He doesn't speak. His mouth opens but nothing comes out. He just shakes his head, quick, automatic, and grips the broom handle with both hands like it's the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes drop to the floor. The apology is written across his whole body even though his voice won't carry it.
"What is it? Are you worried about waking me up?"
He nods.
I wave my hand at him. "Nah, don't worry about that. You didn't. Well, you did, but that's fine. I needed to get up. There's a damn hurricane coming. I was just wondering why you're swishing around down here so early in the morning."
The word comes out before I can stop it.Swishing. To a scared kid I picked up off the side of the road. I close my eyes for a second.
"That came out wrong. I didn't meanyouwere swishing around. I wasn't trying to imply anything." I rub my hand over my face. "Christ, I just meant the broom. The sound. The swishing sound of the broom.Swish, swish. That's all I meant. So, what are you doing exactly?"
He stares at me. There's no reaction. No offense, no amusement, nothing. He's looking at me the way you'd look at a foreigner speaking a language you've never heard.
"I can clean," he whispers.
Three words.
He says it so softly I can barely hear him. The first sound out of his mouth since I picked him up off the side of the road yesterday. The words come out rough and cracked, like a voice that hasn't been used in a long time and isn't sure it still works.
The way he says it —I can clean— like he's offering the only thing he's got. The one skill he thinks might be enough to justify taking up space in my building.
He's telling me,this is what I'm worth. Please let it be enough to let me stay in the middle of a damn hurricane. This is the best thing he has to offer, and he needs me to accept it or he's got nothing.
Damn.
It's not even daylight yet, and this kid is already breaking my big old grizzly bear heart.
He's clearly terrified. Standing in my bar in gift shop clothes with a broom in his hands and shadows under his eyes. He is absolutely scared to death.
Not of the hurricane.Of me. Of what I might want. Of what the price is going to be for a dry bed.
"Good to know," I say, keeping my voice light, because the wrong tone right now will shut him down and I might nothear his voice again for days. "And I appreciate the initiative, I really do, but it's five in the morning and I'm pretty sure you haven't slept."
"I—" The word catches. He swallows. Tries again, fighting it out like each syllable costs him. "I slept."
He didn't sleep. I can see it all over him. But I'm not going to push because pushing this kid is like pushing a stray cat. One little swat and I'll never see him again.
"Alright," I say. "How about this. You put the broom down, I'll make us some breakfast, and then we've got a full day of hurricane prep ahead of us. I could use an extra set of hands if you're up for it."
His expression shifts. It's small, barely there, but I've been watching people walk into my bar for years and I know what it looks like when someone wants to be useful. He wants this. He wants to be needed.
He nods. Then, like it takes every ounce of effort in his body, he pushes the words out. "Yes... sir."
He spoke again. Twice in two minutes. We're on a roll now. I point at him. "Okay, new rule. Every time you call me sir, there's a penalty. First offense, you're doing the dishes tonight. Second offense, you're cooking breakfast tomorrow. Third offense, I'm picking out your outfit from the gift shop and you're wearing whatever I choose. And I have seen what's on those shelves, Stormy. There is a hot pink tank top that says 'Property of Big Tex's' and it has your name written all over it."
He blinks at me, unsure if I'm joking. His mouth opens, then closes. I think I've broken him.
"I'm thirty-two years old," I say. "Not sixty-two. Sir is for my daddy, God rest him, and he's not here anymore. Just me. Tex. Or if you're feeling fancy, Big Tex. But not sir. Deal?"
He nods once, quick.
"Was that yes?"
"Yes, s—" He catches himself. The muscles in his throat work like he's swallowing glass.Goddamn, what has happened to this kid? "Yes."
He spoke three times and each one cost him more than the last. But he's talking. Whatever locked his voice down yesterday is starting to crack, and I'm going to stand here and be patient about it if it kills me. He's got a voice in there. He just needs some coaxing to let it out.
"Alright then. It's time for breakfast. We've got a big day ahead. Come on."
