Except Tex isn't asking me to endure anything. Tex isn't asking me for anything at all. He's just standing in a doorway, talking to a woman who loves him, saying my name like it's important to him.
I pull a piece of wet drywall off the wall and throw it on the pile, while I think about what I'm doing here. I'm useful. Tex needs me. The bar needs me. By any measure, I've earned my place for another day, maybe even another week, if I'm lucky.
But it was supposed to be about survival. Stay useful, stay under a roof, stay fed. Keep your head down and don't need anything from anyone that they can take away. That's all.
It's not all.
Not anymore and that's dangerous.
I want him to keep saying my name like that. I want to keep standing beside him at the grill like I belong there. I want to keep sorting his inventory and handing him water bottles when our fingers almost touch. I want to keep watching his hands, those huge gentle hands that can't work tiny metal tabs but can hold a ruined photo of his dead father like it's made of glass. I want to keep hearing him introduce me to strangers like I'm someone worth knowing.
I want him to be proud of me.
Damn. This isn't good.
There's so many things I want here.
I throw another piece of drywall on the pile. Tex is still on the phone, laughing at something Sheila said, and the sound of his laugh fills the wrecked bar like music. I let myself listen to it without turning away.
That's not strategy or survival.
That's just wanting something for no reason other than it feels good to want it. I don't know when that started happening, but it's too late to stop it now.
On my way to the dumpster with an armload of wet drywall, I pass the stool where he tossed his shirt this morning.It's just sitting there in a heap. A gray t-shirt, damp with sweat, inside-out the way shirts land when someone pulls them off one-handed.
I drop the drywall in the pile and come back inside. The shirt is still there and I pick it up. To put it in the wash. That's the reason. He'll need a clean shirt and the washer is right there and this is me being useful.
I don't put it in the wash.
Quickly, I fold it, take it upstairs and hide it under my pillow. Tonight, when I can't sleep and I'm watching the door, I'll touch his shirt. And I'll tell myself that Tex won't be busting the door open. Then, I'll be able to sleep.
I'll wash it tomorrow and put it back and he'll never know.
I pull another board and keep moving, keep being useful, keep earning my place. But underneath the work, in the spaces where the fear doesn't reach, something powerful is growing inside me.
It has nothing to do with being useful, and everything to do with a man named Tex.
Chapter 9: Tex
Stormy doesn't come down for breakfast.
I've been up since before sunrise. Coffee on the gas stove, eggs on the flat top, bacon laid out in rows because I've learned that Stormy eats more bacon than he'll ever admit to. And if I don't put enough on the plate, he'll clean it and look at the empty spot where more bacon should've been. I've started cooking six strips for him instead of four. He hasn't said anything about it. I haven't either. I'd cook a whole pack for him if he wanted me to.
It's after seven and his stool is empty.
This has never happened. Not once in the ten days since I picked him up off the side of the road. Stormy is always up and moving. In the early days, he was sweeping by five. Now, he comes down the moment he hears my feet hit the stairs, slides onto his stool, wraps his hands around the coffee I've already poured, and we start the day. It's our routine. The one that works for both of us. And he's not here.
I give him another thirty minutes. Maybe he's tired. We've been working hard, twelve-hour days in the heat, and the kid was running on fumes for a week before his body started catching up on sleep. Maybe he's finally hitting the wall. That would be normal and perfectly fine. I understand.
I go to the bottom of the stairs and listen. Nothing. No footsteps, no water running, no sound of movement. Now I'm getting worried. What if he left? The thought stops me cold. Surely he wouldn't do that, right?
He might.Damn.I go upstairs to check.
The hallway is quiet. His door is closed. I stand outside and listen. I hear nothing, and the nothing is what worries me.Stormy is quiet, but he's not silent. There's always some small sound. A creak of bedsprings, a shuffle of feet, the soft click of the switchblade he opens and closes when he's thinking. Nothing.
I knock. Three soft raps on the door. "Stormy? You up?" Not too loud. I don't want to startle him if he's still sleeping.
Nothing.
