"You were here. That's not nothing. That's a hell of a lot more than nothing and I appreciate it."
He looks at the wrecked bar and back at me. He nods, once, and says so quiet I almost miss it.
"I'm glad I was here too."
I put that away in a place where I keep things that matter. Then I clap my hands together, which echoes through the empty, waterlogged bar and makes a sound like a gunshot. Stormy flinches and I immediately feel terrible.
"Oh, damn, sorry. I didn't mean it to be so loud. Okay. Here's the plan." I start moving through the bar, stepping over debris, assessing. "Water damage is going to get worse the longer everything sits wet. Mold is a bitch and it comes in fast. We need to get the standing water out of here, get air flowing through, and start pulling up anything that's going to mold. Floors, drywall, insulation. If it's wet and it can come out, it comes out. We can't do anything about the power but we can open doors and get a cross breeze going. Once the power comes back on, we'll run dehumidifiers in here. Sound like a plan? Are you with me?"
"Yes. Where do you want me to start?"
"Grab a mop from the supply closet. Should be in the back, second door on the left. Mop won't do much with this amount of water but it'll get the film off the surfaces and that'll help. I'm going to start pulling up the floorboards near the entrance where the buckling is worst."
He heads for the supply closet without hesitation. I watch him go and think about the kid who stood under that overhang three days ago with a wet jacket and no plan. I look at the kid moving quickly across my wrecked bar like he belongs here now, and he's the same person, but he's not.
I'm damn glad he's here.
We get to work. The sun is fully up now and it's already hot, that instant, punishing heat that comes after a hurricane when the clouds clear. There's nothing between you and the sun but humidity so thick you could wring it out. The bar doors are propped open and the air moving through is hot and heavy.
I'm on my hands and knees pulling up buckled floorboards when I get an idea.
"Hold on," I say, standing up. "This is unacceptable. We cannot do manual labor in silence. It's un-American."
Stormy looks at me from across the bar, mop in hand, wet hair stuck to his forehead. "What?"
"Hang on." I go to the supply room and dig through the emergency kit until I find the battery-powered radio I bought at the hardware store. I bring it out, set it on the bar top, and start scanning through channels. Static, static, an emergency broadcast, more static, a preacher yelling about end times, more static, and then, like a gift from God himself, the opening riff of "Sweet Home Alabama" blasting through the little speaker with more enthusiasm than audio quality.
"There it is!" I crank the volume up as far as it goes, which isn't far, but in the empty bar it bounces off the concrete walls and fills the room. "Now we're working. You can't clean up a hurricane without a soundtrack. It's in the Florida constitution. I looked it up."
I go back to pulling floorboards, singing along at full volume because I have never once in my life been embarrassed about my singing voice, even though I should be. Sheila says I sound like a garbage disposal trying to harmonize, but what I lack in talent I make up for in commitment.
"There's a whole other verse," I tell Stormy over my shoulder. "Most people don't know the second verse. I'm going to sing it for you. You're welcome."
I don't actually know the second verse. I make up words that are approximately in the right rhythm and nowhere near the right lyrics, and I deliver them with the confidence of a man performing at Madison Square Garden.
The song ends. The DJ, broadcasting from what sounds like a closet somewhere, plays Tom Petty next. And then the station settles into a run of classic rock that's so perfect for hurricane cleanup it feels curated. Bon Jovi. The Eagles. AC/DC. Fleetwood Mac.
Stormy mops. I pull floors. The radio plays. And somewhere during "Don't Stop Believin'," I look up and see a sight that stops me cold.
Stormy is smiling.
Not the ghost-smile I've seen before, the muscle twitch at the corner of his mouth that disappears before it fully forms. A real smile. Small, careful, like his face is testing it out and isn't sure about the fit, but real. His lips are curved and his eyes are lighter and he's looking down at the mop, not at me, like he doesn't know he's doing it.
The song is the reason. Journey belting out that chorus in this wrecked, waterlogged bar in the middle of a disaster zone while a battery radio crackles and the sun pours through the open doors. Everything is destroyed and somehow nothing feels hopeless.
It's so absurd it's funny, and Stormy is smiling at the absurdity of it. I would give everything I own to keep that expression on his face.
I don't say anything or point it out. I've learned that much. You don't tell a stray cat it's purring. You just let it happen naturally.
I go back to my floorboards. The radio keeps playing. The sun keeps climbing. The heat gets much worse. The sweat rolls and the work is backbreaking, but I catch him smiling once more before noon. It's during "Bohemian Rhapsody," when I do all the voices, including the operatic section, with hand gestures.
"You're ridiculous," he says.
I almost drop the board I'm carrying. Not because of what he said but because of how he said it. Casual. Unguarded. The way you'd talk to someone you've known for more than three days. The way you'd talk to a friend.
"Iamabsolutely ridiculous," I say. "Thank you for noticing. Most people figure that out a lot faster."
"You make it pretty obvious."
