Wylie and obsessing over the fact that he may have fucked up the best thing to ever happen to him.

“You stink,” his mom said to him upon greeting him. Crinkling her dainty nose, she pulled back from kissing his cheek and suggested he take a shower. He took her up on the offer, grabbing some of his old clothes from a drawer of the guest bedroom. They sat down to dinner soon after, boliche served with black beans and rice, ripe plantains, and hot, buttered Cuban bread. The food was delicious, as always, and Diego wondered what Wylie would be having for dinner that night. He hoped he wasn’t relying solely on frozen food and takeout.

“Have you talked to Arturito lately?” his mother asked after giving him her usual updates and inquiring as to whether he’d been to church. (He had not.) Her question seemed out of the blue, especially since Diego had, like, thirty cousins and couldn’t be expected to keep up with all of them individually.

“I saw him a couple weeks ago at family dinner,” Diego said.

“And did you talk to him?” she asked insistently, staring at him with some hidden meaning. Diego thought back to his therapy session that day, his complaint that every interaction withhis mother felt like it was spoken in a code that he couldn’t possibly decipher. But of course if he brought that up to her, it’d turn into an argument, and one thing he’d learned over the years was that his mother wasalwaysright.

So, Diego only looked at her quizzically and said, “He told me he moved out and got a new job.”

She nodded slowly, acting even more cryptic than usual. “You should call him.”

Diego didn’t bother pointing out that most kids Arturito’s age hated phone calls and much preferred texting. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Is there somethingwrongwith calling your cousin? I talk to the Tías every week,” she said, as if his question were completely uncalled for. There was also the implication that Diego shouldalsobe calling his Tías every week, but there weren’t enough hours in the day for all that nonsense.

Still, she sounded defensive, like she was hiding something. Diego studied her closely, waiting for her to say more, but she only wiped her mouth primly and set her napkin on the plate. “Are you finished?” She motioned to Diego’s empty dish. He’d practically licked the plate clean. One thing he couldn’t fault his mother for was her cooking.

“I’ll get it.” He stood and gathered their plates, taking them over to the sink where he rinsed and stacked them in the dishwasher to his mother’s exacting specifications. She hovered nearby, busying herself with wiping the counters while glancing over to check his work. That feeling of being watched and judged was something he needed to bring up with Dr. Bob at their next session. Should he call her out on her behavior or just let it go? She’d probably argue that he’d given her more than enough reasons to keep a close eye on him, but she’d been doing that shit his whole life.

“Are you worried I’m not going to do it right?” he asked and motioned to the dishwasher.