All Wheel Drive

by Z. A. Maxfield

  You said you were dating. He just didn’t tell you otherwise.

  “What’s that face for?” Sahil asked.

  Healey checked his watch again. “Dating is stupid.”

  Clara laughed. “You can take the boy out of high school, confer on him three degrees, but—”

  “Is that him?” Sahil pointed toward Diego’s SUV. He pulled into the parking lot and took the handicapped space.

  Healey breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s him. It will take him a minute to get out of the car. Everyone chill. Just act normal.”

  “I saw this movie,” Clara deadpanned. “I hope you didn’t make some kind of bet about prom. That always backfires.”

  “Not helping,” Healey muttered.

  “Who said I came to help?” She smiled sweetly. “Can we go inside and drink now? I’m starved.”

  “Who are you, really? And what have you done with my Ms. Underhill?”

  She peered past him. “Ooh, your young man is very good-looking.”

  Healey whipped around to look. “How can you tell? He’s not even—”

  “Like shooting piranha in a punchbowl.” She had the nerve to snicker at his lack of chill.

  “You monster. Please, marry me?” he begged, for the hundredth time. “I don’t want a wife. I just want to sit at your feet and worship until you die.”

  “As much as I’d like another pet . . .”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Diego’s arrival spared Healey another cruel disappointment at Clara Underhill’s hands.

  “You’re right on time, and you look good enough to eat.” Healey jammed his good hand in his pocket in lieu of punching himself in the face for saying something so idiotic.

  “I’m Clara.” She held out her hand.

  “Oh, excuse me.” Healey turned on his best Vanna White, extending his arm to introduce his friends. “Allow me to introduce Clara Underhill. She taught math at the high school before retiring to spend more time in her primary role, Queen of Hell. And these are my friends Sana and Sahil.”

  “How do you do.” Sahil shook hands with Diego.

  “Pleasure.”

  Then Diego shook hands with Sana. “Nice to meet you.”

  When he’d made every introduction mathematically possible without repeats, Healey wound up standing there, arms akimbo.

  “Okay, this way?” At least one of his arms was useful, as it was pointing toward the entrance.

  He hung back, going last, with Diego.

  They made small talk while Healey hid a sudden rush of hunger that had nothing to do with food. Diego’s mouthwatering tan skin looked luscious against a crisp white shirt and brown leather jacket. Khaki pants. His turquoise choker and matching bracelet looked handmade.

  Wholly unable to stop himself, Healey leaned over to kiss Diego while he held the door open for his chair. Surprise and something oddly sweet crossed Diego’s normally taciturn features.

  “You look good.” Diego rolled past, but not before Healey noted the flush on his cheeks. “You dress up for me?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Healey followed the party to the host station. “That okay?”

  Diego let his gaze drift over Healey’s entire body. “I said you looked good, didn’t I?”

  The host picked up a stack of menus before asking, “Everyone here?”

  “Yes.” Sahil led the way with Sana, and Diego followed. Healey held out his arm for Clara.

  “Oh, I’m to be led into dinner, am I? How very English country estate.” Her eyes sparkled. “If we don’t discover a murdered corpse at some point, I’ll be so disappointed.”

  White tablecloths, burgundy carpets, and a fresh coat of paint gave the Inn a certain vitality, despite the old school, cholesterol-laden banquet food. Sana and Clara kept the conversation lively while they caught up, leaving Healey, Sahil, and Diego to make the usual conversational gambits with regard to sports and weather.

  Brunch was an endless buffet of the usual things: omelets, waffles, a carving station, an acre of prepared salads. Hungry enough to embarrass himself after his exertions the night before, Healey nevertheless prepared himself to carry a plate for his date, but Diego preempted that by requesting a serving tray.

  As they went down the buffet line together, Diego placed food on the tray in his lap, and when he got back to the table, he set up his breakfast and placed the tray against the wall, next to his chair.

  Living with Shelby, Healey’d learned to anticipate her needs. But Diego didn’t need or want minions. Maybe they’d spoiled Shelby a little? He guessed they had. And she’d let them, because she enjoyed watching them do her bidding.

  “What’s got you thinking so hard?” Diego asked during a lull in the conversation. “Ford?”

  That startled Healey. “I was thinking about my sister.”

  “How about your family, Diego?” Sana asked. “Do they live in the area?”

  Diego shook his head. “My mother passed away last year.”

  “Condolences,” Clara murmured.

  Diego lifted his napkin to wipe his lips—unnecessarily, it seemed to Healey. Anything that hid Diego’s spectacular mouth, even for a second, was not only unnecessary but frankly suspect, as far as he was concerned.

  “My stepfather and his children live in Los Angeles. I’m solo up here.”

  “Yet you put down roots,” Sahil said. “You like the area?”

  “Since I’m with the Wolf’s Landing production crew, it’s a handy base of operations. I can easily get to projects in Vancouver and LA from here. I’m close enough for work when I can get it, and I’m still living somewhere relatively untouched. I can indulge my favorite hobby.”

  Healey snickered, earning him a put-upon expression from both Diego and Sana.

  “Which is?” Clara sent him an arch look that should have stopped his heart.

  “Nature photography.”

  “Very nice.” Sahil sat forward, excited now the conversation was going to turn technical. “I indulge in some photography myself. May I ask what kinds of cameras you use?”

  “Yeah, what did you take those naked pictures of me with the other night, Diego?” He dared Diego to wipe the grin off his face.

  “Oh, that kind of nature photography.” Clara held her G&T up for the waiter to signal she needed another. “We’ll definitely need details about that.”

  “That’s enough out of you.” Diego gave Healey’s forehead a playful poke before he and Sahil launched into an intense discussion of macro lenses.

  Clara leaned over to whisper in Healey’s ear. “I like him.”

  His heart did a silly wiggle. “I do too.”

  The rest of the meal featured lots of topic-hopping, memories of school, and letting Diego in on every dumb thing Healey had said or done back in the day. Afterward, they waved good-bye to Sana and Sahil, who announced cheerfully that they’d taken the kids to her mother’s and had the afternoon child-free.

  Healey wished he was going home with Diego, but he’d promised to drive Clara back to her place.

  Diego didn’t invite him to come by after.

  Healey hadn’t asked, either, which added a slightly stilted flavor to their parting. But after his disorientation on Friday, and his subsequent talk with Beryl, his heart faltered whenever he thought about calling Diego to hook up again.

  In some self-imposed limbo, he couldn’t move forward and he couldn’t move back. That was, he thought he’d already moved forward. But obviously the guilt he was feeling, the sense that he’d cheated, meant he wasn’t over something yet.

  He was over the romance. God’s honest truth. He was way over the romance.

  When he and Ford first got together, they hadn’t had a clue how hard life could be. Looking back, the writing had been on the wall. Healey wanted a constructive, creative, productive life with someone, and Ford wasn’t capable of that.

  Despite his new understanding, despite what Ford wanted, despite what Beryl said, “moving on” felt like giving up on Ford—something
Healey could never do. Not ever. Even if they weren’t romantically involved, Healey wanted the best for Ford, and it hurt like hell that Ford wanted to move on as if they’d never met.

  “Diego’s remarkably mature for a man his age.” Clara had clearly liked him. “He seems very serious.”

  “I think he believes in ghosts.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Her smile was probably due to that fourth G&T.

  He waited for a red light—when it was safe for him to glare at her.

  “Don’t tell me you believe in metaphysical nonsense too.”

  She waved a weathered hand. “Blah, blah, blah, heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy—how does that go again?”

  “I’m pretty sure Horatio was only there for the skull part.”

  She put on lipstick, left a “kiss” on the passenger window, and giggled about it. “He was also there for the heaven-and-earth-slash-philosophy part too. It was the same scene, wasn’t it?” Clara got her keys from her purse—a ladylike little thing made from something decidedly not vegan. “Anyway, you’d be a fool to let that get in your way. He seems pragmatic where it counts.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I sense an artist’s soul.” She asked, “Have you seen his pictures?”

  “No.” Then he remembered the ones of Diego’s mother. “Some. He hasn’t shown me his portfolio or anything.” He pulled up in front of her house and killed the engine.

  “I think you should ask to see them.”

  He turned to ask why, but she was already spilling out of the car. He considered running around to help her, because if he knew anything, it was that women her age shouldn’t spill, but she’d already closed the door between them, waved, and trotted up the walkway to her house.

  While he waved back, his phone vibrated.

  Thanks for brunch. Your friends are nice.

  So polite. Was Diego’s text a figurative good-night kiss? Or a good-night kiss-off?

  Healey positively could not tell.

  Healey typed, You want to get together maybe? in the text box. His thumb hovered over Send.

  Hovered . . . hovered.

  He locked the screen and pocketed the phone before pulling away from the curb. When his phone vibrated again, he assumed the call was from Diego, but it was Nash.

  “How’d it go?”

  Healey switched the phone to speaker. “Not bad. The food was decent.”

  “Did my suit survive?”

  “Don’t you have people living in your basement whose only job is to spin straw into this magnificent suit? Tell them to make another one. Me likey.”

  “You are such an ass.”

  God, I am. Healey pulled over. I am totally an ass.

  He confessed. “I am an ass without even a hat to cover me.”

  “Excuse me?” Nash’s voice was not perplexed. Not precisely. More . . . “Where are you? Are you drunk?”—angry—“Are you driving under the influence?”

  “I am not even”—Healey’s hand tightened on the wheel—“remotely caffeinated.”

  Nash blew out a breath. “Then what’s up now?”

  “You say that like something’s always up. Like I’m a leaky radiator in need of constant maintenance.”

  “So?”

  “You know what’s up. I don’t feel safe. I don’t feel . . . grounded.”

  “Then come back to the house. Pop’s here, and Fjóla. We’ll make popcorn. There’s still time to Skype Shelby.”

  “No.” Healey turned on the defroster when the windshield started looking cloudy. “I don’t want to come home, because that means I can’t handle my shit. And I can’t call Diego, because the last thing I want to do is land on the next guy like a ton of bricks, and he doesn’t need that either—” He jammed his fist into his mouth to keep from saying more.

  “Aw, man.” Nash’s voice was soft. “Talk to me.”

  “I smother people. All right?” Healey closed his eyes. “Even mom said it. I suck the air out of a room.”

  “Twins.” Nash stressed the word. They’d both heard their mother say it a hundred times—every time they played their video of the Christmas before she died. “She said, ‘Twins can suck all the air out of a room in nothing flat.’ And you know she only meant the work and the noise and—”

  “I know that. I do. But I don’t handle my shit very well. Maybe Ford was right. I have too much energy. I care too much, only not always about the things other people want me to. I need too much. I am! I’m suffocating.”

  Nash cursed Ford’s ancestors colorfully. “I swear to God, bro. I’d let you believe that if it was true.”

  “Then why won’t Ford see me, even just to say hello? Why has he cut me off without a word, as if he has to be rid of me to get better? Was I that—”

  “Ford is mentally ill, bro. By definition, you can’t believe everything he tells you. I dunno, man. Maybe we’ll never know. But all those years ago, when he told me he loved you, I believed he meant it. And I believe you love him. But things don’t always work out.”

  Healey tried to think back, but when he was upset, the older memories got tangled together with the more recent, painful ones. “You asked him?”

  “I had to warn him I’d kick his ass if he didn’t treat you right. I’ve got your back, don’t I?”

  Healey smiled like a goofball. “Bullshit you asked him if he loved me.”

  “All right. He volunteered the information. You never suffocated anybody, Healey. That was Ford’s illness talking. You’ve gotta believe that.”

  “Thanks,” he said, before disconnecting the call. He laid his phone on the seat beside him. Looked at it for a long time.

  No. He wouldn’t text Diego back. He’d let things percolate for a bit. Let the idea of them dating settle. Maybe generate a little fondness through absence.

  Because he could certainly learn from his mistakes. If he was going to be dating Diego, it wasn’t going to be the same messy free-for-all it had been with Ford. He’d be dignified and ask for dates. He’d send thank-you texts and let time pass.

  They both had lives.

  He wasn’t in college anymore, where simply flopping down on some dude’s couch meant you were down, and borrowing his sweatshirt meant you were together.

  Healey Holly was not about to be accused of suffocating anyone, ever again.

  After brunch at the Juan de Fuca, Diego pounced on his phone every time it rang. By Wednesday, he felt young and dumb. He felt rejected, but still, when his phone rang while he was eating breakfast, he snatched it up, only to experience a sense of keen disappointment that his caller was not Healey Holly, and how stupid was that?

  He could call Healey.

  He could simply pick up the phone and call Healey and say, I really dug falling asleep next to you. Come back and let’s do it again.

  But every time he picked up the phone, he went through several iterations of holding it, staring at it, and finally putting it down again, unused.

  Instead, every time it rang, Diego’s heart went into overdrive.

  “Yeah.” He tried not to sound disappointed when he saw his caller was Cecil.

  “Hello, sunshine.” Unperturbed by Diego’s mood, Cecil chirped, “What’s got you so cheerful this morning?”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I should have taken a job while the show’s on hiatus. Christ, I’m so bored I’d be willing to shoot a wedding at this point. A bar mitzvah.”

  There was a long pause before Cecil spoke. “Er . . .”

  It took Diego a minute to realize that Cecil—never in his life at a loss for words—was now tongue tied.

  And like a clap of thunder, he knew why. “When’s the happy day?”

  “Diego—”

  “Oh, please. You’re not going to try to explain the concept of ménage to me now, are you? Because I gotta say, I figured that out before I knew I liked boys.”

  “Oh. Wow.” The words came out chagrined.

  “You guys should
have kept the blinds closed, huh?”

  “Okay. I’ll, um . . .” Cecil coughed. “Keep that in mind.”

  “So when are you and Rachel tying the knot?”

  “New Year’s. It’s not a big deal. Just family, in the house here. You’re sure you’re not”—another pause—“in any way unhappy that Rachel and I are going to make things official?”

  “Aw, man, of course not. Congratulations, Cecil. I want you to be happy . . .” When he realized he’d let the words trail off, he winced. Why couldn’t he just leave it at that? Cecil was a fucking mind reader, even over the phone. He’d have heard the doubt in Diego’s voice, and—

  “But?” Cecil prompted.

  Diego let out a long slow breath. “It’s more like an and.”

  “Ah.” Sounds indicated Cecil was settling into his favorite chair, maybe with a cup of coffee, or a breakfast sandwich. For a lawyer who charged a king’s ransom for his time, he was sure free with time for his kids.

  A rush of warmth hit Diego along with the thought: he was still one of Cecil’s kids. That hadn’t changed. Wouldn’t change, even though his mother wasn’t there to bind them together.

  “What’s on your mind, m’hijo?”

  Cecil’s kindness, his common sense, and his lawyer’s reticence when it came to carrying tales made him an ideal person for Diego to share his almost too-painful thoughts with. He explained about being blindsided by Healey. How normal—Christ how he hated that chingada word—how like himself Healey made him feel. How dating and sex and—God, he felt idiotic even saying it—love were something he believed he’d only ever see in the rearview mirror and now . . .

  Now he wasn’t so sure that was true.

  Now, the terrible reality of getting back into dating shimmered faintly in the distance, taking shape in ways he’d never dreamed.

  It was just beautiful.

  And . . . scary as hell.

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen to you if you fall for this guy?” That was kind of a disingenuous question, because Cecil knew the worst that could happen to someone like Diego. A guy with Cecil’s long experience in the criminal justice system knew the worst that could happen to anybody.

  But . . . what could be so bad? Healey leaves. He says, I can’t handle all your problems, and he leaves. That would be . . . awful. But people leave. Even if they don’t walk away, they die. People leave all the time. That’s why— Wait. Cecil asked “What’s the worst thing that could happen to you . . .?”